P O RT C I T Y R E VIE W issue six
THE LITERARY ARTS JOURNAL OF SCAD
PORT CIT Y REVIEW issue six
PORT CIT Y REVIEW issue six
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
COP YRIGHT & COLO PHO N Individual pieces contained herein are the intellectual property of the contributors, who retain all rights to their material. Every effort was made to contact the artists to ensure that the information presented is correct. No part of this journal may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the editorial staff and the advisor. Port City Review, established in 2012, is an annual literary arts journal showcasing the work of SCAD students exclusively via a submission process. Published content is determined by student editors.
O U R M ISSIO N Port City Review exists as a forum for students to share their very best work. Curated and produced by students, the journal seeks to provide an intimate look at art from every angle.
The journal was designed by Iman Sinnokrot, B.F.A. graphic design, Chicago, Illinois, using Adobe Creative Suite.
COVER ART BY MAGGIE ROTH B.F.A. ILLUSTRATION, DOWNINGTOWN, PA
STAFF 4
CR E AT I V E DI R E CT O R I m a n S i n n o k ro t
E D I TO R -I N-CH I E F E mil ie Kef a la s 5
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
COP YRIGHT & COLO PHO N Individual pieces contained herein are the intellectual property of the contributors, who retain all rights to their material. Every effort was made to contact the artists to ensure that the information presented is correct. No part of this journal may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the editorial staff and the advisor. Port City Review, established in 2012, is an annual literary arts journal showcasing the work of SCAD students exclusively via a submission process. Published content is determined by student editors.
O U R M ISSIO N Port City Review exists as a forum for students to share their very best work. Curated and produced by students, the journal seeks to provide an intimate look at art from every angle.
The journal was designed by Iman Sinnokrot, B.F.A. graphic design, Chicago, Illinois, using Adobe Creative Suite.
COVER ART BY MAGGIE ROTH B.F.A. ILLUSTRATION, DOWNINGTOWN, PA
STAFF 4
CR E AT I V E DI R E CT O R I m a n S i n n o k ro t
E D I TO R -I N-CH I E F E mil ie Kef a la s 5
“Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.” EDGAR DEGAS
“Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.” EDGAR DEGAS
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Cliffside
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Nia Smalls Montgomery, NY B.F.A. Painting
Yellow Jacket
Illustration and Drawing Oki Honda Tokyo, Japan B.F.A. Illustration
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Cliffside
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Nia Smalls Montgomery, NY B.F.A. Painting
Yellow Jacket
Illustration and Drawing Oki Honda Tokyo, Japan B.F.A. Illustration
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Jungle, Ahoy!
Illustration and Drawing Elena Sanchez Dallas, TX B.F.A. Illustration
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Jungle, Ahoy!
Illustration and Drawing Elena Sanchez Dallas, TX B.F.A. Illustration
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F ICT IO N
IF P HONE B O O T HS C O UL D TAL K they’d tell you to dial 9-11 because your mother’s a snake and Santa Claus doesn’t exist. Love is a myth but then again so is your father And don’t even get me started on the middle east. Ring ring to the caller on line 1 Who swears that they paid last month’s bill So screw you Mother Nature I can no longer hear a heartbeat And does anyone have any more quarters? Hold on to the knife that’s still Hanging from your back I bet it was his Delilah that put it there But who knows maybe it was just me.
Alissa Malhoit Stonington, CT B.F.A. Writing
SoulFood
Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellín, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration 12
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F ICT IO N
IF P HONE B O O T HS C O UL D TAL K they’d tell you to dial 9-11 because your mother’s a snake and Santa Claus doesn’t exist. Love is a myth but then again so is your father And don’t even get me started on the middle east. Ring ring to the caller on line 1 Who swears that they paid last month’s bill So screw you Mother Nature I can no longer hear a heartbeat And does anyone have any more quarters? Hold on to the knife that’s still Hanging from your back I bet it was his Delilah that put it there But who knows maybe it was just me.
Alissa Malhoit Stonington, CT B.F.A. Writing
SoulFood
Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellín, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration 12
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The Perfect Pinecone Illustration and Drawing Mariyka Auber Greensboro, NC B.F.A. Illustration
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The Perfect Pinecone Illustration and Drawing Mariyka Auber Greensboro, NC B.F.A. Illustration
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PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
POETRY
W H AT I CAN’T SH AKE for Terik
snowfall yellow streetlight only before dawn soft groan of snowplow to state road low moan of furnace clucking on: Terik, it’s five and you need to get up. there is ice all over the oil tank outside, snowfall fallen down from rooftop in the Siberia of an Ohio winter’s storm or Michigan or somewhere east of Chicago. Rustbelt. NBA & NHL territory all the way. but that’s all we have: we wouldn’t be lovers otherwise, we wouldn’t even have eye contact otherwise. we’re off-season and following Sabres or Red Wings scores and we’ve been this way since the days when Dainius Zubrus was the Justin Bieber of every state around the Great Lakes. and we love Eminem, new Jordan 8s, the Bulls, Mustangs, and our cousins in the Marines. none of it matters when the alarm rings: not that kiss, not the wounds, not the cold and everything frozen outside. either you’re a sprinter about to hit that off-season grind or you’re not: it’s only new Nike spikes and black ice.
Fueling the Flame
Illustration and Drawing Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration 16
Mike Walker Gainesville, FL M.F.A. Writing
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PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
POETRY
W H AT I CAN’T SH AKE for Terik
snowfall yellow streetlight only before dawn soft groan of snowplow to state road low moan of furnace clucking on: Terik, it’s five and you need to get up. there is ice all over the oil tank outside, snowfall fallen down from rooftop in the Siberia of an Ohio winter’s storm or Michigan or somewhere east of Chicago. Rustbelt. NBA & NHL territory all the way. but that’s all we have: we wouldn’t be lovers otherwise, we wouldn’t even have eye contact otherwise. we’re off-season and following Sabres or Red Wings scores and we’ve been this way since the days when Dainius Zubrus was the Justin Bieber of every state around the Great Lakes. and we love Eminem, new Jordan 8s, the Bulls, Mustangs, and our cousins in the Marines. none of it matters when the alarm rings: not that kiss, not the wounds, not the cold and everything frozen outside. either you’re a sprinter about to hit that off-season grind or you’re not: it’s only new Nike spikes and black ice.
Fueling the Flame
Illustration and Drawing Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration 16
Mike Walker Gainesville, FL M.F.A. Writing
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PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Landscape
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Lulu LaFortune Boulder, CO B.F.A. Furniture Design
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Growing up in the Mafia Illustration and Drawing Ryan Whiteley Cary, NC B.F.A. Illustration
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Landscape
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Lulu LaFortune Boulder, CO B.F.A. Furniture Design
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Growing up in the Mafia Illustration and Drawing Ryan Whiteley Cary, NC B.F.A. Illustration
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Vanity
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Rachael Tarravechia Charlotte, NC B.F.A. Painting
The Little Prince
Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellin, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
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Vanity
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Rachael Tarravechia Charlotte, NC B.F.A. Painting
The Little Prince
Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellin, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
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Frog Station
Illustration and Drawing Shishuang Tu Beijing, China M.F.A. Illustration 22
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Frog Station
Illustration and Drawing Shishuang Tu Beijing, China M.F.A. Illustration 22
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Anything You Can Do... Illustration and Drawing Brooke Strukel Grand Ledge, MI B.F.A. Illustration
Modern Human Instinct
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Jeffery Lawson Thomasville, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design
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Anything You Can Do... Illustration and Drawing Brooke Strukel Grand Ledge, MI B.F.A. Illustration
Modern Human Instinct
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Jeffery Lawson Thomasville, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design
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F ICT IO N
T H E MON ST ER U N D ER Y O UR B E D I. A girl makes you nervous and it takes you years to figure out why; months and months filled with childish laughter and shaky hands pushing away what scares you. She reminds you of the monster that used to live under your bed, her touch on your skin making you want to hide beneath the covers, her smile making your heart race. There’s a moment when your eyes finally meet and your breathing stops. No one ever told you that monsters could be beautiful. II. You can’t rationalize it. You know her hands on your shoulders shouldn’t make your palms sweat, but they do. And her eyes on your lips shouldn’t make your mouth dry, but they do. It takes time before you learn to live with her; call her out from beneath the bed and invite her into your sheets. She lays beside you and you wonder when you started wanting to put your hands on her waist. Monsters aren’t so scary when they’re snoring softly in their sleep. III. Growing up is understanding that monsters aren’t real. They are shadows on your bedroom wall or the rustling of leaves outside your window. And sometimes, like now, they are just a girl. It’s easy to mistake girls for monsters, but disguises fade when they can no longer scare you. She leans into your chest and you let her settle her head onto your shoulder; let her relax into your arms, slow and simple. This is not a fairytale, but you realize it has all the signs of one.
8:37 at Baja's
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Morgan Sullivan Foxborough, MA B.F.A. Advertising
You kissed the monster under your bed, and you made her human.
Christin Campbell Pensacola, FL B.F.A. Dramatic Writing
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F ICT IO N
T H E MON ST ER U N D ER Y O UR B E D I. A girl makes you nervous and it takes you years to figure out why; months and months filled with childish laughter and shaky hands pushing away what scares you. She reminds you of the monster that used to live under your bed, her touch on your skin making you want to hide beneath the covers, her smile making your heart race. There’s a moment when your eyes finally meet and your breathing stops. No one ever told you that monsters could be beautiful. II. You can’t rationalize it. You know her hands on your shoulders shouldn’t make your palms sweat, but they do. And her eyes on your lips shouldn’t make your mouth dry, but they do. It takes time before you learn to live with her; call her out from beneath the bed and invite her into your sheets. She lays beside you and you wonder when you started wanting to put your hands on her waist. Monsters aren’t so scary when they’re snoring softly in their sleep. III. Growing up is understanding that monsters aren’t real. They are shadows on your bedroom wall or the rustling of leaves outside your window. And sometimes, like now, they are just a girl. It’s easy to mistake girls for monsters, but disguises fade when they can no longer scare you. She leans into your chest and you let her settle her head onto your shoulder; let her relax into your arms, slow and simple. This is not a fairytale, but you realize it has all the signs of one.
8:37 at Baja's
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Morgan Sullivan Foxborough, MA B.F.A. Advertising
You kissed the monster under your bed, and you made her human.
Christin Campbell Pensacola, FL B.F.A. Dramatic Writing
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ISSUE SIX
Flower Girl
Illustration and Drawing
Linecoste
Illustration and Drawing
Vanya Liang Savannah, GA B.F.A. Illustration
Maggie Roth Downingtown, PA B.F.A. Illustration
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Flower Girl
Illustration and Drawing
Linecoste
Illustration and Drawing
Vanya Liang Savannah, GA B.F.A. Illustration
Maggie Roth Downingtown, PA B.F.A. Illustration
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Winter
Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellín, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
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Winter
Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellín, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
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F ICT IO N
PA RAD IS E When they came to his village, Youssef purchased a dream that he couldn’t afford. His family sold their farmland and payed the remainder on credit because he had no future in Bakai. He and his brothers were workers, but too often the land was unfruitful and the river destroyed their shabby wooden homes. As the youngest and only unwed brother, Youssef got his family’ blessing to work and send money until someone else could join him in Dubai. The agent promised him paradise: a steady job with good wages. In six months, he would pay off the worker’s visa. Then, everything he earned could be sent to his family in Bangladesh. It was a small price to pay for a slice of heaven, the man said. Youssef had never even been on a plane before. If he were alive, his father would’ve scorned him for admiring an iron bird when there were so many real ones around his home. “Remember, son, a duck will feed your family. A piece of metal won’t,” Baba would say when he gazed at the planes that flew over the village. Baba was right. The metal frame that he and the other workers molded for the towering skyscrapers didn’t feed his family. Sometimes, the Company remembered that animals still had to eat, but the meager was barely enough to keep them alive. Dubai was a desert—there was no water for them. But the Company wanted to seem accommodating by providing them with large, water-filled canisters at the end of the night. The septic water made everyone sick, but they had nothing
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else to drink. Because of this, Youssef couldn’t even take a proper piss. The sun scorched his skin and the dry heat absorbed all the water in his system, leaving him with little to urinate, even after days. The smell of sweat permanently stained his clothes, his hair, his skin. He was trapped here for two more years. The man who picked him up at the airport took his visa so that he couldn’t leave without re-paying the money he had borrowed, the small price for heaven. But he was luckier than most. Without him, his family would survive, unlike some of the men whose wives and children depended on them for money that never came. Today, on a particularly hot day, the men found a body splattered on the ground. The worker had only been there for a week. He was a quiet Indian whose language no one spoke. No one even knew the boy’s name. Scraping his remains off the concrete was brutal. The heat had already begun to cook his body onto the ground. It was messier than most accidents. The others just swallowed razor blades. But things weren’t that bad. Because of the accident, the Company showed them mercy. After the workers discarded the body, they shuttled everyone back to the little town. The driver, who never spoke, even offered them a bottle. The men took turns with the liquor. To Youssef, things were already starting to get better.
Brenda Julian Yanez Iguala, Guerrero, Mexico B.F.A. Writing
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ISSUE SIX
F ICT IO N
PA RAD IS E When they came to his village, Youssef purchased a dream that he couldn’t afford. His family sold their farmland and payed the remainder on credit because he had no future in Bakai. He and his brothers were workers, but too often the land was unfruitful and the river destroyed their shabby wooden homes. As the youngest and only unwed brother, Youssef got his family’ blessing to work and send money until someone else could join him in Dubai. The agent promised him paradise: a steady job with good wages. In six months, he would pay off the worker’s visa. Then, everything he earned could be sent to his family in Bangladesh. It was a small price to pay for a slice of heaven, the man said. Youssef had never even been on a plane before. If he were alive, his father would’ve scorned him for admiring an iron bird when there were so many real ones around his home. “Remember, son, a duck will feed your family. A piece of metal won’t,” Baba would say when he gazed at the planes that flew over the village. Baba was right. The metal frame that he and the other workers molded for the towering skyscrapers didn’t feed his family. Sometimes, the Company remembered that animals still had to eat, but the meager was barely enough to keep them alive. Dubai was a desert—there was no water for them. But the Company wanted to seem accommodating by providing them with large, water-filled canisters at the end of the night. The septic water made everyone sick, but they had nothing
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else to drink. Because of this, Youssef couldn’t even take a proper piss. The sun scorched his skin and the dry heat absorbed all the water in his system, leaving him with little to urinate, even after days. The smell of sweat permanently stained his clothes, his hair, his skin. He was trapped here for two more years. The man who picked him up at the airport took his visa so that he couldn’t leave without re-paying the money he had borrowed, the small price for heaven. But he was luckier than most. Without him, his family would survive, unlike some of the men whose wives and children depended on them for money that never came. Today, on a particularly hot day, the men found a body splattered on the ground. The worker had only been there for a week. He was a quiet Indian whose language no one spoke. No one even knew the boy’s name. Scraping his remains off the concrete was brutal. The heat had already begun to cook his body onto the ground. It was messier than most accidents. The others just swallowed razor blades. But things weren’t that bad. Because of the accident, the Company showed them mercy. After the workers discarded the body, they shuttled everyone back to the little town. The driver, who never spoke, even offered them a bottle. The men took turns with the liquor. To Youssef, things were already starting to get better.
Brenda Julian Yanez Iguala, Guerrero, Mexico B.F.A. Writing
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PORT CITY REVIEW
Tyson and Pigeons
Le Peril Bleu
Roger Lugo Iowa Falls, IA M.F.A. Illustration
Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration
Illustration and Drawing
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Illustration and Drawing
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Tyson and Pigeons
Le Peril Bleu
Roger Lugo Iowa Falls, IA M.F.A. Illustration
Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration
Illustration and Drawing
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Illustration and Drawing
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S'élever Postcard Series
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Vada Ortiz Moapa, NV B.F.A. Graphic Design
The Snail Racer
Illustration and Drawing Nicolas Henderson Strafford, MO B.F.A. Illustration
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Retrofuturism
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design
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S'élever Postcard Series
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Vada Ortiz Moapa, NV B.F.A. Graphic Design
The Snail Racer
Illustration and Drawing Nicolas Henderson Strafford, MO B.F.A. Illustration
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Retrofuturism
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design
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Atelophobia
Illustration and Drawing Jessica Craig Sparta, NJ B.F.A. Illustration
Koala in Desert
Illustration and Drawing Xiaoyu Li (Remy Li) Zhongshan, China M.F.A. Illustration
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Atelophobia
Illustration and Drawing Jessica Craig Sparta, NJ B.F.A. Illustration
Koala in Desert
Illustration and Drawing Xiaoyu Li (Remy Li) Zhongshan, China M.F.A. Illustration
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Beautifully in Over my Head
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Trisstah Wagstaff Waco, TX M.F.A. Painting
Goth Chicken
Illustration and Drawing Samantha Greene Wake Forest, NC B.F.A. Illustration
Custom Knives Industrial Design
Charlotta Zeiler Reichertsheim, Germany B.F.A. Industrial Design
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Beautifully in Over my Head
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Trisstah Wagstaff Waco, TX M.F.A. Painting
Goth Chicken
Illustration and Drawing Samantha Greene Wake Forest, NC B.F.A. Illustration
Custom Knives Industrial Design
Charlotta Zeiler Reichertsheim, Germany B.F.A. Industrial Design
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Medieval Round Chandelier Industrial Design
Nicolas Pellegrino Austin, TX B.F.A. User Experience Design
Kelly Tote Bag
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Vivian Sredni Barranquilla, Atlantico, Colombia B.F.A. Accessory Design 42
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Medieval Round Chandelier Industrial Design
Nicolas Pellegrino Austin, TX B.F.A. User Experience Design
Kelly Tote Bag
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Vivian Sredni Barranquilla, Atlantico, Colombia B.F.A. Accessory Design 42
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The Garden, Spread 1 Illustration and Drawing Ananya Kala Savannah, GA B.F.A. Illustration
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The Garden, Spread 1 Illustration and Drawing Ananya Kala Savannah, GA B.F.A. Illustration
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Good vs Evil
Spring
Ruaida Mannaa Barranquilla, Atlántico, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
Amalia Restrepo Medellin, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
Illustration and Drawing
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Illustration and Drawing
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Good vs Evil
Spring
Ruaida Mannaa Barranquilla, Atlántico, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
Amalia Restrepo Medellin, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
Illustration and Drawing
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Illustration and Drawing
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POETRY
L AME NT O F TH E FO RMLE SS Within and without is no match for The doubt that Claws at my heart and beats through The veins and weights on the soles Of my feet that pound over the Dirt and shape into Valleys a small place for me to Sleep and hide all my Worries My shame And regrets That have no place in My head but exist to serve The devil That lives there instead. Please show me that happiness Can bloom without Food and sorrow can Exorcise itself without asking To die or vye for Greater real estate that Cannot be bought Or sold Or rented Or given without the Cry of a woman Without a vessel to call her own.
Hybrid Tea Rose
Illustration and Drawing Kin Lok Ching Hong Kong, China B.F.A. Illustration
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Sarah Soltan Atlanta, GA B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development
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POETRY
L AME NT O F TH E FO RMLE SS Within and without is no match for The doubt that Claws at my heart and beats through The veins and weights on the soles Of my feet that pound over the Dirt and shape into Valleys a small place for me to Sleep and hide all my Worries My shame And regrets That have no place in My head but exist to serve The devil That lives there instead. Please show me that happiness Can bloom without Food and sorrow can Exorcise itself without asking To die or vye for Greater real estate that Cannot be bought Or sold Or rented Or given without the Cry of a woman Without a vessel to call her own.
Hybrid Tea Rose
Illustration and Drawing Kin Lok Ching Hong Kong, China B.F.A. Illustration
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Sarah Soltan Atlanta, GA B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development
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ISSUE SIX
Wildflowers 1 and 2
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting
Emboldened Kiss
Illustration and Drawing Maggie Roth Downingtown, PA B.F.A. Illustration
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Wildflowers 1 and 2
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting
Emboldened Kiss
Illustration and Drawing Maggie Roth Downingtown, PA B.F.A. Illustration
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Māyā
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Carolina Diaz Barrientos Medellín, Colombia M.F.A. Fibers
(pg. 52-53)
Night In
Illustration and Drawing Cole Meehan Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration 54
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Māyā
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Carolina Diaz Barrientos Medellín, Colombia M.F.A. Fibers
(pg. 52-53)
Night In
Illustration and Drawing Cole Meehan Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration 54
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F ICT IO N
DR AG Lee itched for a smoke. The unopened pack of Marlboros lay across the table where he had slid it out of reach. If he asked Sonny for a light at home he’d lean over close and give it to him, but not here. He contented himself with the burn of hot, black coffee. Sonny coughed hoarsely and took out a cigarette. He held up his lighterantique, solid silver, passed down three generations- took a long, slow drag and then exhaled a puff. The bite of tobacco smoke always made Lee’s itch worse. “When I’m dead,” Sonny said, setting the finished cigarette in its tray, “slip some smokes in the casket, alright?” “You’re not dying.” “Yet.” “You’re not.” “I could be.” Sonny shook out another cigarette. “You should stop smoking,” Lee said. “I stopped, and I feel great. It’s not so hard.” “Been a smoker my whole life. What’s another pack?” “It turns your lungs black. That’s why you cough like that.” Sonny was on his third when the waitress came by again. She poured another cup of coffee for Lee. In the dimly-lit diner, Sonny looked thinner than he had the last time Lee had passed through town, this time last summer. Every July hundreds from the city flocked to the coast and the white sands of its beach. Lee was a stranger in town, hidden among them, except to Sonny. “Don’t get Marlboros,” Sonny said. “When I go for good I want a pack of Camels, the unfiltered kind.” “You’re not dying.”
“Everyone I know’s got it. There’s no signs, you just get it and you know.” Lee set down his mug. The coffee was cold now, but the waitress didn’t come around again until the cigarettes were half gone. Watching Sonny blow rings made him itch for one, too. “What makes you think I’m coming to any funeral?” “No one else will be left.” “I can’t even be in the waiting room, Sonny.” Sonny coughed again. “When I’m dead, who else will give a shit?” “Here, give me a light,” Lee said. “I haven’t had one in months.” Sonny passed him the carton. Lee took the last cigarette and held it on his lip as Sonny leaned in with the lighter. “You know what the fellas in England call their cigs?” “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” “You know what.” Sonny pulled out a new carton; he lit up another cigarette. Lee was done with his before the waitress came back with the pot of coffee. “Here.” Sonny set the lighter down before Lee. “Keep it. Just don’t forget the Camels.” Lee held the lighter in his palm, feeling the cool metal. Fine, he thought, let Sonny have his smokes.
Nat Brownlee Jesup, GA B.F.A. Sequential Art 56
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ISSUE SIX
F ICT IO N
DR AG Lee itched for a smoke. The unopened pack of Marlboros lay across the table where he had slid it out of reach. If he asked Sonny for a light at home he’d lean over close and give it to him, but not here. He contented himself with the burn of hot, black coffee. Sonny coughed hoarsely and took out a cigarette. He held up his lighterantique, solid silver, passed down three generations- took a long, slow drag and then exhaled a puff. The bite of tobacco smoke always made Lee’s itch worse. “When I’m dead,” Sonny said, setting the finished cigarette in its tray, “slip some smokes in the casket, alright?” “You’re not dying.” “Yet.” “You’re not.” “I could be.” Sonny shook out another cigarette. “You should stop smoking,” Lee said. “I stopped, and I feel great. It’s not so hard.” “Been a smoker my whole life. What’s another pack?” “It turns your lungs black. That’s why you cough like that.” Sonny was on his third when the waitress came by again. She poured another cup of coffee for Lee. In the dimly-lit diner, Sonny looked thinner than he had the last time Lee had passed through town, this time last summer. Every July hundreds from the city flocked to the coast and the white sands of its beach. Lee was a stranger in town, hidden among them, except to Sonny. “Don’t get Marlboros,” Sonny said. “When I go for good I want a pack of Camels, the unfiltered kind.” “You’re not dying.”
“Everyone I know’s got it. There’s no signs, you just get it and you know.” Lee set down his mug. The coffee was cold now, but the waitress didn’t come around again until the cigarettes were half gone. Watching Sonny blow rings made him itch for one, too. “What makes you think I’m coming to any funeral?” “No one else will be left.” “I can’t even be in the waiting room, Sonny.” Sonny coughed again. “When I’m dead, who else will give a shit?” “Here, give me a light,” Lee said. “I haven’t had one in months.” Sonny passed him the carton. Lee took the last cigarette and held it on his lip as Sonny leaned in with the lighter. “You know what the fellas in England call their cigs?” “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” “You know what.” Sonny pulled out a new carton; he lit up another cigarette. Lee was done with his before the waitress came back with the pot of coffee. “Here.” Sonny set the lighter down before Lee. “Keep it. Just don’t forget the Camels.” Lee held the lighter in his palm, feeling the cool metal. Fine, he thought, let Sonny have his smokes.
Nat Brownlee Jesup, GA B.F.A. Sequential Art 56
57
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Truth is Nothing but a Lie
Graphic Design, Advertising, Typography Jeffery Lawson Thomasville, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design
58
59
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Truth is Nothing but a Lie
Graphic Design, Advertising, Typography Jeffery Lawson Thomasville, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design
58
59
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Amalgamation
Architecture and Interior Design Ricardo Chiuz and Eli Lurie Tegucigalpa, Honduras and Upton, MA M.A. Architecture
60
61
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Amalgamation
Architecture and Interior Design Ricardo Chiuz and Eli Lurie Tegucigalpa, Honduras and Upton, MA M.A. Architecture
60
61
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
The Geode Collection Illustration and Drawing
Gwendolyn "Wynne" Gettelfinger Sellersburg, IN B.F.A. Animation
Handle with Repair
Illustration and Drawing Lina Garay Germantown, MD B.F.A. Illustration 62
63
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
The Geode Collection Illustration and Drawing
Gwendolyn "Wynne" Gettelfinger Sellersburg, IN B.F.A. Animation
Handle with Repair
Illustration and Drawing Lina Garay Germantown, MD B.F.A. Illustration 62
63
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Dead for a Day
Illustration and Drawing Irena Freitas Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil M.A. Illustration
Prophetic Funeral Flowers
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings
Tybee
Illustration and Drawing
Shayla Wigand Columbus, OH B.F.A. Painting
Irena Freitas Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil M.A. Illustration 64
65
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Dead for a Day
Illustration and Drawing Irena Freitas Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil M.A. Illustration
Prophetic Funeral Flowers
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings
Tybee
Illustration and Drawing
Shayla Wigand Columbus, OH B.F.A. Painting
Irena Freitas Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil M.A. Illustration 64
65
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Colin and Alicia
Illustration and Drawing Alexandria O’Hall Fayetteville, TN B.F.A. Illustration
66
67
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Colin and Alicia
Illustration and Drawing Alexandria O’Hall Fayetteville, TN B.F.A. Illustration
66
67
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Beard Flowers
Illustration and Drawing Jessica Harkey Summerfield, NC B.F.A. Illustration
68
69
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Beard Flowers
Illustration and Drawing Jessica Harkey Summerfield, NC B.F.A. Illustration
68
69
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
NON-FI CT I O N
“S O RRY ” Apparently the airplane didn’t want to leave Charlotte, because technical delays kept it grounded at the gate with its passengers readied. I sat in my aisle seat, row 12D. A woman with a nice vegan-leather bag walked down the aisle, and her purse strap got caught in my arm rest. I saw her torso jerk back after she took two steps. “Whoops,” she said involuntarily, as though it had happened more than once. It took me a moment to realize her bag attached itself near my elbow, and I didn’t notice until she came back to my seat. “Sorry about that,” she said, unlacing the brown shoulder strap. I helped her unravel it, because I’m well-experienced in getting my clothes and bag straps caught in unassuming crannies. “I’m sorry.” As soon as I finished that last syllable, I cringed. Mom’s voice entered on cue: “Why are you apologizing? It was her bag. If you were a man you wouldn’t apologize for that.” I kept hearing her in my head the rest of the trip, so I raised the volume of the Red Hot Chili Peppers on my phone to ear canal-pumping levels.
other is grey-ish. Jessica was at the checkout counter, and we made eye contact. “Hi Jessica! How have you been?” I don’t think she really remembered me. “Hiii. . .” She had that look I get when I see someone, know their face, but can’t place their name. But I was happy to see her. “Love the new setup. Sorry I didn’t make it in sooner to say hi.” That was as awkward to say as it was to process. She looked at me like Okay, what? A customer required her attention, so she escaped with a, “Uh one sec.” My face got warm. I promptly showed Mom my favorite section, “Classics,” the hot spot for John Donne, Anne Carson, and Tennessee Williams. “This is where I got my book of Dylan Thomas poems, remember? The one I bought before my birthday?” Mom lowered her voice. “Em, why did you apologize to her? I think that made her uncomfortable.” I already knew it was a dumb move. “I know, I know, I realize that.”
This was two weeks ago. Why did I say sorry for a fucking piece of airline furniture? *** I wanted to show Mom and Dad one of my favorite local bookshops, because we did not want to drive out to a Barnes & Noble in the middle of the day. It was Saturday, and they were visiting with my baby sister to show her my school. The shop owner, Jessica, was the subject of a blog post I wrote last year, and I hadn’t really seen or talked to her since. I wanted to say “Hi” and “How’s it going” to show them how poshly local I had become. We went in and I immediately started looking for her shop cats, Bartleby and Eliot, named for Herman Melville’s “Bartleby, the Scrivener” and writer T. S. Eliot. I know their names, but I still confuse them, because one’s orange and the
“You’re a smart girl. Why do you do that?” “I don’t know. I think I was just excited. . .” No I just didn’t think. She used her Em don’t be stupid voice. “You really need to stop doing that. Nobody’s going to take you seriously if you keeping doing it.” All I said was, “I know. I know.” What else was I supposed to say? Sorry? Did I dishonor Jessica’s family, vandalize her store, or kill her front porch flowers? No. I literally had not been to the store in months.
Emilie Kefalas Decatur, IL B.F.A. Writing 70
***
Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 71
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
NON-FI CT I O N
“S O RRY ” Apparently the airplane didn’t want to leave Charlotte, because technical delays kept it grounded at the gate with its passengers readied. I sat in my aisle seat, row 12D. A woman with a nice vegan-leather bag walked down the aisle, and her purse strap got caught in my arm rest. I saw her torso jerk back after she took two steps. “Whoops,” she said involuntarily, as though it had happened more than once. It took me a moment to realize her bag attached itself near my elbow, and I didn’t notice until she came back to my seat. “Sorry about that,” she said, unlacing the brown shoulder strap. I helped her unravel it, because I’m well-experienced in getting my clothes and bag straps caught in unassuming crannies. “I’m sorry.” As soon as I finished that last syllable, I cringed. Mom’s voice entered on cue: “Why are you apologizing? It was her bag. If you were a man you wouldn’t apologize for that.” I kept hearing her in my head the rest of the trip, so I raised the volume of the Red Hot Chili Peppers on my phone to ear canal-pumping levels.
other is grey-ish. Jessica was at the checkout counter, and we made eye contact. “Hi Jessica! How have you been?” I don’t think she really remembered me. “Hiii. . .” She had that look I get when I see someone, know their face, but can’t place their name. But I was happy to see her. “Love the new setup. Sorry I didn’t make it in sooner to say hi.” That was as awkward to say as it was to process. She looked at me like Okay, what? A customer required her attention, so she escaped with a, “Uh one sec.” My face got warm. I promptly showed Mom my favorite section, “Classics,” the hot spot for John Donne, Anne Carson, and Tennessee Williams. “This is where I got my book of Dylan Thomas poems, remember? The one I bought before my birthday?” Mom lowered her voice. “Em, why did you apologize to her? I think that made her uncomfortable.” I already knew it was a dumb move. “I know, I know, I realize that.”
This was two weeks ago. Why did I say sorry for a fucking piece of airline furniture? *** I wanted to show Mom and Dad one of my favorite local bookshops, because we did not want to drive out to a Barnes & Noble in the middle of the day. It was Saturday, and they were visiting with my baby sister to show her my school. The shop owner, Jessica, was the subject of a blog post I wrote last year, and I hadn’t really seen or talked to her since. I wanted to say “Hi” and “How’s it going” to show them how poshly local I had become. We went in and I immediately started looking for her shop cats, Bartleby and Eliot, named for Herman Melville’s “Bartleby, the Scrivener” and writer T. S. Eliot. I know their names, but I still confuse them, because one’s orange and the
“You’re a smart girl. Why do you do that?” “I don’t know. I think I was just excited. . .” No I just didn’t think. She used her Em don’t be stupid voice. “You really need to stop doing that. Nobody’s going to take you seriously if you keeping doing it.” All I said was, “I know. I know.” What else was I supposed to say? Sorry? Did I dishonor Jessica’s family, vandalize her store, or kill her front porch flowers? No. I literally had not been to the store in months.
Emilie Kefalas Decatur, IL B.F.A. Writing 70
***
Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 71
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Contour, The Cabaret Architecture and Interior Design
Here She Is
Katelyn Olsen Farmingdale, NY B.F.A. Interior Design
Illustration and Drawing Cole Sprout Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration
72
73
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Contour, The Cabaret Architecture and Interior Design
Here She Is
Katelyn Olsen Farmingdale, NY B.F.A. Interior Design
Illustration and Drawing Cole Sprout Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration
72
73
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
The Theory of Everything
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Luxme Patel Greensboro, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design
Amalgamation
Architecture and Interior Design Ricardo Chiuz and Eli Lurie Tegucigalpa, Honduras and Upton, MA M.A. Architecture
74
75
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
The Theory of Everything
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Luxme Patel Greensboro, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design
Amalgamation
Architecture and Interior Design Ricardo Chiuz and Eli Lurie Tegucigalpa, Honduras and Upton, MA M.A. Architecture
74
75
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
"Alone"
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Eliza G. Cardwell North Granby, CT B.F.A. Illustration
Equus Ephemeral
Illustration and Drawing Calvin Laituri Wayland, MA B.F.A. Graphic Design
76
Nettle
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Morgan Sullivan Foxborough, MA B.F.A. Advertising
77
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
"Alone"
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Eliza G. Cardwell North Granby, CT B.F.A. Illustration
Equus Ephemeral
Illustration and Drawing Calvin Laituri Wayland, MA B.F.A. Graphic Design
76
Nettle
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Morgan Sullivan Foxborough, MA B.F.A. Advertising
77
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Frida la Sufrida
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design
Indian Tea Stall
Animation and Motion Media Dheeraj Varandani Jaipur, India B.F.A. Visual Effects
The Cosmo
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design 78
Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design
Ancient Roman Crypt Interactive Design
Colin Rudd Raleigh, NC B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development 79
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Frida la Sufrida
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design
Indian Tea Stall
Animation and Motion Media Dheeraj Varandani Jaipur, India B.F.A. Visual Effects
The Cosmo
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design 78
Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design
Ancient Roman Crypt Interactive Design
Colin Rudd Raleigh, NC B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development 79
PORT CITY REVIEW
NON- F I CT I O N
G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART O N E O F T HR E E : GR A N D FATH ERS I can still hear the clanking of his belt and rip of his zipper. He snakes out of his pants to barely reveal a furry gray tuft of hair. He is Manolo, my father’s father. We are in the car on the way to Shop-Rite for eggs and milk. I am strapped into the front passenger’s seat before car seats were required for children. He says, “Look here, Boy. This is what a woman looks like. Touch it.” I was six years old. We are a family of Chino-Cubanos descended from “Coolies,” Chinese men abducted into indentured servitude by European plantation owners and shipped to Cuba to work railroads and sugar cane fields in the 1890s. My great-great grandfather and my great-grandfather were among the slaves who laid rails and cut cane across the Hades heat of La Habana, long before another form of oppression raped the island paradise and its people. Mami died last year. After ten months imprisoned in a cell of silent sorrow in the same 1400 square foot apartment, father and son are ready to talk. In the next to last day of a punishing 2016, my father shares, for the first time in my life, that I am three generations separated from slavery. I feel beautiful and punch drunk with culture. My great-great grandfather was born in the Guangdong Province of southeastern China. He was named Tun Kong Hong and was farmed like a pig from China to La Habana as the slave of a Frenchman by the name of Madam. Given that slaves were assigned the last name of their owners, his new Cuban identity became Tun Kong Hong-Madam. Despite Tun Kong Hong’s eventual freedom, my grandfather, Manuel de Jesus Perez-Madam, born free in Jovellanos, Cuba, took the slave name, Madam, due to the proximity of the family to our French owners. “It was just customary and everyone accepted it,” Papi assures me, perhaps sensing my sudden pride descending into disgust. He continues his cuento. My questions are firing off faster than we can eat our eggs. I am starving for a genealogy that Mami never shared for reasons she took to Christ. The family business was dry cleaning garments for the wealthy in our newfound freedom. My father was born to a working-class family in La Purisima Concepción Salón of the historic Asociación de Dependentientes Del Comercio de La Habana.
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Papi drifts from my interrogation and journeys with me to a street in downtown 1957 La Habana. He recounts the story of a wreck in which Tío Pepe attempted to avoid collision while driving the family dry cleaning van. Tío Pepe, ejected from the vehicle, is beaten, battered, bruised, befuddled and blamed, but his little nephew is never again allowed to ride in the van with loco Tío Pepe. His eyes squinch together and disappear as they do when he laughs hard. His body convulses retelling el cuento, as if he has not recalled this story in many many years. We digress. Stories of other strains of disasters, tragedies, and triumphs that befell our family will come later. Dad becomes tired after breakfast and retreats to his man cave for a nap. Fucking diabetes. My writing will have to wait. Time to prepare his insulin shot. “Papi, why do you always cook your omelets on the back burner?” Seems like a stretch for a man with shoulders so eroded he cannot even wash his own armpits. His face reddens. The words spit forth from his mouth full of eggs and onions. “JEEZUZ, do you realize the amount of electricity the front burner uses? The heat is so much that you cannot even stand in front of it!” He scratches his head and wipes his face with his hands, so exasperated by my question that he breaks a sweat. “Dad, you know that if you put the front burner on the low setting, it will not heat up as hot. It’s the same as the back burner. Just bigger.” “I don’t care.” He eats with a string of melted Swiss cheese hanging off his face like he just took a bite of Sal’s pizza from West New York. I return to making my omelet on the front burner. Back at the breakfast table, I push the plunger on my French press and it breathes out a gentle sigh of relief. The sweet aroma of pressed caffeine and fried onions fills the breakfast space. We ingest our huevitos in silence, the air conditioning vent humming a dirge behind us. Coffee talk will soon be over. Papi’s breakfast routine brings me comfort. Papi tries to hide in his man cave, as he often does in the morning, when insulin is imminent and he knows we will make him eat. He is much more in favor of skulking into the kitchen when no one is looking, whipping up a quickie onion eggy bell pepper mixture and skulking back to the cave. A phantom. Today, I need to write and I trick him. Seductive siren, I prepare his favorite sunny side up and my good Italian blend in the fancy French press he does not understand.
Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing
Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 81
PORT CITY REVIEW
NON- F I CT I O N
G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART O N E O F T HR E E : GR A N D FATH ERS I can still hear the clanking of his belt and rip of his zipper. He snakes out of his pants to barely reveal a furry gray tuft of hair. He is Manolo, my father’s father. We are in the car on the way to Shop-Rite for eggs and milk. I am strapped into the front passenger’s seat before car seats were required for children. He says, “Look here, Boy. This is what a woman looks like. Touch it.” I was six years old. We are a family of Chino-Cubanos descended from “Coolies,” Chinese men abducted into indentured servitude by European plantation owners and shipped to Cuba to work railroads and sugar cane fields in the 1890s. My great-great grandfather and my great-grandfather were among the slaves who laid rails and cut cane across the Hades heat of La Habana, long before another form of oppression raped the island paradise and its people. Mami died last year. After ten months imprisoned in a cell of silent sorrow in the same 1400 square foot apartment, father and son are ready to talk. In the next to last day of a punishing 2016, my father shares, for the first time in my life, that I am three generations separated from slavery. I feel beautiful and punch drunk with culture. My great-great grandfather was born in the Guangdong Province of southeastern China. He was named Tun Kong Hong and was farmed like a pig from China to La Habana as the slave of a Frenchman by the name of Madam. Given that slaves were assigned the last name of their owners, his new Cuban identity became Tun Kong Hong-Madam. Despite Tun Kong Hong’s eventual freedom, my grandfather, Manuel de Jesus Perez-Madam, born free in Jovellanos, Cuba, took the slave name, Madam, due to the proximity of the family to our French owners. “It was just customary and everyone accepted it,” Papi assures me, perhaps sensing my sudden pride descending into disgust. He continues his cuento. My questions are firing off faster than we can eat our eggs. I am starving for a genealogy that Mami never shared for reasons she took to Christ. The family business was dry cleaning garments for the wealthy in our newfound freedom. My father was born to a working-class family in La Purisima Concepción Salón of the historic Asociación de Dependentientes Del Comercio de La Habana.
80
ISSUE SIX
Papi drifts from my interrogation and journeys with me to a street in downtown 1957 La Habana. He recounts the story of a wreck in which Tío Pepe attempted to avoid collision while driving the family dry cleaning van. Tío Pepe, ejected from the vehicle, is beaten, battered, bruised, befuddled and blamed, but his little nephew is never again allowed to ride in the van with loco Tío Pepe. His eyes squinch together and disappear as they do when he laughs hard. His body convulses retelling el cuento, as if he has not recalled this story in many many years. We digress. Stories of other strains of disasters, tragedies, and triumphs that befell our family will come later. Dad becomes tired after breakfast and retreats to his man cave for a nap. Fucking diabetes. My writing will have to wait. Time to prepare his insulin shot. “Papi, why do you always cook your omelets on the back burner?” Seems like a stretch for a man with shoulders so eroded he cannot even wash his own armpits. His face reddens. The words spit forth from his mouth full of eggs and onions. “JEEZUZ, do you realize the amount of electricity the front burner uses? The heat is so much that you cannot even stand in front of it!” He scratches his head and wipes his face with his hands, so exasperated by my question that he breaks a sweat. “Dad, you know that if you put the front burner on the low setting, it will not heat up as hot. It’s the same as the back burner. Just bigger.” “I don’t care.” He eats with a string of melted Swiss cheese hanging off his face like he just took a bite of Sal’s pizza from West New York. I return to making my omelet on the front burner. Back at the breakfast table, I push the plunger on my French press and it breathes out a gentle sigh of relief. The sweet aroma of pressed caffeine and fried onions fills the breakfast space. We ingest our huevitos in silence, the air conditioning vent humming a dirge behind us. Coffee talk will soon be over. Papi’s breakfast routine brings me comfort. Papi tries to hide in his man cave, as he often does in the morning, when insulin is imminent and he knows we will make him eat. He is much more in favor of skulking into the kitchen when no one is looking, whipping up a quickie onion eggy bell pepper mixture and skulking back to the cave. A phantom. Today, I need to write and I trick him. Seductive siren, I prepare his favorite sunny side up and my good Italian blend in the fancy French press he does not understand.
Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing
Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 81
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Modern Love
Eternity is Forever
Jinny Udompolvanich Bangkok, Thailand B.F.A. Graphic Design
Calvin Laituri Wayland, MA B.F.A. Graphic Design
Illustration and Drawing
82
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography
83
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Modern Love
Eternity is Forever
Jinny Udompolvanich Bangkok, Thailand B.F.A. Graphic Design
Calvin Laituri Wayland, MA B.F.A. Graphic Design
Illustration and Drawing
82
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography
83
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Untitled
Illustration and Drawing Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration
Aries
Illustration and Drawing Kayla Catanzaro Manasquan, NJ B.F.A. Sequential Art
84
Lyre of Tyre
Illustration and Drawing Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration
85
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Untitled
Illustration and Drawing Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration
Aries
Illustration and Drawing Kayla Catanzaro Manasquan, NJ B.F.A. Sequential Art
84
Lyre of Tyre
Illustration and Drawing Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration
85
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
White Mouse Whiskey Packaging
Art Theft Headquarters
Gabby Guenther Apex, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design
Colin Rudd Raleigh, NC B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography
Interactive Design
White Chair
86
6-Pack
Industrial Design
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design
Emma Sersich Warren, OH B.F.A. Fibers
Craig Matola Lake Orion, MI B.F.A. Industrial Design
87
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
White Mouse Whiskey Packaging
Art Theft Headquarters
Gabby Guenther Apex, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design
Colin Rudd Raleigh, NC B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography
Interactive Design
White Chair
86
6-Pack
Industrial Design
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design
Emma Sersich Warren, OH B.F.A. Fibers
Craig Matola Lake Orion, MI B.F.A. Industrial Design
87
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Aura
Illustration and Drawing Jessica Watson Schaumburg, IL B.F.A. Illustration
Transitions 2
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting 88
La Planete Des Singes Illustration and Drawing Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration
89
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Aura
Illustration and Drawing Jessica Watson Schaumburg, IL B.F.A. Illustration
Transitions 2
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting 88
La Planete Des Singes Illustration and Drawing Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration
89
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
A Blaze
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings CoCo Ree Lemery Chicago, IL M.F.A. Furniture and Industrial Design
Painted Beetle Relief
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Erik Poppen Fort Collins, CO B.F.A. Photography
90
91
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
A Blaze
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings CoCo Ree Lemery Chicago, IL M.F.A. Furniture and Industrial Design
Painted Beetle Relief
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Erik Poppen Fort Collins, CO B.F.A. Photography
90
91
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Summer Story Time
Illustration and Drawing Ruaida Mannaa Barranquilla, Atlántico, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
SaltLick
Interactive Design Garrett Albury Savannah, GA B.F.A. User Experience Design
Femininity
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Ana Guraieb México City, México M.F.A. Fibers 92
Pot De Fleur
Industrial Design Charu Sharma Jaipur, India B.F.A. Industrial Design
93
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Summer Story Time
Illustration and Drawing Ruaida Mannaa Barranquilla, Atlántico, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
SaltLick
Interactive Design Garrett Albury Savannah, GA B.F.A. User Experience Design
Femininity
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Ana Guraieb México City, México M.F.A. Fibers 92
Pot De Fleur
Industrial Design Charu Sharma Jaipur, India B.F.A. Industrial Design
93
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
What Big Teeth You Have Illustration and Drawing Will Cordell McKinney, TX B.F.A. Illustration
The Witch Hut
Illustration and Drawing Shishuang Tu Beijing, China M.F.A. Illustration
94
Figure Study
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Alex Escobar Rochelle, IL B.F.A. Illustration
95
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
What Big Teeth You Have Illustration and Drawing Will Cordell McKinney, TX B.F.A. Illustration
The Witch Hut
Illustration and Drawing Shishuang Tu Beijing, China M.F.A. Illustration
94
Figure Study
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Alex Escobar Rochelle, IL B.F.A. Illustration
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Watch
Industrial Design Charu Sharma Jaipur, India B.F.A. Industrial Design
Tummy
Illustration and Drawing Cole Sprout Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration
Flower Teapot
Sculpture and Ceramics
96
Emily Ann Rozar Wichita, KS B.F.A. Fibers
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Watch
Industrial Design Charu Sharma Jaipur, India B.F.A. Industrial Design
Tummy
Illustration and Drawing Cole Sprout Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration
Flower Teapot
Sculpture and Ceramics
96
Emily Ann Rozar Wichita, KS B.F.A. Fibers
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Brooch #3
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Spencer Kohl St. John's, FL B.F.A. Jewelry & B.F.A. Painting
After Work
Illustration and Drawing Xiaoyu Li (Remy Li) Zhongshan, China M.F.A. Illustration
Liquid Outer Space Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kirsten Groff Rockville Centre, NY B.F.A. Painting 98
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Brooch #3
Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Spencer Kohl St. John's, FL B.F.A. Jewelry & B.F.A. Painting
After Work
Illustration and Drawing Xiaoyu Li (Remy Li) Zhongshan, China M.F.A. Illustration
Liquid Outer Space Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kirsten Groff Rockville Centre, NY B.F.A. Painting 98
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Wild Ginger
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kirsten Groff Rockville Centre, NY B.F.A. Painting
You Make the Darkness Tremble Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Shayla Wigand Columbus, OH B.F.A. Painting
Encounter
Illustration and Drawing
Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration 100
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Wild Ginger
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kirsten Groff Rockville Centre, NY B.F.A. Painting
You Make the Darkness Tremble Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Shayla Wigand Columbus, OH B.F.A. Painting
Encounter
Illustration and Drawing
Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration 100
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NON- F I CT I O N
M Y TURN My family used to think I was mute. I’m not sure if it was a personal choice or if everyone else was just so loud I could never get a word in. Either way, I didn’t speak. I hardly made a sound for the first few years of my life. When they took me to the doctor, he said I didn’t speak because someone else was always speaking for me. But that no, I was not mute. Often, my mother spoke for me (and by that I mean, she never stopped talking). She talked to co workers, to grocery store clerks, to a friend of a friend of a friend, as if they were just another person she’d known her entire life. I guess in a way they were. She knew all kinds of people and talked to them all the same; she never knew a stranger. Naturally, as I got older (those desperate teenage years) my lack of verbal communication led to somewhat of a road block between my mother and me. She couldn’t understand how when I met someone new, say an old friend of hers from high school, my shoes became more interesting than eye contact. I distinctly remember sitting in the passenger seat of her black SUV peering out the window as she scolded me for being so irrevocably shy. “You have to speak up,” she’d tell me. “We’ve been over this and over this. It’s rude and people probably think you’re a bitch. It’s not acceptable anymore.” I couldn’t argue with her. Partly because maybe she was right, maybe people did think I was a bitch. But also because if I responded I was almost positive she’d give me some terrifying glare, followed by a spew of loud curse words and then I’d burst into flames. Besides that, I knew she meant it in a loving kind of way. She was always afraid that I’d never find my voice, that I was too tender and therefore would end up broken and taken advantage of. She wasn’t alone. I’m pretty sure everyone in my family thought I was too mousy a human-being to ever stick up for myself. My mother was just the only one to ever tell me off for being that way. She never would’ve survived the upbringing she’d had (one of racist remarks, poverty, and a broken family) if she was as shy as I was. But still I remained unspoken. When my mother and I went to the grocery store I’d shuffle behind her sheepishly and when she spoke to the clerk checking us out, I’d hide behind her broad shoulders as she made conversation about the food she’d just bought and how her two sons ate groceries like the plague of locusts in the book of Exodus. When we went to the mall she’d walk (my mother’s version of walking being a very strategic, tornado path) through
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stores with me barely at her heels. And when she’d stop to speak with a sales associate, it’d turn into me pretending to search through racks of sweater dresses while she defended the long life of her only pair of jeans, which, if those jeans could be transformed into a tree, would have more rings than Elizabeth Taylor had husbands. Safe to say, as much as my mother wanted me to speak up, she made it all too easy for me to say absolutely nothing. Until she lost her voice. My mother had to have a tumor surgically removed from her thyroid. The tumor ended up being larger than expected and so the only way to remove it was by cutting her vocal cord. She didn’t say a word about it. It was probably the first time she ever even somewhat understood how it felt to be the silent one. Safe to say she didn’t like the feeling. Now my mother had absolutely no shield, no way of interacting with others or protecting herself. She was vulnerable and so I became her voice. I was the one ordering take out on the phone, telling the cashier that we’d be paying with debit, and that yes we’d like our receipt in the bag. Looking back, I realize how much fun I could’ve had acting as her voice; it was a feeding ground for a child with no money, her mother’s debit card and a voice barrier. Sadly, I was young and pure and didn’t quite understand the meaning of “seizing an opportunity,” so apart from being the middleman during arid transactions, I still held no power over the situation. After a time, though, my mother did begin to regain her voice, or at least a whisper (although it was over a year before she stopped needing me to translate her thoughts into sentences). I can’t say I loved talking for her. But there were a few times where, although I never admitted it, I enjoyed being the one to make small talk. On a trip to the mall, we had stopped in The Loft to look around. I was trying to convince my mom to try on a pair of jeans because she was in desperate need of a new pair, preferably ones made for women, when an associate came over. “Can I help you ladies find anything?” she asked. I looked at my mother. Normally she would have responded with a polite “no thank you, we’re just perusing,” and continued to argue with me about the pants until I walked out of the store with her, defeated. This time, though, I
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NON- F I CT I O N
M Y TURN My family used to think I was mute. I’m not sure if it was a personal choice or if everyone else was just so loud I could never get a word in. Either way, I didn’t speak. I hardly made a sound for the first few years of my life. When they took me to the doctor, he said I didn’t speak because someone else was always speaking for me. But that no, I was not mute. Often, my mother spoke for me (and by that I mean, she never stopped talking). She talked to co workers, to grocery store clerks, to a friend of a friend of a friend, as if they were just another person she’d known her entire life. I guess in a way they were. She knew all kinds of people and talked to them all the same; she never knew a stranger. Naturally, as I got older (those desperate teenage years) my lack of verbal communication led to somewhat of a road block between my mother and me. She couldn’t understand how when I met someone new, say an old friend of hers from high school, my shoes became more interesting than eye contact. I distinctly remember sitting in the passenger seat of her black SUV peering out the window as she scolded me for being so irrevocably shy. “You have to speak up,” she’d tell me. “We’ve been over this and over this. It’s rude and people probably think you’re a bitch. It’s not acceptable anymore.” I couldn’t argue with her. Partly because maybe she was right, maybe people did think I was a bitch. But also because if I responded I was almost positive she’d give me some terrifying glare, followed by a spew of loud curse words and then I’d burst into flames. Besides that, I knew she meant it in a loving kind of way. She was always afraid that I’d never find my voice, that I was too tender and therefore would end up broken and taken advantage of. She wasn’t alone. I’m pretty sure everyone in my family thought I was too mousy a human-being to ever stick up for myself. My mother was just the only one to ever tell me off for being that way. She never would’ve survived the upbringing she’d had (one of racist remarks, poverty, and a broken family) if she was as shy as I was. But still I remained unspoken. When my mother and I went to the grocery store I’d shuffle behind her sheepishly and when she spoke to the clerk checking us out, I’d hide behind her broad shoulders as she made conversation about the food she’d just bought and how her two sons ate groceries like the plague of locusts in the book of Exodus. When we went to the mall she’d walk (my mother’s version of walking being a very strategic, tornado path) through
102
stores with me barely at her heels. And when she’d stop to speak with a sales associate, it’d turn into me pretending to search through racks of sweater dresses while she defended the long life of her only pair of jeans, which, if those jeans could be transformed into a tree, would have more rings than Elizabeth Taylor had husbands. Safe to say, as much as my mother wanted me to speak up, she made it all too easy for me to say absolutely nothing. Until she lost her voice. My mother had to have a tumor surgically removed from her thyroid. The tumor ended up being larger than expected and so the only way to remove it was by cutting her vocal cord. She didn’t say a word about it. It was probably the first time she ever even somewhat understood how it felt to be the silent one. Safe to say she didn’t like the feeling. Now my mother had absolutely no shield, no way of interacting with others or protecting herself. She was vulnerable and so I became her voice. I was the one ordering take out on the phone, telling the cashier that we’d be paying with debit, and that yes we’d like our receipt in the bag. Looking back, I realize how much fun I could’ve had acting as her voice; it was a feeding ground for a child with no money, her mother’s debit card and a voice barrier. Sadly, I was young and pure and didn’t quite understand the meaning of “seizing an opportunity,” so apart from being the middleman during arid transactions, I still held no power over the situation. After a time, though, my mother did begin to regain her voice, or at least a whisper (although it was over a year before she stopped needing me to translate her thoughts into sentences). I can’t say I loved talking for her. But there were a few times where, although I never admitted it, I enjoyed being the one to make small talk. On a trip to the mall, we had stopped in The Loft to look around. I was trying to convince my mom to try on a pair of jeans because she was in desperate need of a new pair, preferably ones made for women, when an associate came over. “Can I help you ladies find anything?” she asked. I looked at my mother. Normally she would have responded with a polite “no thank you, we’re just perusing,” and continued to argue with me about the pants until I walked out of the store with her, defeated. This time, though, I
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was the one who had to speak up. I grinned slightly before looking back at the woman. “Actually,” I said, “Yes you could.” I continued to explain to the woman about how I was trying to find a pair of jeans for my mother, about how the only pair she owned were older than me, had holes in places that jeans should not have holes, and that every woman needs a good pair of jeans. I ignored the daggers my mother’s eyes were throwing at my every word. Now, it was my turn to speak.
Alissa Malhoit Stonington, CT B.F.A. Writing
Grace
Illustration and Drawing Alex Escobar Rochelle, IL B.F.A. Illustration 104
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was the one who had to speak up. I grinned slightly before looking back at the woman. “Actually,” I said, “Yes you could.” I continued to explain to the woman about how I was trying to find a pair of jeans for my mother, about how the only pair she owned were older than me, had holes in places that jeans should not have holes, and that every woman needs a good pair of jeans. I ignored the daggers my mother’s eyes were throwing at my every word. Now, it was my turn to speak.
Alissa Malhoit Stonington, CT B.F.A. Writing
Grace
Illustration and Drawing Alex Escobar Rochelle, IL B.F.A. Illustration 104
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Lost in Forest
Animation and Motion Media Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation
Memory House
Animation and Motion Media
Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation
Flower Sky
Animation and Motion Media Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation 106
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Lost in Forest
Animation and Motion Media Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation
Memory House
Animation and Motion Media
Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation
Flower Sky
Animation and Motion Media Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation 106
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ISSUE SIX
NON- F I CT I O N
S LOW BU R N The first time I saw her with a cigarette, she was so far gone she could barely hold on to it. It kept slipping lazily backwards until someone finally took it out of her hands to keep her from burning herself. Her skin was so papery by that point, I imagined her whole body would instantly be engulfed in flame if the sagging embers reached the back of her hand. She lived maybe a month after that; a month where the world was put on pause and everyone who knew Edie Mae Fath simply waited. No one in my family was there when she died, but I imagine she was slumped in the highbacked armchair in the foyer and she just slid away, like she had slid to sleep so many times in the past month. Once upon a time she sat there righteously, her back straight and her legs crossed, ruling Val-Hi Farm and all of Ripley, Ohio with a quirk of her thin lips and a wave of her wrist. Edie was the first person my parents met after they moved the 60 miles from Cincinnati to Ripley, and by no accident. She worked for 30 years in a cubicle across from my grandfather. Their lives were completely different, but they were both industrious and sarcastic, so it seemed natural for them to be friends. When Papa told Edie that his third daughter and her new husband had purchased 100 acres in Brown County she said, “I live in Brown County.” “Well, they’re headed out to Ripley!” “I live in Ripley.” And that was how my family came to live across the street from her, with exactly ten minutes of time between piling into our Chevy and knocking on her front door every night. There was a massive forsythia bush at the bottom of the Fath driveway, and every year when it bloomed buttery yellow, my mom and I would both shout “Spring!” but then when it became unruly enough to scratch at her car, my mother would put on her work overalls and cut it back, practically to a stub. Her determination was never enough to kill it. Edie was a short, thin woman, but never let it stop her from getting the things she wanted. She had dusty brown skin and short, tightly curled, dusty brown hair that she got dyed and permed on the same day every other week. She had been a travelling line dancer in the 50s before marrying her husband, a weak willed tobacco farmer who began drinking himself to death early on and wrapped it up just before the first anniversary of her death.
By the time I was old enough to really get to know her, Edie had retired from P&G and the farm had significantly downsized. Never idle, Edie turned her efforts to the town instead. On Sundays and Wednesdays, I helped her cook for the Ripley Lion’s Club’s Bingo Night. She would stir soup on the stove and I would bake while she listed out the ingredients of each cake from memory. Each time she would laugh and say, “Your mom uses box cakes and makes her own icing and I make cakes from scratch and use icing from a can, so you’re going to be the best baker of all of us.” My mom was Edie’s opposite in every other way, too. She was tall and square, with a long, pointed nose she called her beak. She was just as much of a control freak, but where Edie controlled with her cool demeanor and quick tongue, my mother controlled with a raised voice and wild gestures that made her look even more like a bird. Every emotion showed on her face, and if you asked her why she was so expressive, I’m sure she would look disgusted and say, “I’m just an honest person. I don’t have time for bullshit.” In the fourteen years I knew Edie, the most dogs she had at any one point was also fourteen. I could probably name them all if I tried; Teddy was the Spitz who bit my dad, Cissy was the Dachshund that used to run in weiner dog races, Waldo the Beagle was possibly the fattest dog of all time, etc. They all had bizarre rescue stories and an encyclopedia’s worth of medical issues. When Edie and Ed were out of town, it was my family’s duty to feed and care for her menagerie. No matter how many times we did it, she would always leave a diagram of where each dog belonged during feeding time, to keep them from acting on personal grudges and stealing each other’s food. Casper was one of her later acquisitions. He had a deep bellowing grow and rightfully terrified everyone who tried to approach him. Not Edie. She took him in and called him Casper, after the friendly ghost, of course. My mom was the second person to befriend him because once, when Edie was out of town, he growled at her and she responded by bending in half to put her face near to his and bellowing, “You shut up!” I thought at the time that meant my mother was fearless, but really I think she was more afraid of Edie’s disapproval than any dog’s teeth. Because, despite their differences, Mom was the one Edie chose to refer to as her adopted daughter when she described her relationship with my family.
Shelby Loebker Cincinnati, OH B.F.A. Writing 108
Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 109
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ISSUE SIX
NON- F I CT I O N
S LOW BU R N The first time I saw her with a cigarette, she was so far gone she could barely hold on to it. It kept slipping lazily backwards until someone finally took it out of her hands to keep her from burning herself. Her skin was so papery by that point, I imagined her whole body would instantly be engulfed in flame if the sagging embers reached the back of her hand. She lived maybe a month after that; a month where the world was put on pause and everyone who knew Edie Mae Fath simply waited. No one in my family was there when she died, but I imagine she was slumped in the highbacked armchair in the foyer and she just slid away, like she had slid to sleep so many times in the past month. Once upon a time she sat there righteously, her back straight and her legs crossed, ruling Val-Hi Farm and all of Ripley, Ohio with a quirk of her thin lips and a wave of her wrist. Edie was the first person my parents met after they moved the 60 miles from Cincinnati to Ripley, and by no accident. She worked for 30 years in a cubicle across from my grandfather. Their lives were completely different, but they were both industrious and sarcastic, so it seemed natural for them to be friends. When Papa told Edie that his third daughter and her new husband had purchased 100 acres in Brown County she said, “I live in Brown County.” “Well, they’re headed out to Ripley!” “I live in Ripley.” And that was how my family came to live across the street from her, with exactly ten minutes of time between piling into our Chevy and knocking on her front door every night. There was a massive forsythia bush at the bottom of the Fath driveway, and every year when it bloomed buttery yellow, my mom and I would both shout “Spring!” but then when it became unruly enough to scratch at her car, my mother would put on her work overalls and cut it back, practically to a stub. Her determination was never enough to kill it. Edie was a short, thin woman, but never let it stop her from getting the things she wanted. She had dusty brown skin and short, tightly curled, dusty brown hair that she got dyed and permed on the same day every other week. She had been a travelling line dancer in the 50s before marrying her husband, a weak willed tobacco farmer who began drinking himself to death early on and wrapped it up just before the first anniversary of her death.
By the time I was old enough to really get to know her, Edie had retired from P&G and the farm had significantly downsized. Never idle, Edie turned her efforts to the town instead. On Sundays and Wednesdays, I helped her cook for the Ripley Lion’s Club’s Bingo Night. She would stir soup on the stove and I would bake while she listed out the ingredients of each cake from memory. Each time she would laugh and say, “Your mom uses box cakes and makes her own icing and I make cakes from scratch and use icing from a can, so you’re going to be the best baker of all of us.” My mom was Edie’s opposite in every other way, too. She was tall and square, with a long, pointed nose she called her beak. She was just as much of a control freak, but where Edie controlled with her cool demeanor and quick tongue, my mother controlled with a raised voice and wild gestures that made her look even more like a bird. Every emotion showed on her face, and if you asked her why she was so expressive, I’m sure she would look disgusted and say, “I’m just an honest person. I don’t have time for bullshit.” In the fourteen years I knew Edie, the most dogs she had at any one point was also fourteen. I could probably name them all if I tried; Teddy was the Spitz who bit my dad, Cissy was the Dachshund that used to run in weiner dog races, Waldo the Beagle was possibly the fattest dog of all time, etc. They all had bizarre rescue stories and an encyclopedia’s worth of medical issues. When Edie and Ed were out of town, it was my family’s duty to feed and care for her menagerie. No matter how many times we did it, she would always leave a diagram of where each dog belonged during feeding time, to keep them from acting on personal grudges and stealing each other’s food. Casper was one of her later acquisitions. He had a deep bellowing grow and rightfully terrified everyone who tried to approach him. Not Edie. She took him in and called him Casper, after the friendly ghost, of course. My mom was the second person to befriend him because once, when Edie was out of town, he growled at her and she responded by bending in half to put her face near to his and bellowing, “You shut up!” I thought at the time that meant my mother was fearless, but really I think she was more afraid of Edie’s disapproval than any dog’s teeth. Because, despite their differences, Mom was the one Edie chose to refer to as her adopted daughter when she described her relationship with my family.
Shelby Loebker Cincinnati, OH B.F.A. Writing 108
Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 109
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Winter Blue Landscape
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings
Landscape 1, 2, and 3
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings
Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting
Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting
110
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Winter Blue Landscape
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings
Landscape 1, 2, and 3
Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings
Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting
Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting
110
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Julia
Ryan
Angie Stong Hamden, CT B.F.A. Photography
Jonathan Vasata New York, NY M.F.A. Photography
Photography
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Photography
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Julia
Ryan
Angie Stong Hamden, CT B.F.A. Photography
Jonathan Vasata New York, NY M.F.A. Photography
Photography
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Photography
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Einstein's Dreams
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Shruti Shyam New Delhi, India M.F.A. Graphic Design and Visual Experience
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Einstein's Dreams
Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Shruti Shyam New Delhi, India M.F.A. Graphic Design and Visual Experience
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NON- F I CT I O N
G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART T WO O F T HR E E : M A M I’ S U RN Her fluffy lamb with a mechanical implant sings “Jesus Loves You.” I bought it at the Family Christian Store hours before her death. One final gift from a son to his mother. Her mechanical implant did not sing “Jesus Loves You.” Perhaps it did perhaps it does and I cannot will not hear. She cannot be wound up for more beautiful music. Perhaps she can in another realm and I cannot will not hear. Her glossy bone China tea cups from Anthropologie. Another gift from a son fully aware its time was limited on her warm credenza. Her mini crystal Christmas tree with tiny swirly ornaments I keep there all year. The tiny periwinkle bottle of Holy Water Jeanette brought her trip to St. Patrick’s. A wooden carving of an angel on her knees. Praying. I cannot will not hear her pray again. Her tiny ceramic Mary and Joseph cradling an even tinier Baby Jesus. She cannot will not cradle me anymore. Perhaps she can and I cannot will not feel it. The tick-tock of her implant cannot comfort us anymore. Perhaps it can and I cannot will not hear it. She cannot hug the three of us anymore. That I think I know for sure. A Mother’s Day whittling of a mother comforting her son. Her crystal Christmas bells that fit inside one another like Matroyshka nesting dolls. She will not decorate a tree again. Perhaps she can I cannot will not see it. A soft Precious Moments mechanical boy plays “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.” A gift from a mother to a son hospitalized with a sinister kidney stone. Just before embarking on her Caribbean cruise. Her ceramic angel with a mechanical implant sings “Silent Night.” Her mechanical implant did not sing “Silent Night” Perhaps it did and I could not would not hear. She cannot be wound up for more “Silent Night.” Perhaps she can and I do not will not hear.
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A tiny eggshell, bone, off-white, ivory prayer card I hastily printed at Staples. La Oración de San Luiz Beltran printed on one side. The dates of her birth and death without a hyphen. Her life was not a hyphen. My mother died, I told the cashier. I spit those words at anyone who would listen in those first weeks. To the tailor who altered my suit. To Jeanette’s pastor performing the service. To the flower shop lady who had so joyfully arranged our wedding bouquets. To the creepy crematory troll. To my students. To my bosses. To my Facebook Friends. To my real friends. To my colleagues. To her landlord. To her mailman. To her bank card. To the guy on the phone at Medicare. To her doctor. I said it yesterday to a lady on the phone. I wrote it in an email on Wednesday. A year will pass in 5 days and I cannot say it and mean it. Saying it a lot does not make it so. The wishbone from the first Cuban Chinese Thanksgiving turkey I made alone. It leans against the particles of her dust that remain in a small ceramic rose. Would she want a poultry wishbone to lean against her? “Deja de ser tan dramatico y bota esa mierda pal carajo,” she would scream. Throw that shit out. I am not in there. Do I would I hear her if she screamed to me again? Please scream at me again, Mami. Give me a smack on the head because I just said “shit.” God, what I would give. She was a tiny warrior Santera Cubana, Hija de Oya, with a giant machete and a valve too mangled to sustain her powers. She lives on my shelf.
Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing 117
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NON- F I CT I O N
G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART T WO O F T HR E E : M A M I’ S U RN Her fluffy lamb with a mechanical implant sings “Jesus Loves You.” I bought it at the Family Christian Store hours before her death. One final gift from a son to his mother. Her mechanical implant did not sing “Jesus Loves You.” Perhaps it did perhaps it does and I cannot will not hear. She cannot be wound up for more beautiful music. Perhaps she can in another realm and I cannot will not hear. Her glossy bone China tea cups from Anthropologie. Another gift from a son fully aware its time was limited on her warm credenza. Her mini crystal Christmas tree with tiny swirly ornaments I keep there all year. The tiny periwinkle bottle of Holy Water Jeanette brought her trip to St. Patrick’s. A wooden carving of an angel on her knees. Praying. I cannot will not hear her pray again. Her tiny ceramic Mary and Joseph cradling an even tinier Baby Jesus. She cannot will not cradle me anymore. Perhaps she can and I cannot will not feel it. The tick-tock of her implant cannot comfort us anymore. Perhaps it can and I cannot will not hear it. She cannot hug the three of us anymore. That I think I know for sure. A Mother’s Day whittling of a mother comforting her son. Her crystal Christmas bells that fit inside one another like Matroyshka nesting dolls. She will not decorate a tree again. Perhaps she can I cannot will not see it. A soft Precious Moments mechanical boy plays “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.” A gift from a mother to a son hospitalized with a sinister kidney stone. Just before embarking on her Caribbean cruise. Her ceramic angel with a mechanical implant sings “Silent Night.” Her mechanical implant did not sing “Silent Night” Perhaps it did and I could not would not hear. She cannot be wound up for more “Silent Night.” Perhaps she can and I do not will not hear.
116
A tiny eggshell, bone, off-white, ivory prayer card I hastily printed at Staples. La Oración de San Luiz Beltran printed on one side. The dates of her birth and death without a hyphen. Her life was not a hyphen. My mother died, I told the cashier. I spit those words at anyone who would listen in those first weeks. To the tailor who altered my suit. To Jeanette’s pastor performing the service. To the flower shop lady who had so joyfully arranged our wedding bouquets. To the creepy crematory troll. To my students. To my bosses. To my Facebook Friends. To my real friends. To my colleagues. To her landlord. To her mailman. To her bank card. To the guy on the phone at Medicare. To her doctor. I said it yesterday to a lady on the phone. I wrote it in an email on Wednesday. A year will pass in 5 days and I cannot say it and mean it. Saying it a lot does not make it so. The wishbone from the first Cuban Chinese Thanksgiving turkey I made alone. It leans against the particles of her dust that remain in a small ceramic rose. Would she want a poultry wishbone to lean against her? “Deja de ser tan dramatico y bota esa mierda pal carajo,” she would scream. Throw that shit out. I am not in there. Do I would I hear her if she screamed to me again? Please scream at me again, Mami. Give me a smack on the head because I just said “shit.” God, what I would give. She was a tiny warrior Santera Cubana, Hija de Oya, with a giant machete and a valve too mangled to sustain her powers. She lives on my shelf.
Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing 117
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ISSUE SIX
A Day at the Luxembourg Gardens, in Paris Painting, Printmaking and Etchings Katelyn Olsen Farmingdale, NY B.F.A. Interior Design
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ISSUE SIX
A Day at the Luxembourg Gardens, in Paris Painting, Printmaking and Etchings Katelyn Olsen Farmingdale, NY B.F.A. Interior Design
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Portraits
Illustration and Drawing Brian Nathaniel Lesiangi Denpasar, Bali, Indonesia M.F.A. Animation
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PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
Portraits
Illustration and Drawing Brian Nathaniel Lesiangi Denpasar, Bali, Indonesia M.F.A. Animation
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ISSUE SIX
NON- F I CT I O N
G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART T HR E E O F T HR E E : PA P I’ S B REA KFA ST He does not speak. He births his omelet every morning in exactly the same way. He slivers onions and green bell peppers with cardiothoracic precision. He slides the pan across our glass top stove to the back burner. He stretches for the gourd-shaped oil dispenser we bought him for Christmas. He drips the same round puddle every time. He cracks two eggs. He stings my eye-tears with fried onions. He scrapes the metal spoon on our formerly nonstick fry pan. He sizzles four ham slices in the mix. He evacuates the eggy contents onto a plate he cannot reach. He eats. He abandons the empty plate greasy fork stained towel paper shred. He sleeps off his diabetic coma in Mary’s gliding chair. He breathes to televangelists vomiting shit about Jesus through his eyelids. I suffocate at my keyboard sheathed in a comforting cloak of fried onion stank. His routine fills my heart. Completely.
Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing
Untitled
Photography
122
Calvin Scott Tampa, FL B.F.A. Photography
123
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
NON- F I CT I O N
G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART T HR E E O F T HR E E : PA P I’ S B REA KFA ST He does not speak. He births his omelet every morning in exactly the same way. He slivers onions and green bell peppers with cardiothoracic precision. He slides the pan across our glass top stove to the back burner. He stretches for the gourd-shaped oil dispenser we bought him for Christmas. He drips the same round puddle every time. He cracks two eggs. He stings my eye-tears with fried onions. He scrapes the metal spoon on our formerly nonstick fry pan. He sizzles four ham slices in the mix. He evacuates the eggy contents onto a plate he cannot reach. He eats. He abandons the empty plate greasy fork stained towel paper shred. He sleeps off his diabetic coma in Mary’s gliding chair. He breathes to televangelists vomiting shit about Jesus through his eyelids. I suffocate at my keyboard sheathed in a comforting cloak of fried onion stank. His routine fills my heart. Completely.
Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing
Untitled
Photography
122
Calvin Scott Tampa, FL B.F.A. Photography
123
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ISSUE SIX
ARTIST INDEX see online works at theportcityreview.com
Albury, Garrett
93
Guraieb, Ana
92
Mannaa, Ruaida
46, 92
Soltan, Sarah
49
Auber, Mariyka
14-15
Harkey, Jessica
68-69
Matola, Craig
87
Sprout, Cole
72, 96
Barrientos, Carolina Diaz
54-55
Henderson, Nicolas
36
Meehan, Cole
52-53
Sredni, Vivian
43
Brownlee, Nat
56-57
Herrick, Lachlan
85, 101
O’Hall, Alexandria
66-67
Stong, Angie
112
Campbell, Christin
26
Honda, Oki
9
Olsen, Katelyn
73, 118-119
Strukel, Brooke
25
Cardwell, Eliza G.
77
Yanez, Brenda Julian
32-33
Ortiz, Vada
36
Sullivan, Morgan
27, 77
Catanzaro, Kayla
84
Kala, Ananya
44-45
Patel, Luxme
74
Tarravechia, Rachel
20
Ching, Kin Lok
48
Kefalas, Emilie
70-71
Pellegrino, Nicolas
42
Tu, Shishuang
22-23, 94
Chiuz, Ricardo
60-61, 75
Kohl, Spencer
99
Pérez-Barry, Alex Manuel
80-81, 116-117, 122 Udompolvanich, Jinny
82
Cordell, Will
94
LaFortune, Lulu
18
Poppen, Erik
91
Varadi, Kathleen
50, 88, 110, 111
Craig, Jessica
38
Laituri, Calvin
76, 83
Restrepo, Amalia
13, 21, 30-31, 47
Varandani, Dheeraj
78
Creel, Daniel
16, 35, 89
Lawson, Jeffery
24, 58-59
Roth, Maggie
28, 51
Vasata, Jonathan
113
Escobar, Alex
95, 104
Lemery, CoCo Ree
90
Rozar, Emily Ann
97
Wagstaff, Trisstah
40
Freitas, Irena
64
Lesiangi, Brian Nathaniel
120-121
Rudd, Colin
79, 87
Walker, Mike
17
Garay, Lina
62
Li, Xiaoyu (Remy Li)
39, 98
Sanchez, Elena
10-11
Watson, Jessica
88
Gettelfinger, Gwendolyn
63
Liang, Vanya
29
Scott, Calvin
123
Whiteley, Ryan
19
Groff, Kirsten
98, 101
Loebker, Shelby
108-109
Sersich, Emma
86
Wigand, Shayla
65, 100
Gomez, Valentina Angulo
37, 78, 79
Lugo, Roger
34
Sharma, Charu
93, 97
Xiao, Di
106-107
Greene, Samantha
41
Lurie, Eli
60-61, 75
Shyam, Shruti
114-115
Zeiler, Charlotta
40
Guenther, Gabby
86
Malhoit, Alissa
12, 102-104
Smalls, Nia
8
124
125
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
ARTIST INDEX see online works at theportcityreview.com
Albury, Garrett
93
Guraieb, Ana
92
Mannaa, Ruaida
46, 92
Soltan, Sarah
49
Auber, Mariyka
14-15
Harkey, Jessica
68-69
Matola, Craig
87
Sprout, Cole
72, 96
Barrientos, Carolina Diaz
54-55
Henderson, Nicolas
36
Meehan, Cole
52-53
Sredni, Vivian
43
Brownlee, Nat
56-57
Herrick, Lachlan
85, 101
O’Hall, Alexandria
66-67
Stong, Angie
112
Campbell, Christin
26
Honda, Oki
9
Olsen, Katelyn
73, 118-119
Strukel, Brooke
25
Cardwell, Eliza G.
77
Yanez, Brenda Julian
32-33
Ortiz, Vada
36
Sullivan, Morgan
27, 77
Catanzaro, Kayla
84
Kala, Ananya
44-45
Patel, Luxme
74
Tarravechia, Rachel
20
Ching, Kin Lok
48
Kefalas, Emilie
70-71
Pellegrino, Nicolas
42
Tu, Shishuang
22-23, 94
Chiuz, Ricardo
60-61, 75
Kohl, Spencer
99
Pérez-Barry, Alex Manuel
80-81, 116-117, 122 Udompolvanich, Jinny
82
Cordell, Will
94
LaFortune, Lulu
18
Poppen, Erik
91
Varadi, Kathleen
50, 88, 110, 111
Craig, Jessica
38
Laituri, Calvin
76, 83
Restrepo, Amalia
13, 21, 30-31, 47
Varandani, Dheeraj
78
Creel, Daniel
16, 35, 89
Lawson, Jeffery
24, 58-59
Roth, Maggie
28, 51
Vasata, Jonathan
113
Escobar, Alex
95, 104
Lemery, CoCo Ree
90
Rozar, Emily Ann
97
Wagstaff, Trisstah
40
Freitas, Irena
64
Lesiangi, Brian Nathaniel
120-121
Rudd, Colin
79, 87
Walker, Mike
17
Garay, Lina
62
Li, Xiaoyu (Remy Li)
39, 98
Sanchez, Elena
10-11
Watson, Jessica
88
Gettelfinger, Gwendolyn
63
Liang, Vanya
29
Scott, Calvin
123
Whiteley, Ryan
19
Groff, Kirsten
98, 101
Loebker, Shelby
108-109
Sersich, Emma
86
Wigand, Shayla
65, 100
Gomez, Valentina Angulo
37, 78, 79
Lugo, Roger
34
Sharma, Charu
93, 97
Xiao, Di
106-107
Greene, Samantha
41
Lurie, Eli
60-61, 75
Shyam, Shruti
114-115
Zeiler, Charlotta
40
Guenther, Gabby
86
Malhoit, Alissa
12, 102-104
Smalls, Nia
8
124
125
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
To fully enjoy the digitial submissions of...
Sam Button Yingchuan Du Corey Householder Louisa Lawler Omid Seraj Giulia Jimenez Tani
The Savannah College of Art and Design exists to prepare talented students for professional careers, emphasizing learning through individual attention in a positvely oriented university environment.
... and read more of the stories, please visit:
theportcityreview.com
126
127
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE SIX
To fully enjoy the digitial submissions of...
Sam Button Yingchuan Du Corey Householder Louisa Lawler Omid Seraj Giulia Jimenez Tani
The Savannah College of Art and Design exists to prepare talented students for professional careers, emphasizing learning through individual attention in a positvely oriented university environment.
... and read more of the stories, please visit:
theportcityreview.com
126
127
P RO D UCE D B Y D ISTRI C T SAVAN N AH CO L L E G E O F ART A N D D ES I G N