OBSE RVER
DESIGN BY JOHN DOE, ART BY JANE DOE
TUFTS
ISSUE 3 VOL CLIII
TABLE OF
CONTENTS
2 LETTERS FROM THE EDITORS JUANITA ASAPOKHAI & WILLIAM ZHUANG 4 FIVE THREE-LINE NOVELLAS - ANDRES AREVALO 5 THIS IS CALLED DYING GROUND - IVI 6 BEDTIME ROUTINE - LAYLA NOOR LANDRUM 7 HANDPOKED - WILLIAM ZHUANG 10 THE PETTING ZOO - LIANI ASTACIO 12 TURNING OF THE SEASON - VERONICA HABASHY 13 SILLY/DANCING - QUINN KESSEL 14 FARWELL - ROHAN GANESAN 15 MOLDING - JESSICA KAMIN 19 TENDERLY - AMELIA MACAPIA 18 THE BURIED - STEWART JAMES 20 CLOSING MERIDIAN -TONY LI 21 ODE OF THE HOPELESS ROMANTIC - LAYLA NOOR LANDRUM 22 JANUARY- CHLOE CHENG 23 MY UNCLE, THE MAD INVENTOR - JENNIFER MAY 26 APOLOGIES TO MY EARLIER SELF - ADEN MALONE 27 BECOMING WINGS - MATILDA YUEYANG PENG 28 AQUARELLE - AMELIA MACAPIA COVER DESIGN BY INES WANG, COVER ART BY D GATEÑO
STAFF Editor-in-Chief Sabah Lokhandwala
Podcast Director Caitlin Duffy
Editor Emeritus Aroha Mackay
Publicity Director Millie Todd
Managing Editor Melanie Litwin
Publicity Team Sofia Valdebenito Ava Vander Louw Cecilia Wang Paulina Motta
Creative Directors Ines Wang Julia Steiner Feature Editors Emara Saez Hanna Bregman News Editors Rachel Dong Ryan Kim Arts & Culture Editors Layla Kennington Eden Weissman Opinion Editors Amanda Westlake Priyanka Sinha Campus Editors Claudia Aibel Ruby Goodman Poetry & Prose Editors William Zhuang Juanita Asapokhai Voices Editors Michelle Setiawan Sophie Fishman Creative Inset Carina Lo Art Directors Aidan Chang Uma Edulbehram
Staff Writers Leah Cohen Aden Malone Edith Philip Alexandra Ward Clara Davis Seun Adekunle Linda Kebichi Sofia Valdebenito Neya Krishnan Lily Feng Sarah Fung Billy Zeng Rohith Raman Anthony Davis-Pait Siona Wadhawan
Merry Jiao Liani Astacio Leo Deener Spencer Vernier
Audrey Njo Jianmeng Liu Heather Huang Mariana Porras
Podcast Noah DeYoung Grace Masiello Leo Sajkov Ayomikun Adeyanju Lauren Soherr Austin Karrat Emily Cheng Ethan Walsey Audrey Maloy Alice Fang
Designers Michael Yung Madison Clowes Angela Jang Hami Trinh Anastasia Glass Yimeng Lyu Jazzy Wu
Staff Artists Misha Mehta Amanda Lipari Maxson Emmeline Meyers D Gateño Olivia White
Contributors Bea Sanchez Chloe Cheng Jessica Kamin Rohan Ganesan Andres Arevalo Tony Li Layla Noor Landrum Matilda Yueyang Peng Ashley Jin Quinn Kessel Veronica Habashy Stewart James Ethan Leblanc Amelia Macapia
Lead Copy Editors Emilia Nathan Marco Pretell Copy Editors Ava Vander Louw Lucy Belknap Millie Todd Jack Rogen
DESIGN BY JULIA STEINER, PHOTO BY ETHAN LEBLANC, ART BY AUDREY NJO
C O L L IS I O N We could never hear the clashing of individual atoms, even if the whole world went silent. So in billions at once they come instead, to make sure we never miss the moment.
LETTERS FROM THE
POETRY & PROSE EDITORS
DEAR READER, I have a secret: the theme for the Tufts Observer fall 2022 creative issue was developed totally by accident. Towards the end of a long night of layout—the labor of love through which editors, writers, artists, and designers collaborate to produce the magazine—William, Michelle, and I struggled through a half-serious brainstorm session to find an idea that would pique the interest of writers. We took turns tossing out SAT vocab words, esoteric synonyms for common colors, and abstract concepts in other languages. At some point, in the background of our conversation, I overheard Ruby say the word “collision” from the opposite end of the room. Her voice broke through the chatter of the MAB Lab, where section editors pored over article drafts in animated discussion. Her delivery of the word felt like a punch to the gut; we had time to hear the word and consider its magnitude. Collision. There was a brief moment of silence, followed by William’s and my immediate celebration. We had found our theme—or rather, it had crashed into us. Like most people, I am terrified of motor vehicle accidents. I fear sudden stops and hard taps on my car bumper. T-bone wrecks are as frightening to me as scary movie villains. This fear manifests off the road, too. I generally dread confrontation with others and have historically avoided tough conversations until I physically can’t anymore, afraid that the aftermath will be as bad as a vehicular collision. What I truly fear is the unpredictability of my response to conflict and the negative reactions of the people around me—that is, where the pieces will fall once a collision has occurred. More recently, though, as my frontal lobe develops and my early 20’s usher in an era of rapid self-growth and maturity, I have discovered that the initial contact is only the beginning of the story. What I do with these pieces is where lessons are learned, and relationships are built, strengthened, and preserved. Poetry has remained an explosive, disruptive power throughout my life. I remember being 13 years old and reading Trevor by Ocean Vuong for the first time (published on Buzzfeed, of all places) and not being able to sleep, gripped by awe, and surprised by what I was feeling. Poetry has often been the tool I use to assemble the pieces of significant life events, through writing or reading it. Poetry is everywhere. I encounter it in my favorite song lyrics, the pieces of prose I edit, and in my conversations with friends, casually narrating their lives. I am honored to have the opportunity to read the work of the writers included in this magazine. I’m especially grateful for the crashes of sounds, images, experiences, and reflections contained in these pages. I hope they crash into and stay with you, as you grow and navigate the collisions in your own lives. With love, Juanita Asapokhai
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DEAR READER, I turned 20 a couple of weeks ago. As a matter of fact, the clock struck while I was sitting in the MAB Lab, bathing under the gray, hospital-esque lighting along with my fellow observers. If it wasn’t for Juanita’s punctual cheering, I definitely would have missed my yearly moment. Earlier that night, Julia brought in boxes of grocery-store mini cupcakes she called “perfectly mediocre,” and I sat cross-legged on the floor with Ines and Claudia, who were both turning 21, surrounded by the entire staff. Juanita found a paper straw in her bag, cutting it in three as a stand-in for the missing candles, and I attempted to suck the cake through the straw (only to get some icing, unfortunately). My mom flew in from California the next day. The last time we were able to celebrate together I had turned 15, barely a freshman in high school. Los Angeles is still three hours behind Boston, but at least we can now afford the luxury of not always being oceans apart. Her visit gave me a valid excuse to skip classes. I instead showed her around Davis Square and Tufts, trying to summarize for her the key points of my life here within one tour. She was last here in February, posing for pictures beside hills of hardened snow on Prez Lawn. And now she stopped in her tracks every other minute to stand under the trees’ reddened shades, capturing the flurry of falling leaves with her camera. That night, she took me and my friends out for dinner. As indecisive as I am, I settled on the restaurant weeks ago, a newly opened Chinese place called Haoshiguang in Allston. By some wild coincidence, it is owned by the family of Martin, my best friend from home. His family runs several restaurants back in our hometown, where my entire childhood friend group celebrated every one of our pre-teen birthdays before leaving home one by one for boarding schools abroad. So it felt like a kaleidoscope of time, finding myself at the same table with my mom and college friends at once, switching my tongue to translate between Mandarin and English, while sharing the exact dishes that define for me the familiarity and comfort of Qingdao, my beloved home. I’ve been told on numerous occasions that I like to compartmentalize. This is accurate, as I tend to deliberately keep my social groups separate from one another to avoid the dreaded moments of awkward intersections. This way, everything can always stay clean and simple! However, it turns out I should give way more credit to every case of beautiful, messy world collision that has been proving me wrong all along. At the Observer, we come from all corners of campus every other week to piece together collages of untold stories, clashing together into vibrant, lovely clusters of mess. Likewise, to see my American friends fight for the last piece of roasted pig foot while my mom chuckled at the scene was an image I had never dared to imagine, yet it made me feel fuller inside than ever before. Many thanks, William Zhuang
DESIGN BY JULIA STEINER, ART BY AIDAN CHANG
NOVEMBER 7, 2022 TUFTS OBSERVER 3
Five Three-Line Novellas By Andres Arevalo Bombarded amongst the crowd and photographers, Duchess Antonia was captured shedding tears leaving the premiere of “The Cloth Stuck in All His Lovers.” A bomb interrupted the appetizer of Magistrate Lombardi’s lunch on Saturday morning. The incident came two days after his edict to impose taxes on bread. Signior Ricci found Signora Ricci in bed with her lover. Signora Ricci’s lover found a Remington 700 rifle in his face. The landlord found a new hole in the apartment’s wall. Love. Unrest: After two days of protests the Fienza Polizia Prefect gave this address to his people, “Judge Innocenti has ruled, there will be no changes to the working hours.” Last Monday, Signior Rinaldi of Firenze hanged himself. Some say bankrupt, some say otherwise. The first responders found him when following the report of a stolen rope. Homage to Félix Fénéon
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DESIGN BY YIMENG LYU, ART BY LINDA KEBICHI
d n u o r g g n i y d d e l l a c this is by ivi
i. the body is an officer of death this daughter, ill-omened the art of war is an art of (silence) mouths unmade for sweetness and bitter words best swallowed there is no beautiful language we wage untitled wars ii. i am a creature of folklore neither filial nor daughter a daughter-shaped boy empress-born and dragon-bodied a dragon-shaped spearhead lovely, (like sin) iii. tell me how to love without surrender tell me how to love these bloodred scales and speak your wounds— fucking kiss them life is just different hurts one after another, the dragon, teeth to tail, and i am not a girl! i scream and you eye me (hungry) all the while
DESIGN BY YIMENG LYU, ART BY CARINA LO
NOVEMBER 7, 2022 TUFTS OBSERVER 5
FEATURE
bedtime routine By Layla Noor Landrum
1. walk into the bathroom barefoot 2. turn away from the mirror 3. pull your shirt over your shoulders & let your pants slide off your hips, unclasp your bra 4. don’t look a. don’t look b. don’t look 5. put on your pajama shirt, then your shorts, tie the waist tight a. make sure all your clothes are one size too big, let them become a room your body is lost in 6. open your eyes, adjust to the light slowly 7. breathe a. inhale, exhale, then inhale once again 8. turn around 9. look in the mirror, but don’t cry again a. it’s just a body, and we aren’t all born lovely 10. after it feels like too much, go to sleep 11. dream 12. and in the morning, forget
86 TUFTS TUFTS OBSERVEROBSERVER NOVEMBER 7, 2022 SEPTEMBER 28, 2020
DESIGN BY ANASTASIA GLASS, ART BY AIDAN CHANG
By William Zhuang Shave hair off pale skin Treat with MadaCide Wipe down every inch Free of germs and filth Body turned a canvas Saved for relics from dreams Too flimsy to be kept Against floods of earthly woes I feel the needle’s pinch Tracing down my ribs Trade for blooming aches Purity eternally inked That I could almost trust All pain safe and clean Briefly blissful even In a world of hurtful things
DESIGN BY HAMI TRINH, ART BY AUDREY NJO
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ART BY AUDREY NJO DESIGN BY CARINA LO
DESIGN BY JOHN DOE, ART BY JANE DOE
THE PETTING ZOO By Liani Astacio
“Look it’s you,” read the midday text I received from the boy I dated last summer. I scrolled up to see a picture of a doe in the fields behind his house, piercing the camera with its fixed, balmy gaze. My eyes widened at the tender creature on my screen, something I would never see in the hectic city where I grew up. I cherish the way I can be recognized as something so gentle and unassuming despite growing up always so brazenly assured of whatever thing or idea I was fixating on at the moment. It wasn’t until a conversation I had with one of my girl friends much later that I realized this text message was part of a furtive collection of uncomfortable moments I’ve experienced throughout my childhood. These moments always caught me by surprise, but I never dwelled on them much until I started stitching each memory together. My large brown eyes and allegedly melancholic expression are often the culprits of the animal comparisons. I can specifically recall my friend’s father speaking to me while taking us to middle school on the subway, “You’re like a lamb,” in reference to my curly hair, notable for its distinct size and shape. My dad was never quite as affectionate in his nicknames for me as my mom, being his second child and her only, but he would sometimes pat my head and say that I was a “good puppy.” It was admittedly odd, but my mom and I would just shrug, appreciative of the moments when he did decide to be affectionate. I’ve also gotten the odd comparison to a cat from some for my apparent “feline tendencies,” perhaps because of my sleep patterns, but more likely on account of me not being a man. After all, there’s a whole genre of greeting cards that represent cats as women and dogs as men. When I was really little, or what I like to call “half-baked,” the older generations of my family would call me Mimi, a slang term for a fly found in Puerto Rico. 10 TUFTS OBSERVER NOVEMBER 7, 2022
This was allegedly on account of my long fingers and disproportionately large feet and eyes as a newborn. All of the animals I’ve been compared to growing up would probably form a good petting zoo. Hell, if it existed, I might even pay for a ticket to such a zoo myself. I do love animals. Sheep, dogs, cats, and deer are easy to fawn over and are relatively low maintenance compared to people and many other animals, surviving off assortments of kibble and grass unless you run into a particularly picky eater. Sometimes I question if I should be honored to be seen as gentle as these animals. There’s a reason so many of them are kept as pets and featured in children’s animated films and TV shows as main characters (think Snow Buddies, the Fox and the Hound, Bambi I and II, or, my personal favorite, Shaun the Sheep). Except, to be frank, I just don’t get what they have to do with me. Steve Buscemi has large eyes, but I’ve never heard him compared to animals like that. I have been ascribed an innocence, submissiveness, and helplessness that often surprises me as a person who has taken the NYC Metropolitan Transportation Agency alone since I was 11 years old. I am quiet, yes, but I doubt I could find a family member that wouldn’t corroborate that I’m anything but a bit short of hellish. I could go on about my sometimes polarizing and unsolicited opinions, and I have been regularly challenging the adult men in my life starting from when I learned how to read. The messages I’ve gotten about myself throughout my coming of age confuse me even more. Am I more vulnerable than I think I am? “Get a backbone,” one of my fellow ninth-graders back in high school said to me in an encouraging yet condescending tone. She, the resident gossip of the school, wanted to help train me to act better and stronger in our complex girls’ school environment. It wasn’t uncommon
for me to be labeled as the quiet or meek one. Even my teachers would remark on their surprise when I performed on stage or when I gave a successful speech for student elections. Yet, in the same breath, speculations and comments on my sexuality swarmed amongst my peers. I was somehow perceived as someone who was not only weak, with little expression of my own agency, but also somehow confident enough to express sexuality, regardless of my own intentions of doing so. “You’re such a slut on Instagram,” a girl in the Crafts Center, who I only knew from pictures on acquaintances’ Instagram, once told me. How could someone allegedly “weak,”
“with no backbone,” and “doe-like” also be a “slut” at the same time? I became a projection of two seemingly different things simultaneously, creating a fictional image of myself I did not recognize. “You’re a seductress,” my ex-boyfriend jokingly remarked in reference to the relatively revealing outfits I wore in my posts online in the months after we broke up and my general choice to wear summerappropriate clothing. “You know how I feel about sundresses,” he said in response to
my attempt at a dressy-casual look for the job orientation that day. “You’ve got hoes” and “You are definitely a virgin” are among the bold speculations I have gotten from people I only know from my classes. I’ve even gotten the “I bet you are good at sex” from someone I barely knew. The fact of the matter is, being a white-skinned Caribbean Latina raised in the Catholic Church, I am provided the cover and privilege of presumed innocence, while also often being sexualized and fetishized enough to remain alluring to those I don’t share identities with. This is only compounded as my queerness becomes more and more evident to those around me. “You’re definitely a top,” or “You’re such a bottom,” or “You’re for sure DESIGN DOE, DESIGNBY BYJOHN JAZZY WU,ART ARTBY BYJANE BEA DOE SANCHEZ
more dominant,” people inside and outside the queer community have uttered. In due time, I was able to reflect on these experiences at university. In my sophomore year of college, I took a class called Tropical Fantasies, detailing the history of how the Caribbean has been portrayed and interacted with by its colonizers. Images of verdant and fruitful tropical rainforests—and “tropical women”—were encyclopedic knowledge for the white American man. Sometimes I wonder if I have become some sort of snow-inhabiting, tropical fantasy in others’ minds. I see myself being both valued and devalued for my alleged purity. “I wouldn’t have dated you if you got with that guy before we started,” the same ex said. At the same time, I find myself being admired for my body and the perception of my sexuality, regardless of my own desires and intentions: insert a tinder message from a man pondering on whether I’d make a “good sneaky link” or if I was “looking mad innocent” and fit for a “coffee date.” I constantly feel the gaze of other people waiting to see when I’ll make a mistake, to show a side of myself that confirms their beliefs about me and what
they hope I might be to them: a villain, a sex symbol, someone to save. Someone pure, someone sexy—and it’s alarming how those often are conjoined in the same sentences and thoughts. I have begun to melt easily into other people and what they want from me. The border between myself and the version constructed in the minds of my friends, peers, and strangers alike has dissolved over time especially as I came of age and into my perceived “womanhood.” Agency and self-determination, everything my ancestors have been fighting for since the US first colonized Puerto Rico, has become a personal micro-battle I have had to fight on my own for myself. I question whether or not to play up to the off-handed comments I’ve received over time in some self-serving reclamation act or if I should brush it off entirely. I also wonder, at the same time, if I should spend time making my own borders and boundaries for myself. I am still wondering how to stop asking for permission.
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FEATURE
o f g t h n i e se a n r u T so By Veronica Habashy
n is the sweet caramel wail of a cello, not quite in this hallway but maybe on the second floor. Heavy step on my way to cast my laundry into the pond cradled by the mum beds— they are heavy with dew and yesterday’s rain I leave them kisses— in the hopes that I might learn something about the warmth of me from the cold as it braces my hips once I re-dress. (The trip home is longer, everything is heavy) is the collision of teeth, yellowing with guilt. Elbows growing sorer and sorer and smelling of the orange peels left creased in half. A narrow pile on the table. A chest swelling with too much to say about the way the sunlight enters the room and slams the door behind it. I don’t tell my mother most things and surely not this. I am sure she would scowl— sprinkle my knuckles with rouge— if she heard I was disappointed with one of God’s gifts. Turning of the season is rejoicing at little deaths collecting them for pressing this Wednesday night finding a heart in the little green which remains at the center beside the veins, not ready to go and wishing to taste this year’s first persimmons. Mourning each day and the birds who cannot see so well in the dark earlier and earlier.
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FEATURE
silly/dancing By Quinn Kessel
‘paticas bloom on the pirra-pets don’t worry if you don’t know how to pirouette it’s wet inside watch your step but i do think we… have already met? beget i think by lilies silly / dancing i think it’s chilly prancing antsy just waiting for the chance we can’t answer cause I don’t weep for just anyone I meet
DESIGN BY MICHAEL YUNG, ART BY ASHLEY JIN
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Farewell By Rohan Ganesan I pierced my heart with a broken pen to write sanguine words on tear-soaked paper.
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DESIGN BY ANASTASIA GLASS, ART BY UMA EDULBEHRAM
Molding By Jessica Kamin
I can see the way my bones and ligaments ripple when I make a fist. I’m made up of dots and lines and dry skin and it scares me. I’m a piece of paper wrinkling at the edges, easily cut, burnt, or ripped. My philosophy professor rattles on about how we are all the benign bomber while I roll my eyes and manipulate my flimsy limbs. Day in, day out, I’m reminded I’m the benign bomber. I disagree. I don’t disagree at all. I’m sitting outside with Michaela and that is enough. “In two weeks we’ll fly again, perhaps a Chinese dinner then…”1 Now good night suite, whatever state people are in, and the squeaky bathroom door, good night googly eyes from across the way, thanks for watching over me. A new friend told me birth is a promise and death is its fulfillment. He said, “Birth is a promise…” yada yada yada, and I said, “Sandro, you may be right, but death is also a celebration, but the victory of time and we’re the losers.” And we looked at each other and smiled, and he puffed away on his cigarette that doesn’t make him feel anything anymore. And everything’s the fulfillment, I’m thinking to myself now. Should have flicked the cigarette right out of his hands. It was a lovely day after all. And there’s too much left to fulfill. 1 A line from the author’s note of All the Bright Places by Jennifer Niven
DESIGN BY MADISON CLOWES, ART BY UMA EDULBEHRAM
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LEFT: ART BY DANIELA STEINBERG RIGHT: ART BY AIDAN CHANG
The Buried By Stewart James
ῥιζοῦσθαι1 the snag avows in winter, bare neath the limelight, withdraws and germinates into the vast Plutonian clay: weaving, folding, waiting. As blind machines sink into the bowels of convictions— feasting to excrete, wresting the breath that sprouts and rotting gardens to come— see the buried, digesting earth into humus for the next age: they who know not yet what they are.
1 rhizousthai: “take root” in Ancient Greek and among the earliest origins of the English rhizome
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I did not ask for the elegiac lament Of amorous longings or immutable learnings For who am I to know the contours and claws tearing the comforter, Dizzy dancing dissolves my breath I lean into the balcony’s edge Rocked by your fables Tenderly, tenderly.
Tenderly By Amelia Macapia
The remorse of Aeneas’ oath, sickly sweet Shared bath towels bloom in hooked corners Chamomile and sacrament I hear the sentiment You said you meant— You said you meant— Amidst cologne pillows I drowse in cumulus restlessness Unspeaking kisses in unmade bedrooms Silent movie dreams chain ivory to horn Lovingly, lovingly. Dido, storm-tossed, cradles me I lean into the balcony’s edge, tremblingly Ensnared in judicial judgments Have I come too late? And who am I to adjudicate I heard the claws ring on kitchen tile-ways. I woke and went for a walk Past the stadium lights Past the moon waxing warm Past the little alabaster statues Past a lost journal found Past broken bridges, roadblocks This sign means stop Only why don’t you know, why don’t you?
DESIGN BY HAMI TRINH, ART BY ETHAN LEBLANC
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closing meridian By Tony Li eclipse on the lake unravels purple ripples shadows dance in frozen wounds painted rocks mossed with fear guard eaten words of former children before me— seraphim mourning light behind me— a thousand black blossoms
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ode of the hopeless romantic ode of the hopeless romantic By Layla Noor Landrum
i want to be loved without asking for it. i have been starving for the taste since i was born. my parents made my body a black hole— always reaching. never close. i look at the stars & ache for them. want to pull them from the sky & swallow them whole. i was not raised for wanting. it frightens me, my desire. it is bigger than any room. i may have grown into violence, but i can love gently, become a revelation with my lips on another girl’s mouth. watch her sleep & let myself dream of a love that feels like a heavenly body. a love that goes straight through me, like a beam of light.
DESIGN BY ANGELA JANG, PHOTO BY ANTHONY DAVIS-PAIT, ART BY UMA EDULBEHRAM
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January By Chloe Cheng
January walking home from your cul-de-sac in the dark When you asked me to dance I said nothing but took your hand anyway The flash of your camera against my eyelids heat still burned in my retinas I swayed along to silence in your arms but not for any reason you’d have liked Marigold glow on your skin embedded with goosebumps and my torn up thighs in hardware store rope Your perspiration in my lungs I’ve suffocated for you Do you still work at that coffee shop? Are you still angry at me? On cool nights my pillow feels like your chest and I wonder why you haven’t left me yet
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DESIGN BY MADISON CLOWES, PHOTO BY JACK ROGEN
My Uncle, The Mad Inventor By Jennifer May
He told it well, his joke: 15 cups a day! he swore You do not drink 15 cups a day! I do too! We laughed and he smiled, looked around the room happily. He has succeeded. He is alright. I find him alone in the kitchen. Heavy breathing, he paces Back and forth, back and forth, And looks up with wild eyes When he notices I’ve come in. I know what he will do next. He will tell me his ideas, His business propositions, A company that will revolutionize the world! An invention that will solve all our problems! And what do you think of it? I could’ve walked out, Could’ve made an excuse, But I stay for some reason To hear him through. What do I think? I know I must lie and tell him it’s great Because he will never know otherwise. He is fifty years old, after all, no longer a child, But he waits for my response With a child’s anticipation I hear myself chatter, as I do with most people, But he listens to every word And I do not know why they matter so much to him. He reaches for a glass and the porcelain shatters Falling, falling From his shaking fingers, bloated and slippery with sweat, And he curses, DamnitDamnitDamnit It’s alright? Right? Right? He brushes the pieces aside, for he mustn’t be caught, As The Destructor The Animal The Klutz shhh shhh shhh a secret it will be that he is broken.
DESIGN BY MADISON CLOWES, ART BY AIDAN CHANG
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ART BY DANIELA STEINBERG
ART BY UMA EDULBEHRAM
Apologies to my Earlier Self
By Aden Malone
The following is a poem I wrote the day after I witnessed my classmate get hit by a car. It was the end of sixth grade. It’s one of those flashbulb memories I can’t quite forget. I feel bad for my 12-year-old self, even though I was physically okay. I remember watching it all unfold, being one of the first to cross the street and see if he was alright. He ended up getting over a dozen broken bones, several of which were in his face. He turned out okay though; we sat a few seats over from each other at graduation. The Collision - June 2014 Seeing it happen In front of your eyes You can see him fly, But not like a bird; He falls to the ground. Paralyzed. You pray for help— Good thing it comes— Because you’re shocked, You can’t believe it. You’re: Paralyzed. I would like to apologize to my self from that day and the days after: You went home that day after talking to the cops, having told them what you saw. You had never spoken to the police before. You were at that age where you could only sort of do things without your parents—so that was especially stressful—but I’m sure you helped them as much as you could. I don’t remember if you cried that day. You decided to write a few poems to cope, and they’re actually not that bad. I would say that’s a pretty dweeby coping mechanism, but I’m the one writing poetry for a college publication. It’s funny how those poems went from being unread for years to being published. Writing had been almost a chore until that day, and since then I’ve seen it differently. It teaches me about the real world, lets me imagine new worlds, and lets me think about my own world, my own mind. It might actually be the ultimate coping mechanism. I’m sorry you went through that, but I’m impressed that you realized the power writing holds at such a young age. We’re even in a position now where this isn’t just for yourself, but for others to read as well—your thoughts, my thoughts.
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DESIGN BY ANASTASIA GLASS, ART BY CARINA LO
Becoming Wings
By Matilda Yueyang Peng
Will you pass me that pair of fairy wings? I do need them for my nightly wandering; I was put in bed under the covers while the television played between my grandfather’s snoring. How could I shut down my ears, or trade them for more visuality. Sleep now, I heard someone say, but my eyes were so energetic they would not keep the curtains shut. I started wondering while the conversations began to dim. With my wings, I went far and far away. The stars were put out, and the moon, drinking tea, still could not keep her eyes bright and seen, while I, virtuous and sweet, overheard the lullabying of the trees. I traveled further and broader with dizzying illumination and saw my father in the overly bright laboratory, falling deeper and deeper asleep in his distorting arms. His hair reflected a halo. He was a shadowless individual about to become brittle under speculation of blinding lab lights. I wanted to turn it all off, to leave peace and agog darkness with my psychokinetic abilities. I remembered that I didn’t have any, but only frowned and frowned, and pierced my reddening eyes with the killer lights. Grandpa was startled awake. Someone started yelling on the screen.
DESIGN BY ANGELA JANG
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By Amelia Macapia Foam-lipped bivalves weave byssus threads Like calloused hands oysters deposit Decked in velvet coolness, Tongue curls back to robe the mouth Squeezing from shrouded sands Sickle bending, enameled eddying Nocturnal plains of diamond diligence roll In bruised crooks the sound of metal surged softly backward Struck Cold water rushes in Ligaments flicker, shiver Tendons tense, snap Friction-lanced skin, thrown wide Steel unsaddled Now light and marrow Eyes sink back into empty jam jar sockets Repose in limpid liquefaction Lapping waves lull Tempest terminus Through the running tide and distant deeps Silver fish spring in serried ranks Resist the billows and the sky
28 TUFTS OBSERVER NOVEMBER 7, 2022
DESIGN BY JAZZY WU, ART BY ANTHONY DAVIS-PAIT
“my friend thinks you’re bad” (@ the sink)
