Synecdoche 2020

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SYNECDOCHE VOLUME 17 Literary Journal of Vanguard University

suh·nek·duh·kee: (n) a figure of speech in which a part is made to represent the whole

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COPYRIGHT 2020 Synecdoche Literary Journal of Vanguard University is a trademark used herein.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopy, recording, taping, web distribution, information networks or information storage and retrieval systems--- without the written permission of Synecdoche Literary Journal of Vanguard University.

Contact Information Vanguard University English Department (714) 556-3610 ext. 2500 Cover Design by Megan Jarvis 2

Editor’s Letter Ashley Collins

The first time I told someone, other than my mother, that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up, their eyebrows shot up, they nodded their head quickly and said, “Oh.” As I told others over the years, I would get the same response but in variations. Sometimes the “Oh” was drawn out with a feigned interest or an apathetic concern lingering in the inflection. Sometimes the “Oh” was short, as if my dream was too ridiculous to spend time discussing or refuting. Other times they would laugh out the “Oh,” looking to me and then to my mother, as if my mother would quickly laugh in disbelief with them. Little did they know that my mother took my dreams very seriously and would, without hesitation, start listing off all the things I had already accomplished at the age of eight.

As I got older, I began to understand why people were so dubious or dismissive of my career aspirations. People heard “writer” and would equate it to someone living in their retired parents’ basement and perhaps, eventually, developing a serious drinking problem. Most of my peers thought I was silly; some would wave me off politely or overuse the word “cool” when I talked about my future goals. One friend immediately asked me how I expected to eat with my inevitably low income. It didn’t help that in addition to their skepticism over my potential writing career, they hardly knew of any black women writers; as far as they were concerned, the odds weren’t really in my favor.

All of these demeaning reactions would lead me to doubt this dream of mine until I realized one day that in some ways the naysayers were right. It was a waste of time to want to be a writer because I already was a writer; it was in my blood.

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I discovered that in today’s world, many have forgotten the power of writing; “to write” has become an academic task for children to learn in school rather than a creative muscle to strengthen.

Writing has become a requirement, a prerequisite, a new norm expected for all citizens to learn in order to survive; many forgetting that “to write” was once a great privilege— a privilege that was once withheld from people because of the color of their skin and before that, withheld from anyone who wasn’t of “noble standing.” Writing was a privilege. Writing is a privilege. And no matter how many times people try to deter me from this privilege, they don’t realize that they, too, are deterring themselves. They are depriving themselves of the transforming power that can only come from writing.

Writing is a part of all that we do; we write emails and social media posts, notes and journal entries, lists and speeches. There’s not a day that we don’t write something. The goal isn’t to make a lot of money or become some glorified celebrity.

Though fame might be a benefit, it’s not the reason why people write. When we’re asked to write academic papers, most of us believe that our professors are trying to make our lives miserable, but we’re asked to write so we can practice forming and delivering our thoughts. Some of us write poems, draw works of art, or practice photography and we do it as a means of vulnerability, a way to express our inner dialogue. Others of us craft made-up worlds, create elaborate characters, and plant our real experiences in the center of our fiction.

Writing is informational, it’s vulnerable, it’s transformative and inspiring; there aren’t any borders or limitations, writing is free. It’s the reason why I continue to write every day despite the negative Nancys of the world and why I no longer roll my eyes any time my mother lists all of the things I have 4

accomplished at the age of 22. It’s also why Synecdoche is my favorite accomplishment because it holds all of the scholarly, creative, and artistic pieces of the students who make up Vanguard. It holds snippets of our creativity and beautiful pieces that display our shared human experience. It recognizes and honors the value of self-expression. The pages of this journal do not discriminate on the basis of race, color, religion, national origin, sex, age, or disability. The contributors of this volume are diverse in nature and we all stand tall in our greatest privilege to be exactly who we are: artists, photographers, and writers.

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Acknowledgements A big thank you to Professor Doody, Dr. Hatch, Dr. Russum, and Professor Preasmyer for their continuous help and dedication to the English Department. Thank you for engaging us in class discussions concerning the best writers in history and workshops dedicated to expanding our creative palette. Thank you for shaping us into the writers we are today.

Also, thank you to the talented Megan Jarvis, who designed our book cover.

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Table of Contents Emilie G. Bakker. down the canal.................................................................................9 Isabella Perez. Be Still.............................................................................................10 Megan V. Luebberman. A Simple Thirst....................................................................11 Jess Van Winkle. Views from Hwy 395.......................................................................16 Elijah Lemna. What Classic Rock Taught Me About Mone.................................17 Noelle Roth. Run Away With Me.........................................................................19 Lauren Turner. Room Forty-Seven.......................................................................20 Lauren Pohl. Just Walk..........................................................................................23 Myrna Alcantar. Human........................................................................................24 Samantha Noel Depue. Don’t Blink or You’ll Miss It.......................................25 Jackie Gutierrez. A Walk Down L Street.............................................................39 Chloe Noelle. Ghosts Alive....................................................................................40 Samuel Huff. escape................................................................................................42 Chloe Noelle. airplanes..........................................................................................43 Marielisa Sandra Hallam Armendariz. Superstition.....................................44 Noah Stecker. Abandoned Beach..........................................................................49 Elijah Lemna. The Agreement...............................................................................50 Emily Anne Cookes. Magnolia Blossoms............................................................51 Kayla Rose Higgins. Joy comes in the mourning...............................................54 J. Luke Herman. The Key to the Garden..............................................................55 Rickie Farnes. Poetry...............................................................................................57 Idalis Moscoso. Initiation Night...........................................................................58 Justin D. Reed. Big Bear Lake Sunset....................................................................62 Rickie Farnes. Wildflowers....................................................................................63 Eduardo Lucas-Lebron. Lovely Tree..................................................................64 Lauren Turner. Drowning in “Friends”................................................................65 Corena Lentz In Her Heart...................................................................................70 Venus Calangian. My Papa...................................................................................71 Ket Barr. Walls..........................................................................................................72 Jackie Gutierrez. Life In the Light.........................................................................75

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Idalis Moscoso. The Yemen Crisis........................................................................76 Kelly Pozil. Kobe and Gigi Bryant..........................................................................91 Rickie Farnes. Blueberry Picking..........................................................................92 Rachel Silverio. Mary...........................................................................................94 Samantha Noel Depue. If I could be anywhere, I would be here..................95 Rickie Farnes. On the Island of Lesvos................................................................96 Justin D. Reed. New Year City Motion.................................................................98 Corena Lentz. No More Training Wheels...........................................................99 J. Luke Herman. The Queen of Ravens.............................................................105 Emily Brown. prism no. 3.....................................................................................106 Asia Marie Collins. And Otherworldly Affliction............................................107 Emilie G. Bakker. on the streets of barcelona.....................................................112 Elijah Lemna. Romans 8:18...................................................................................113 Anonymous. In the Laughter...............................................................................114 Kristian Davis Jr. Pathway to Snow....................................................................117 Lauren Pohl. It Keeps Going.................................................................................118 Kelly Pozil. Two Girls Linking Arms....................................................................120 Kaleigh Lawrence. Women’s Inclusion in the Church.....................................121 Isaiah Nuño. Your Name......................................................................................132 Kinsey Roehr. Rockwell Snowfall........................................................................133 Ashley Collins. Three Years.................................................................................134 Rachel Silverio. Not Easy....................................................................................139 Eduardo Lucas-Lebron. Outside the Garden..................................................140 Ket Barr. The Case of Johnny Depp....................................................................141 Jackie Gutierrez. The Drive.................................................................................144 Kira Joybird. Feel....................................................................................................145 Gabby Valladares. Skógafoss in August.............................................................146 Elijah Lemna. Baptism...........................................................................................147 Eliza Beth. Gritos.....................................................................................................155 Jess Van Winkle. June..........................................................................................159

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down the canal Emilie G. Bakker

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Be Still

Isabella Perez I wish I could stay here in this moment.

Where the sun is always shining, and a breeze is always gliding.

Where my thoughts fade, and my soul stays.

I wish I could be this still forever.

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A Simple Thirst Megan V. Luebberman

The morning had been slightly sunny thus far with sparse clouds, but most could sense a storm coming with the increasing pressure. The atmosphere had gradually grown colder, chilling everything all around. In the garden, most relied on the sun for survival— waking up to the regenerative warmth each day. The bees first buzz to life the moment they are warm while the lizards tan before becoming active. The squirrels nesting in the tree chitter at one another as soon as they wake up in the morning, and the birds chirp along at the same time. Even the butterflies sat as solar panels, warming their wings for flight before a day’s work.

All of this is silenced when the temperature is sensed. The imminent storm looms over the entire garden, hanging like the sword of Damocles threateningly. A majority know to stay hidden, concealed from the usually busy garden. The bees, determined to work, shiver together to collect heat and join their Queen in the task of foraging food before they must return to the shelter of the hive, and the birds continue to find things to eat scattered around or elsewhere. The lizards stay within the wood piles, where the plant growth is thick, and watch with darting eyes. All of the butterflies, save for one, were either clinging to the undersides of leaves or hiding in the rock piles around the ground.

When the wind began to pick up, more were driven to seek sanctuary somewhere. The cold limited the movement of some, making it hard to take flight. Dried leaves were stirred around and across the grassy floor, swirling in miniature whirlpools of wind here and there. The “welcome to my garden” sign hanging 11

on the white paned house swayed back and forth on the two bolts that had it fastened there and the tall grass beat on the side of the wall below it. The butterflies were rocked back and forth on the underside of the leaves they clung to, but their grips were tight and didn’t give way.

The sky grew darker all at once as clouds grew together out of seemingly nothing to block any light that shone down upon them. The rain began softly at first, with light streaks of water dripping down, but soon grew violent. The water beat the ground with such force; it was as if it acted out of anger. The dirt was saturated until it was slick mud that ran in a stream to lower ground.

If the butterflies happened to land in it at that point, they would be stuck in the sticky tar-like mess for good.

One butterfly, one lone butterfly, was not clinging to leaves or hiding in the shelter of rocks. She was out flying, miraculously, with the little amount of heat her body had retained overnight.

Her sisters on the leaves saw her dodging the soft rain to begin with and silently sent a prayer for rare luck on her part. She was stiff with the cold but desperate for a sweet drink of nectar from any source. Her thirst was dizzying, and it led to the decision to venture out when she knew a storm was almost upon them.

Most raindrops, to begin with, missed her entirely. One brushed the side of her right-wing, and even at a small volume, it was extremely heavy for a few minutes. She was able to lose the water after many flaps of her wings, and then she promptly landed on the tip of a drooping flower. The swaying of the flower didn’t perturb her too much; the desire for a sip was too distracting. She unfurled her proboscis and sucked up the syrup of the plant with furious speed. Then the butterfly, exhausted from all she had 12

done, sat on the flower for several minutes more.

She only noticed the sudden increase in raindrops when one particularly heavy one plopped onto the flower she was resting on and practically flung her off of it. She then immediately took flight, with hardly any warmth left in her body at all, and fluttered as best she could in search of a place to stay. The hanging leaves and stones were far from where the patch of flowers she visited was, and she didn’t have time to fly that distance.

The strong currents of wind were pushing her every which way, her small body nothing more than a feather floating aimlessly about. Still, she tried to steer towards any kind of cover from the pelting sky, straining her fragile wings against it all. When the first heavy water drop hit her, she was knocked down a few feet, barely able to stay in the sky. When the second drop hit, she was thrown to the ground completely.

The dirt sludge on the ground was what she landed in, and it held her still as the sky continued to rain down on her. She was completely consumed by the water and mud, unable to escape— suffocated from an excess of liquid. Her wings pinned down, never to fly again. Her proboscis to never taste that sweet juice of life again. And her, to never see the light of day again.

Everyone else was safe; everyone else was protected. When the sun came out and dried the ground, so did the butterflies. They saw, from the air, one of their own, feet fossilized in the mud, wings soaked and ripped from the force of it all. Then, they flew on to the flowers and fallen fruit to drink the sweet tastes of nature.

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The squirrels and birds began with the noise making again, singing their songs and proclaiming to the world whatever it is they had to say. The bees hummed again, and the lizards crawled out to see how their land had been changed by all the rain. Everything was pretty much the same.

From the house, there came a noise that drowned out all the other soft ones that went unnoticed. The slam of the backdoor scared off several of the lizards, as did the stomping of a pair of small feet on the concrete steps leading down to the garden.

“I just want to look at the garden!” A little girl still in bright blue galoshes called back behind her through the door.

The girl picked up a long jagged stick that was lying on the ground and swung it with her as she walked. When she reached the patch of flowers she loved to look at, and occasionally pick, there was something on the ground that caught her eye.

A bright spot of orange was amid all the crusty brown mud that had been created from the rainstorm. The girl bent down to got a closer look and saw the majestic monarch butterfly that was ensconced there.

The butterfly’s vibrant orange was beautiful, outlined by black lines, which accentuated the vivid color even more. All around the edges of the wings were little specks of white as well, like small freckles scattered around one’s face. These little details were adored by the little girl, but she was puzzled as to why it was so still.

“Mom! I think I found a--” She stopped mid-sentence, and when 14

the butterfly didn’t react to being prodded with a stick, the little girl concluded something. “Oh.� She said quietly to herself.

She broke the stick in half and stuck it into the dried muck surrounding the fallen creature to serve as markers, warding off any who dared trespass. Then the little girl straightened up again and scrutinized the rest of the garden. The roof drain above her was dripping rhythmically down the last of the storm, and she looked up to the quiet noise. One drop fell and streaked down her cheek in a way that resembled a tear, but she brushed it off immediately.

Biting her lower lip subconsciously, she moved to go inside but turned back to catch a glimpse of the bright orange once more.

The tattered wings had held their shimmering glean as the sun warmed them, never the wiser, and the coiled proboscis still had remnants of the drink that was so desperately pursued by its owner. The delicate butterfly stood out among all the dark muck, crystallized in that moment forevermore.

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Views from Hwy 395 Jess Van Winkle

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What Classic Rock Taught Me About Money Elijah Lemna

“I don’t care too much for money.”

Money doesn’t buy happiness.

But back then, I was too young to know; I used to believe that money could grow.

They say you reap what you sow, so I planted hope instead of woe.

I’d be a rockstar, rich and famous.

Then there would never be another worry about money.

“Go on, take the money, and run.”

That’s the song that was stuck in my head all throughout middle school.

Because that’s what he did.

We moved away from my house and my friends to a house with more rooms than we needed.

Greed was seeded.

Then my mom lost her job, her money; he was an unhealthy honey anyway.

“Money, it’s a gas.”

Grasping at what isn’t there is something my family seems to be good at.

Somehow we always make it; I don’t doubt it’s God, even though I used to.

This was something I thought I’d never get through.

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No home for ourselves was hard, bringing home no bacon left my man’s ego marred.

“Money can’t buy me love.”

That’s why I have a tattoo of a boxer, wearing his gloves; No matter how hard life can push you down you are protected by the one wearing a thorny crown.

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Run Away With Me Noelle Roth

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Room Forty-Seven Lauren Turner

Evelyn rushes through busy corridors, clipboard in hand, nodding to acquaintances as she passes by. She nervously fiddles with the stethoscope around her neck.

She pushes through the crowd and catches up to Sister Ann, who holds the door open to the stairwell. She murmurs a quick thank you as they begin to climb the concrete steps.

Sister Ann gives Evelyn the daily updates. “Whole new floor of patients arrived this morning. Trucks brought them in at four AM. Heard it was a bomb.” Evelyn finds herself struggling to keep up with her co worker’s fast pace from how quickly she speaks, to how she skips every other step on the stairs.

Muttering under breath, Sister Ann grumbles about how she wishes this blasted war could be over already. Evelyn stays silent but nods her head in agreement.

Upon their arrival on the fourth floor, a frazzled doctor waves Evelyn over, handing her a mess of papers close to a meter tall.

“Get these patient evaluation forms filled out by the end of the hour. Start with the rooms at the end of the hall and work your way back.”

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She jots down the number to the first room on her trip room forty-seven onto the form as she makes her way to the end of the hall in a timely manner. This is just the way things are done around here; there’s no room for error and no time to

waste.

Before entering the room, Evelyn fondles the small, gold locket that hangs from her neck. She instinctively opens it to study the faded photograph of a young man in a uniform, smiling warmly. Fighting back her rising emotions, she enters.

This particular ward seems more cramped than the others.

There are ten or so beds on both sides of the room, each holding an injured soldier. Evelyn approaches the first cot, her linen skirt, making a crisp sound as she walks. A rough-looking man with dark features and a thick beard looks up at her, dirt and blood plastering his face.

“Hello, sir, how are you this morning?” Evelyn starts.

“How do you think I am, lady?”

Even though she greets him with a gentle tone, she is met with his harsh, unwelcoming demeanor. She does her best to ignore it, copying down the patient’s identification number, 5207.

Moving forward with the evaluation, Evelyn asks Patient 5207 about the extent of his injuries.

He gives Evelyn a look of the utmost annoyance, replying gruffly, “Look, all I know is that I was in the trench with the others when the eggs dropped. Next thing, I’m here, in a jampacked hospital with no booze. I feel terrible, and you sure aren’t helping me.”

“Mind your manners in front of the lady,” the patient a few cots down, pipes up. “I mean, she’s a nun for Pete’s sake. Show 21

some respect.”

“Oh, roll your flaps,” Patient 5207 retorts.

“I’m a postulant, actually,” Evelyn corrects, “but if we can please move on with your evaluation.”

The two men ignore her request as they go at it, hurling insults back and forth, commencing a match of verbal sparring. All she wants is to move on with the evaluation so she can make it through another day. Evelyn is nearly at her wit’s end. This day has been hard enough as it is, and she’s not sure she has the emotional capacity to handle such a situation.

“Oh, leave it alone, won’t you,” someone calls out over the arguing, coming to Evelyn’s rescue and not a moment too soon.

Evelyn can’t help but recognize the voice. Glancing over, she locks eyes with the man who spoke up and is surprised to find a familiar face. Racing to his side, her clipboard clattering to the floor, she clutches his hand in hers. Words fail as she sinks to her knees and sobs. He hasn’t changed at all, not in all these years, other than a bandage hastily wrapped around his head, right above the kind eyes she’s missed more than words could ever express.

The man yanks his hand away from her grasp, taken aback.

“Excuse me, miss? Can I help you with something?”

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Just Walk Lauren Pohl

One step.

Wobble.

Two step.

Stumble.

Knees.

Get up.

Stable.

Fear. Anxiety.

Paralyzed.

Sit.

Sink.

Sigh.

Wait.

Nothing. Dissatisfaction.

Fumble to knees.

All fours.

Foolish. Useless.

Wobble.

Two feet. Firm.

Tipping—one step.

Two—shuffle.

Cautious, timid.

Three—better.

Four—bold, big.

Five—leap,

Crash.

Sit. Wait.

All fours.

“Just Walk.”

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Human

Myrna Alcantar

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Don’t Blink or You’ll Miss It Samantha Noel Depue

“Don’t blink or you’ll miss it,” said Dalton’s uncle after we told him of our weekend plans to visit Solvang. I rolled my eyes, and Dalton shrugged it off. Solvang was no Hawaii or New York, but it was relatively close and relatively affordable.

“I’m not worried. We’re going to have a lot of fun. Sam planned a bunch of fun things for us to do,” he said as he rubbed his hand on my back.

In a way, Dalton’s uncle was the one who got us together. In 2014, I went to the river with Dalton’s aunt, uncle, and cousins as I played volleyball and was close friends with one of his cousins. Dalton’s family has a house on the river, so through my friendship with his cousin, we met on the water.

It was when we all took the boat on to the water that Dalton’s uncle asked me, “Hey, Sam. Dalton’s a good-looking guy, isn’t he?” as he motioned toward Dalton, who was standing within earshot.

I, completely embarrassed at the question, said, “No,” even though that wasn’t true. Dalton is three years older than me, and at the time, seemed too cool for me.

It took me a while, but two years later, I asked Dalton’s cousin for his number. Come this October, we will have been together for six years. These days he’s standing up for me from his uncle’s snide remarks, and to think, I said he wasn’t good-looking.

We left at 6 a.m. the following morning for the Danish town of Solvang. Dalton and I had never been before. Well, according to my dad, I went there when I was a baby, but I have no memory of it. It might as well have been my first time.

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We hopped on the highway with bags under our eyes and coffee mugs in hand. I drove my Hyundai Elantra since Dalton’s Ford Ranger gets 12 miles to the gallon, and mine gets 38. Needless to say, I’m the one who does all the driving. We left Corona and took the 71, to the 210, to the CA-134, all with the help of my iPhone Maps; without it, we would’ve never left home. My navigation skills are subpar at best.

After a good 20 miles, I looked down at my trusty Maps, trying to figure out where to go next. Dalton, noticing my struggle, read, “In 14 miles continue onto the 101 North.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I got it,” knowing full well that I don’t actually “got it.”

When we finally reached the 154, Siri said, “Stay on the 154 for 88 miles.” I tossed my phone into the cup holder.

“I guess I won’t be needing that for a while.” Dalton smirked.

He hated that I never knew where I was going, but I don’t have an internal map like him. He always tells me, ‘North is the mountains, South is the ocean, blah, blah, blah.’ After almost five years of hearing that same line, I still have no clue what direction I am going.

We drove on the 154 for nearly ninety miles with little conversation between us. I liked the quiet. I liked to have the music playing low, and the windows cracked, and all I can hear is the sound of cars passing me by. Dalton is similar in that he loves to have the windows down, and he doesn’t mind the silence. Normally, he’s the most talkative guy in the room, but with me, he doesn’t mind the calming quiet. Every once in awhile, he’d point out something interesting.

“That right there is Santa Barbara Island, and the big one to the right is the Channel Islands.” On the 154 is when he sat up out of his seat, rolled the window all the way down, and squeezed my leg.

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“Check it out, babe. It’s Lake Cachuma! Wow! It’s so full from all the rain. Look at all the boats fishing.” He let out a grunt. “I wish I would have brought my fishing pole.”

“We’ll come up another time. It’s not like it’s going anywhere.” I took one of my hands off the wheel and squeezed his shoulder.

A few miles down the road, we took a hard left onto Stagecoach Drive. We followed that road until there was a fork, took a right, then followed that road for another mile or two.

There, we came upon Cold Springs Tavern, one of the best eateries in all of Southern California, or so I’ve heard. My dad recommended it to me the night before we left.

Cold Springs Tavern is a tiny restaurant nestled into the mountains of Santa Barbara. It is the epitome of an off-thebeaten-path but is a popular spot for those headed to places like Solvang. From 1861 to 1901, the tavern was a highly trafficked route for Stagecoaches. The tavern, covered in leaves and moss, lies next to a small creek, and next to the creek, there is a small historical plaque. Dalton and I stopped to read it after parking right next to the creek.

“Highwaymen seeking to capture the Wells Fargo box, mail and passengers’ belongings, often punctuated the journey, but good food always awaited the travelers.”

Walking in, we were immediately met by antique lantern light fixtures, a warm fire in the stone fireplace, and the smell of good food. Dalton ordered the classic eggs, potatoes, and thick-cut bacon and I ordered a stack of blueberry pancakes, with a side of biscuits and gravy. The walls of the tavern were lined with old artwork and homey signs. One of which read, “sitting on your a** won’t get you anywhere,” with a drawing of a man on a donkey. The homey, rustic feel is what really made this place, not to mention the food, which had been 27

perfected in the century that this place had been open. Dalton and I shared the biscuits and gravy, which consisted of freshly made flaky biscuits that melted in our mouths. The rest of our meal was the best breakfast either of us ever had: homey food, the warmth of the fireplace, and the best company I could ask for. We left with beyond full stomachs and happy hearts. We thought about even coming back on our way home Sunday for their famous tri-tip steak sandwiches.

From Cold Springs Tavern, it’s only a 30-minute drive to Solvang. We sat in silence as our stomachs grumbled at us for eating too much. In what seemed like just a few minutes, we made it. The roads were packed with tourists, eager to experience the picturesque Danish town, and we were two of them.

I myself am Dutch, and quite frankly, there isn’t much of a difference between the two. Cut and dry, Danish people come from Denmark, and Dutch people come from the Netherlands. These two countries reside right next to each other and are both considered topographically flat, and nationally peaceful. Additionally, both countries speak similar Germanic languages, are filled with blonde hair, blue-eyed people, and rely heavily on wind power.

So, for the first time, I was going to experience something similar to the culture my ancestors grew up in. Solvang was founded in 1911 on land surrounding the Old Mission Santa Ines, which was founded in 1804. The land was founded by a couple of Danish immigrants who had hoped to preserve and promote the Danish culture in America. Looking at the colorful buildings, the antique craftsmanship and old windmills (which litter the Netherlands), I would say they did what they set out to do, or so I thought.

Dalton nearly jumped out of the car when he saw Solvang.

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“Oh my god. This is so cool. I can’t wait to walk around.”

But walking around would have to wait. We planned to drive straight through Solvang and go to Nojoqui Falls, which is a 15-minute drive down Alisal Road through the forest. I had found the waterfall while researching online and wanted to go to it first, while it was still cool out and to try and beat the rush. The speed limit sign down Alisal road reads, “40 MPH.” It wasn’t until a few miles in that the road became ragged, and we started to hit potholes. After the first few, Dalton looked up from his phone and gently told me I should slow down. He had taken my car to the shop just a few days before and had new tires put on, as my old ones were bad. A couple of miles down the road, I saw it right in front of me, the mother of all potholes. Unfortunately, I saw it too late, probably because I hadn’t slowed down all that much.

“Uh oh!” I said as we hit the pothole. There was a loud thud, and the car aggressively shook.

“Sam! What did I tell you? You need to slow way down!

If we hit a pothole and get a flat tire, then we’re screwed. Our weekend will be ruined.” He fumed in the seat next to me, shaking his head. Of course, he was right, something that doesn’t happen so often. So, I apologized and begrudgingly slowed down.

We arrived to Nojoqui Falls Park a few minutes later, but my phone had no service, so I had no Maps to tell me where to go. We followed a truck up a dirt road and stumbled upon a free parking lot for the falls. Dalton and I hopped out of the car and stretched our legs. He gave me a tight hug and kissed my forehead, his subtle way of telling me that he was no longer mad.

The actual hike was only 10 minutes long and half a mile in length. The forest was green and lively, and the air was 29

fresh. The only thing that ruined it was the hoard of people making the trek with us. It seemed as if all of Solvang had gathered to see this waterfall at the same time. After making it to the falls, we took 5 minutes to bask in its beauty, had a woman take a photo of us, then booked it out of there. The actual forest and waterfall were breathtaking, but neither Dalton nor I were willing to fight the crowd to see it. Next time we’d have to come on a weekday.

We hopped into my car and quickly got back onto the rutted-out dirt road. This time I drove slow and was able to actually look around. The hills that surrounded us were bright green and looked as if they had been perfectly airbrushed by God. Dark green trees dotted the lightly colored field of grass.

Yellow flowers lined the road. I wondered if there were daisies, poppies, daffodils, or perhaps lovely chrysanthemums. It looked like something out of a children’s novel. I had trouble keeping my eyes off of the hills that rhythmically dip and peak like oceans waves long enough to look back at the winding road.

It took a short 10 minutes to get back to Solvang. Alisal Road had once again become smoothly paved asphalt, which was a testament to the earthy forest we had just left and the modern tourist town we had entered. Next, we drove to the Old Mission Santa Ines, a Spanish mission built over two centuries ago, along with the first institution for higher education in Southern California. Getting out of the car, we were met with the sight of the beautiful, old Spanish architecture and views of vineyards, which had recently added more popularity to Solvang.

Entrance to the mission was $5 a person and we were given a map to show the order in which to view each room.

After seeing the first two rooms, it became apparent that a map 30

was not necessary. The mission was tiny. We went through three rooms filled with holy water, antique tools, and old robes. In one room, there was a piece of the original structure made from adobe. There was obvious history there, but I couldn’t really feel it. Not until we reached the actual church.

The church was lined with some 40 pews. A woman and her son kneeled at the altar and lit candles. Purple and pink curtains draped from the ceiling. Dalton and I stayed quiet, trying to be respectful of a religion that was somewhat foreign to our own. Christianity and Catholicism aren’t all that different, but we weren’t accustomed to being splashed in the face with holy water or lighting a candle for those that we are praying for.

The best part about the mission was the backyard. We walked through, admiring the stone fountain and sea of flowers. In one spot, there was an old cemetery with hand-carved crosses and tombstones. This mission had experienced a destructive earthquake, financial hardships, and rebellion, and yet they had rebuilt and formed an establishment that would be visited by the masses forever. I respected the resilience and the commitment that the members of this mission had. This was the first mission I had ever gone to, and while it was interesting, I didn’t think I’d need to see another mission for a long time.

From the mission, we left our car in its parking lot, knowing it would be terrible to find a spot elsewhere, and walked back down Alisal road. Our destination was a vintage motorcycle museum that Dalton had been eager to see ever since I asked him if he wanted to go to Solvang. Walking down the road, we admired the Danish architecture and the unusual number of bakeries that lined the street. Every couple hundred feet Dalton would go, “Babe! Another bakery! We have to go!”

The dozens of pastries stared at us and tested our self-control, 31

but we were determined to stick with our plan. Continuing to walk down Alisal Road, I noted a rusty, dilapidated house for sale.

“Hey, maybe we could afford to buy that place,” I jokingly said to Dalton.

“Yeah, right. We probably couldn’t even afford that.”

And he was right. We had recently set a goal to save as much money we could this year so that we could move out together, but California housing is not exactly affordable. We plan to get married after I graduate college next year, but we would rather not be the couple who gets married and still lives with their parents. Therefore, we each try to save as much as we can, but this trip was a necessary splurge to help us get away from the real world, if even just for a day.

The vintage motorcycle museum was empty when we arrived. A young man sat on his phone outside, enjoying the sunshine and the cool breeze, and only hopped up when he saw us enter the museum. The entrance fee was $10 each. We paid the fee and began our tour. Dalton restores vintage motorcycles and dirt bikes, so this place was like his personal heaven.

I have spent countless hours watching him restore bikes, and we spent over an hour looking at Hondas, Suzukis, Indians, and everything in between. What’s another hour? Each motorcycle we passed, Dalton would stop and marvel at. There was a sign on every motorcycle that said, “Please don’t touch.” But Dalton, with his love for tinkering with bikes, would every so often twist the throttle or squeeze the clutch. I swat his hand and point to the signs, but he couldn’t help it. Some of these bikes were over 200 years old. It showed the passion that the museum owner had for collecting motorcycles and sharing their history. Eventually, another couple walked into the museum. The elderly couple bickered for a minute about the price 32

of admission before the man came in to look at the bikes and the woman left to visit the shops. I couldn’t blame her. She had probably been visiting motorcycle museums with him a lot longer than I had with Dalton.

After an hour, we left the museum. Dalton had gotten his fix, and I was ready to really see Solvang. We walked down Alisal road and all the connecting streets, going into each and every shop. The stores were filled with cheap toys, clothing, and accessories, fit for only tourists.

“Are the Danish known for trinkets or something?”

Dalton didn’t understand what was so Danish about cheap knick-knacks and novelty “Danish” items. I didn’t either. Solvang Gifts and Souvenirs was the only shop that actually had some authentic items representative of the European culture. I picked up a pair of porcelain blue and white clogs, exactly the same as a pair I had in my room. I didn’t exactly grow up in my Dutch culture, but my great-grandma, Beppe, meaning grandma in Dutch, gave me the clogs before she died a couple of years back. I appreciated the one genuine aspect of the otherwise superficial Danish town.

Aside from the one genuine shop we could find, the best part of Solvang was Birkholm’s Bakery. Dalton and I had worked up an appetite looking through the meaningless shops and had stopped here for something to drink. The display cases were filled with cookies, crème puffs, cinnamon rolls, and lots and lots of bread. When I was a little girl, Beppe would always make my sister and I mushkas, which is sliced bread, lathered with butter, and topped with sprinkles. The Dutch call this dessert Hagelslag, but we call it mushkas because my Beppe is from Friesland, a province in the Netherlands, and in the Frisian language it’s called mushkas. It is estimated that Dutch people collectively eat 30 million pounds of Hagleslag 33

a year, but this Danish bakery must have been unaware of the desserts immense popularity and European roots. A little let down, I set my sights on the other chocolate desserts that lined the shelves.

We stepped up to the cash register, ready to order everything on the menu. One of the girls who worked there quickly slid across the floor and stopped in front of us.

“Hi! I just wanted to tell you that you’re really pretty.”

“Oh! Wow! Thank you,” I said as the girl smiled at me and walked away. I looked at Dalton and gave an awkward smile. I’m one of those people who doesn’t like compliments, or at least I don’t know how to take them. Mostly, I just don’t like the attention. Dalton raised his eyebrows and gave me a big smile.

“My girlfriend is so pretty. She’s the prettiest girl in the whole world.”

I light-heartedly punched his arm. He knows that dealing with compliments is not my forte, but he likes to embarrass me further.

Another girl stepped up to the cash register, and we ordered a cream puff and a lemonade to share. We grabbed a seat by the window and watched a young Asian woman take a hundred selfies in front of us with a selfie stick. We made ugly faces behind the glass, hoping that we would end up in her selfie. Satisfied with our photobombing, we began eating. The cream puff pastry was dipped in chocolate and cut in half; the middle was two inches thick of luscious smooth crème. The inside of the cream puff revealed a strawberry jam and a sweet chocolate custard. The rich custard reminded me of the decadent chocolate mousse that Beppe used to make once a year on Christmas. She passed her ultra-secret “chocolate stuff” recipe down to my grandma, and if I play my cards right, it will even34

tually be passed down to me. I took a scoop of the custard and imagined myself making chocolate stuff for my own family at Christmas. I smiled at the thought of my future.

We ate the entire thing in a minute flat, our stomachs still bulging from breakfast. The fresh lemonade washed it down perfectly, and we sat and wondered what to do next. The same girl who took our order filled the napkin holder behind us.

“Sam, you should ask her what’s good to eat around here.”

“No, you should!” Annoyed that he would ask me, the shy one, to do the talking. He made no motion to say anything to her and she was almost finished with what she was doing.

“Excuse me? Do you know of any places around here that are good for dinner?”

“Around here? No. Buellton is where all of the good places to eat are. Everything around here is too touristy. Industrial Eats is a restaurant in Buellton that all the locals go to. It’s really good.”

“Awesome. Thanks for your help!” I said as she walked away.

Seeing not much else to do and feeling our legs getting more and more tired, we decided to head to our hotel. It’s a 10-minute drive down Mission Drive where all we saw were vineyards and cows. Upon arriving at the Hampton Inn, we checked in and went to our room. Dalton clicked on the TV and put on a movie, and I got on my phone and looked up Industrial Eats. Their menu consisted of oddities like chicken liver, beef tongue pastrami, marrow bones, and quail eggs.

“Uhhh, Dalton? I don’t think you’re going to want to eat here.” I said as I read the menu aloud to him. He agreed before I even finished reading the menu. Hungry and new to the area, 35

I looked to Yelp to find something tasty. After a few minutes of looking, I found a place that had pizza, burgers, and ribs— a little more of our style.

“Have you ever heard of Firestone Walker Brewery? The food looks good. We should go there.” Dalton shot out of the bed.

“No way! Babe, that’s 805.” 805 is Dalton’s favorite beer, which Firestone Walker Brewery makes, and just happens to have their headquarters in Buellton.

“Sam, we have to go! Where is it?” Dalton’s blue eyes were bigger than I had ever seen them. He was more excited now than when he was at the motorcycle museum, which is hard to imagine. I pulled out my phone again and used Maps to find out where it’s located.

“It says it’s only 900ft away,” I said, a little confused.

We both ran to the window and looked left, then right. Sure enough, there was only a small field to the right of our hotel that separated us from the brewery. We quickly changed clothes and Dalton raced out the door, with me following after.

We were seated right away. The inside was very modern and welcoming to any beer connoisseur. Dalton ordered an 805 on tap, and I ordered a Shirley Temple. My first choice was Dr. Pepper, to which the waitress asked me, “Is Coke okay?”

No. No, it’s not okay. They’re very different, and I didn’t order a beer because if I’m going to drink something with that many calories, I might as well enjoy it. For food, I got a Margherita pizza and Dalton got a burger with bacon and fries. Dalton wiggled in his seat like a little kid. He took a gulp of his beer and grabbed my hand.

“Babe. I’m so glad we came here. This is my favorite part of the trip.” He leans across the table and gives me a quick kiss. I love to see him so bubbly and happy. We don’t get to do 36

things like this that often.

When our food came, we dug in, our stomachs aware that the last time we really ate was at breakfast. My Margherita pizza was garnished with five basil leaves in the shape of a star and was covered in globs of mozzarella cheese. Dalton’s burger had to be at least three inches thick and came with a large order of French fries. We ate as much as we could and entered into another well-earned food coma. We then paid our check and walked from the restaurant into the bar area, which was attached to a room filled with Firestone Walker merchandise.

Dalton’s eyes lit up once again and we ended up walking out with $200 worth of shirts, hats, socks, and a dog collar for the puppy Dalton got me. So much for saving money.

The walk back to the hotel was short but took longer than the walk there due to our bloated bellies. Then, trying to walk off the bloat, we looked around the hotel, which we hadn’t done when we first arrived. In the back of the hotel, there were two fireplaces, a pool, and a Jacuzzi.

“Sam. How about we grab some coffee and go hang out by the fire?” I agreed. It sounded like the perfect way to relax and end our day in Solvang. We went to our room and I wrestled with the coffee machine trying to get it to make the dang coffee. It didn’t cooperate. Dalton walked over and magically made it work, although he didn’t put a cup underneath the machine and coffee spewed everywhere. I laughed and quickly tossed a cup and a rag under the coffee machine. So much for helping. We then put on our jackets and headed to the fireplaces with coffee in hand.

I sat down at the fireplace and Dalton pulled his chair in closer to mine. We sat for a moment in silence, digesting our day and our meal. A couple with two young kids walked toward us and looked to be interested in sitting by the fireplace.

37

Noticing that there weren’t enough chairs for them to sit down, Dalton scooted over and made space for me to share his seat.

The family walked right by and headed to the pool.

“You know if you wanted to sit close to me, you could have just asked.” I chuckled and nudged Dalton with my elbow. He laughed and gave me a soft smile.

“You know, we always see beautiful places in movies and want to go there, but look, we’re here,” Dalton says as he opens his arms wide to the green mountainside beside us. I agreed with his sentiment. Sometimes we don’t realize how great the things in front of us really are. I looked into Dalton’s eyes and thought the same about him.

“That’s true. This place really is beautiful. California, in general, really. We just take it for granted because that’s all we’ve ever really known.”

“Yup. Well, maybe we can really live here someday Samantha Noel,” said Dalton as he looked at me with his crystal blue eyes that rival my emerald green ones.

“Maybe,” I said. Dalton and I just sat there in front of the fire under the stars, thinking about the future and the endless possibilities it holds, knowing that whatever future we end up in, Solvang or not, we would be together. We would be happy. I didn’t want to blink. I didn’t want to miss this moment.

38

A Walk Down L Street Jackie Gutierrez

39

Ghosts Alive Chloe Noelle

“Welcome Home,� read the paint on the window.

A triumphant return after a bitter goodbye.

Home never felt so foreign, so cold, so dark inside.

Time away revealing scars as old open wounds.

This place, these people, frozen in time.

The past haunting.

Ghosts alive.

I tried to run.

I tried to hide.

But water jumpstarted reality.

I was back home.

I was back home.

40

This place, these people,

frozen in time.

The past haunting.

Ghosts alive.

We rebuild the memories.

We rebuild the stone.

This foreign place, again becoming home.

This place, these people, moving in time.

The past forgiven.

Ghosts alive.

41

escape

Samuel Huff

42

airplanes.

Chloe Noelle

Sometimes I lie awake at night wondering which goodbye will hurt the worst, the second or the first?

Truth is, you come home soon and I can’t wait for the day, but, alas, it’s bittersweet as my heart drops to my feet because missing you leaves it incomplete.

Oh, what a day it’ll be when I kiss your face, trying my best not to leave a trace.

Oh, what a day it’ll be when I catch your hand, those fingers better be ready when you land.

Oh, what a day it’ll be, I wish it could last forever and ever and not become the past.

Because sometimes I lie awake at night wondering which goodbye will hurt the worst, the second or the first?

43

Superstition:

An excerpt Marielisa Sandra Hallam Armendariz

A black cat runs across the path while driving home from work; do they keep driving because it is just a harmless animal, or do they turn down a different street avoiding the “cursed” cat altogether in order to reach the destination? Well, if the person decides to avoid the cat altogether, then they more than likely believe in superstitions. Superstition is often confused with being something supernatural that people have created to compensate for their fear of the unknown. But this is not superstition. Superstition is not fear; it is not reality; it is not the truth, and it certainly is not science. Superstition is a custom or practice that is based on a belief that has no reason or knowledge behind it whatsoever. Typically, it is based on the “ominous significance” of a certain object, occurrence, or incident. Superstition is a myth, a fallacy, a notion. People still decide to illogically cling to their superstitions, no matter the counter-evidence that proves it is merely just an irrational belief. People have developed superstitions all throughout history. Different generations and different cultures have continued to let superstitions affect them ever since before the common era all the way up until the modern day.

There are hundreds of superstitions widely known and practiced throughout the world, but where did they all begin?

Superstition dates all the way back to ancient Egypt, where they used to believe that when a ladder was leaned up against a wall, it was bad luck to walk underneath it. Egyptian priests used to leave ladders leaned up against a wall within the tombs of the dead so that the spirit is able to ascend whenever they 44

wished to (“The ‘Walking Under the Ladder’ Superstition,” 2017). They believed that the spirits lived within the area between the wall and the ladder. Thus, avoiding walking underneath the ladder and, in this area, so they would not disturb the spirits. People still avoid walking under ladders to this day, nearly five thousand years after this superstition was originally created. Though Egypt is where one of the first superstitions originated, it is not the major source of superstitions; several religions tend to have different superstitions that the people practice and believe in. Catholics have established the superstition that the number thirteen is cursed and bad luck. It started with the painting of what is known as “The Last Supper” by Leonardo Da Vinci. In this picture, Judas, one of the twelve disciples, is painted leaning over the table, knocking the salt over.

After this final supper between Jesus Christ and his disciples, Judas betrays Jesus Christ, and he is then arrested and crucified. Ever since this, Catholics have developed not one, but two superstitions—knocking over the table salt is bad luck and sitting at a table of thirteen, or basically, anything that has to do with the number thirteen, is bad luck. Along with Catholics, Jewish people hold a superstition related to salt as well. They have this previous standing belief that salt has supernatural powers that wards off evil spirits. So, oftentimes, when families move into new houses, they place salt in their pockets or in the corner of rooms to keep away the evil spirits that like to hide in corners and the tiny goblins and elves that hide within their pockets. Lastly, one other widely followed religion, Hinduism, has their own superstitions. Hindus have the conviction that they cannot sweep their houses after sunset, or else it rids their house of the Goddess Lakshmi (Borkar, 2018).

They pray to this goddess so that she may place wealth unto 45

them; she will typically pay her visits after sunset, so when they sweep their houses after sunset, they kick her out of their house and thus the gift of wealth with her. Many religions still continue these superstitious practices to this day, regardless of the validity of them.

Superstition has a history of being connected to the Elizabethan Period. Superstition made a rise during this time because of the irrational fear of witchcraft and their impulsive decisions to persecute the witches. The fear of these witches and their special “powers” led to several different, widely spread superstitions. People of this era came to the conclusion that all witches could fly on their broomsticks; the broomstick part of the superstition was added when they became much more popular within the household setting used by women.

They additionally formed the belief that witches used cauldrons to concoct their magical potions due to the fact that wise women of this era often had knowledge of different herbs.

Now, these superstitions have since then become more of a part of Hollywood movies and Halloween costumes rather than remaining true to recent generations.

Along with the whole “witch superstition,” several other superstitions came about during this era due to the emergence of deadly and incurable diseases, such as the Bubonic Plague. One superstition that nearly everyone still does every day is saying “Bless you” after someone has sneezed. Saying bless you after someone sneezes emerged because thinking the diseases could travel through the air, they equivalated this to the devil and his evil works. Some symptoms of the Bubonic Plague were coughing and sneezing, so as a result, people of the Elizabethan period chose to believe that when a person opens their mouth to sneeze, the devil has the capability to enter their body through their mouths. Thus, they thought 46

it would help to say “Bless you” to scare away the devil and prevent him from hurting the people. This Bubonic Plague was oftentimes blamed on the witches that they believed in during this period. The people came to the conclusion that all the unexplainable deaths and unexplainable illnesses were because of the witches. They were unable to grasp onto the idea that the Bubonic Plague arose for other scientific reasons; they were too afraid of the unknown that they created the illusion that witches were real, and they somehow caused the outbreak of such deadly diseases. When sicknesses and illnesses become as severe as they did during this time, it is not very difficult to understand the motives behind creating all these different superstitions, resulting from the constant fear of uncurable deaths among the vast populations. This fear of the unknown and death is a recurring pattern amongst nearly all the superstitions of the world.

References Borkar, Neha. “13 Superstitions We Indians Follow Blindly.”

Indiatimes.com, India Times, 16 May 2018, www.indiatimes.com/culture/whowe-are/13-superstitions-we-indians-follow-blind-ly-229976.html.

Carey, Lydia. “25 Superstitions and Beliefs Only Mexicans Understand.” Culture Trip, 25 Aug. 2017, theculturetrip.com/north-america/mexico/articles/25-superstitions-and-beliefs-only-mexicans-understand/.

DeLessio, Joe. “Very Superstitious: Weird Rituals Help Athletes Perform.” CNN, Cable News Network, 7 July 2015, www.cnn.com/2015/07/07/health/superstitions-help-athletes/index.html.

Eisenberg, Ronald L. “8 Popular Jewish Superstitions.” My Jewish Learning, My Jewish Learning, www.myjewishlearning.com/article/popuar-superstitions/.

Knapel, Robert. “Baseball’s 50 Weirdest All-Time Superstitions.” Bleacher Report, Bleacher Report, 3 Oct. 2017, bleacherreport.com/articles/1179538-baseballs-50-weirdest-all-time-superstitions#slide7.

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McKeown, Marie. “Irish Folklore: Traditional Beliefs and Superstitions.” Owlcation, Owlcation, 9 June 2016, owlcation.com/social-sciences/Irish-FolkloreTraditional-Beliefs-and-Superstitions.

Mom, Irish American. “Irish Rice Krispie Buns.” Irish American Mom, 9 Dec. 2018, www.irishamericanmom.com/tag/an-irish-childhood/.

“1 Timothy 4:7 ESV.” Read the Bible. A Free Bible on Your Phone, Tablet, and Computer. | The Bible App | Bible.com, www.bible.com/bible/59/1TI.4.7.ESV. Parker, Kelly. “The Very Interesting Origins of Our Most Common Superstitions.” 94-3 The Drive - Long Live Rock, www.943thedrive.ca/2018/04/23/the-interesting-orgins-of-our-most-common-superstitions/.

“Superstition.” Ohio River - New World Encyclopedia, New World Encyclopedia, www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Superstition#The_origin_of_supersti tions.

“The ‘Walking Under Ladder’ Superstition Can Be Traced To Ancient Egypt.”

Ancient Pages, Ancient Pages, 19 May 2017, www.ancientpages.com/2015/08/26/ walking-ladder-superstition-can-traced-ancient-egypt/.

“13 Superstitions from Around the World.” U.S. News & World Report, U.S. News & World Report, www.usnews.com/news/best-countries/articles/2017-01-13/13-superstitions-from-around-the-world.

48

Abandoned Beach Noah Stecker

49

The Agreement Elijah Lemna

The band played their show and afterwards, a record label approached their singer. They offered him and his band all he could dream and more— money, fame, women. The world would be theirs, they promised. Starting tomorrow morning, they’d be off to Los Angeles. Without skipping a beat, he signed their contract and went back to packing his equipment. He arrived at home hours after he said he would.

She was already in bed. She never cared for his music anyway.

Careful not to wake her, he grabbed what he could. It was easy as most things in the apartment were hers. She hardly noticed any differences when she woke up.

50

Magnolia Blossoms Emily Anne Cookes

What would I say to her if I saw her again?

I’m sorry, Meghan. It’s been far too long, Meghan. Come back, Meghan. Please stay.

I would run to her, hold her, and squeeze her until she promises to never go again.

I would sit with her, listen to her, and never interject.

I would place my hand on her back and occasionally place my head on her shoulder.

Small things like that to show my love.

Why didn’t I do those things before?

I would take her out for coffee and order the sugariest drink I could find, like the ones she used to get me on my birthday. I’ve missed those. I’ve missed her.

I would look into her warm brown eyes that resemble mine.

I would hold her hand as we swap eerie stories of two years without the other.

Where have you been? Where did you go?

I would take her to the beach, laying out a big blanket for us to sit on and watch the sunset. I would get lost in the rosy, laven51

der sky and ask her what she wants to be when she grows up.

You’re still growing up at 30, right?

I would talk to her, really talk to her and let her in.

I would tell her about my love, his smile, about the goosebumps I still get. I would ask her if she’s ever experienced anything like it and hope that she has.

I would tell her about the magnolia blossoms that still grow outside of our house. Does she remember them? Does she remember how they bloom and how they thrive? Does she remember how they slow down, shrivel up, and decompose? Or how they always come back and promise to return with every spring.

But you know what I wouldn’t do? I wouldn’t talk of the shadows. And I wouldn’t let them take her again. I would stand taller and block her sight of them.

I wouldn’t raise my voice. I wouldn’t ask the questions that the other part of me wants to ask. The questions that the old me would ask. The type of questions that got us to where we are.

Distant and cracked.

I would love her endlessly and unconditionally. I would love my sister with everything in me.

But then again, would I? Would I actually?

Probably not. Life isn’t a montage--it isn’t a thirty second high52

light reel with a rosy hue. It is real, raw, and oftentimes unforgiving.

How could she forgive us? How could we forgive her?

We build these scenes in our heads. We throw roses at them, hooraying and nodding profusely. Yes, these completely unrealistic series of events will happen, just as I’ve imagined they will.

No. Reality sets in, humanity settles, and we hurt, and we love, and we hurt.

Will I hold her hand? Will we enjoy a sunset?

Has the sun set on us?

Magnolia blossoms, they always return.

53

Joy comes in the mourning.

Kayla Rose Higgins

54

The Key to the Garden J. Luke Herman

I can remember her as she sat on the stone bench, her elbow on the table, a hand to the cheek, to prop up her head, as not to fall asleep. For the moonlight’s gentle glint did gleam pure white. And upon her dress of that color, which pierced the darkness like a light. And I stood there and gazed at the maiden in the night who sat so coldly like a statue without life.

I can remember her hair as it did fall, rivers of gold down her back that split at her shoulders like boulders in a stream. I watched fixed, not a muscle moved, as her eyes shifted toward me, two diamonds in a dark sea. Like the siren’s call did they beckon me, like a fish in the net, I was caught. Though I hastened at heart, I moved without caution, was it a spell, a curse, a hex of foul play? A witch’s song, a warlock’s verse, a slave I was to the lady, without another thought.

I can remember her hands that did hold a long golden key which glowed with her, like a piece of her jewelry. One bow, one shaft, a collar, and six teeth, it hung from a ring around her fingers, not a chance her grip would loosen to let it free. And though it did sway here and there as she moved her hand playfully, the ring in her devil’s snare, the key made not a sound as it moved, a silent treasure in the moonlit night.

I remember the steps that I took, a hand outstretched, to take the lady in hand, did I propose. And though it was she, the one who stole me from my sense to make me a slave to her beck and call, she did answer my proposition, for her position did 55

change, a hand in mine, as she rose from her stoney bench, to greet me eye to eye.

I remember we danced in that warm summer night, together in bliss we did waltz in that pale moonlight. My hand on her hip hers to my shoulder, the others clasped together, the ring of the key between our fingers. We made our way ‘round, once, twice, thrice, dancing a circle we made about the water’s fountain.

I remember we stood, not a breath shared between us, as we looked into each other’s eyes to tell our secrets and our lies.

She told me of the key and the gardens bitter demise as I told her of my hopes, my dreams for our lives. For as the pale moon did rise as I did confess who I was, our hands came apart, I fell to the ground, broken I was. She took in hand and sorrow wept, the key that she held and so dearly kept. Laying it on the ground about my feet, and without another word, she left.

I remember it sat there, me and the key, as the moon did set on the horizon, it was so sad to see. She was long gone, not a sign of her was left. I got up to take the key and laid a hand upon its golden stem. With one motion did I thrust it forward, to break the magic seal that the shadows kept. As the light fell from the doors that appeared, its hinges swinging open to take me home, did I look for her one last time. And as I glanced hither and thither to find my dear friend, I never did see her again, the maiden of the garden had forever left.

56

Poetry

Rickie Farnes Words live inside me Nestled in my chest Warm and safe Until I fall Shaken, they become Jumbled like scrabble pieces And I can’t make a word As foes and friends They twist my stomach into knots Until erupting with passion, Pain, and sometimes pride They crawl into the world The only thing I fear more than Their arrival is their departure

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Initiation Night Idalis Moscoso

Three bullets. Three bullets are all it should have taken to shatter my world, to throw me at my knees in fear and anger.

Instead, I was overcome with indifference, with annoyance at the emotion my family fell victim too. All the antics felt like a show, like a how-to book, and it seemed I was the only one who didn’t receive a copy. It was astonishing to see the worry and shock my family carried with them. But what did they expect? Our family, friends, and neighbors were gang members, always packing and causing trouble. Drive-by’s weren’t common in my neighborhood, but stories of them definitely were.

The story went like this: that night was initiation night for a few new gang members. Unfortunately for my family, my house was on their agenda. Less than 15 seconds was all it took.

They pulled up, gun aimed out the car window, and pulled the trigger. My dad and step-mom stumbled out of their kingsized bed that took up the entirety of their black and red room, still strongly smelling of weed from the previous tenant—an old coworker of my dad’s who tried to cover up the smell of pot with layers of paint. There wasn’t even room for the dresser, crammed between the wall and foot of the bed, drawers useless, only serving to hold the TV. They sprinted across the hallway to my baby sister’s room, grabbed her out of her ladybug crib, devoid of any stuffed animals per the “new mother” warning articles on accidental crib suffocation, and rushed to the other side of the house, the side not facing the street, and by the time they reached it, the bullets stopped. The sirens were wailing in the distance, too soon.

Sitting on our cold, grey cement porch, with the black 58

screen door wide open, revealing our fluorescent-lit kitchen and the plastic tile floor curling at the edges, my dad and stepmom waited with our two 10-year-old pit bulls nestled between them, calm and quiet, but alert, and waited for the police to arrive—the only time they would be welcome at my house.

Our neighbors, a Vietnam veteran and his wife, waited at the chain-linked fence that bordered our property. They waited at a distance, a position they had frequently taken over the years, from when they wanted to just talk to when my sister ran up the porch steps and tripped, hitting her head on the fieldstone veneer siding hard enough to leave a scar that is prominent almost ten years after the accident and hard enough to loosen the rock her forehead collided with. A surge of adrenaline had kicked in during those 15 seconds, hiding the pain of three bullets lodged into my step-mom’s right leg and upper back.

As she sat there on the porch, coddling my baby sister, my dad noticed the blood. She was loaded into the back of an ambulance, blinding red flashing lights clearing the streets, already deserted on a Tuesday night except for the occasional loitering drug addict on the bus benches and in the parking lot of our 24/7 Wal-Mart.

The event is so vivid in my memory, and I wasn’t even there.

When your elementary school was filled with little boys whose dreams should be to become a fire-fighter or an astronaut but instead are to join gangs because that’s what their brother, uncle, or father did; when every kid at your junior high was whispering about a boy who brought a gun to school, and there was a silent agreement to not tell any teachers; when your friends show you their stash of pot in a recycled Altoids tin in junior high that they’ve been smoking since elementary school; when another friend is expelled for bringing 59

pot brownies to school, and the snitch is jumped on his walk home; or when the kid who wore a Perry the Platypus backpack to school and could always be caught with a cheesy grin is shot and killed at 13 in an alley; then you will understand why I have become desensitized to violence and why the news of a shooting at my own house would have no effect on me.

The news should have been especially jarring as it juxtaposed my junior high promotion. My step-mom couldn’t make it—not a big deal since her moods quickly fluctuate, and you never know what she’ll show up to—so my dad came alone, groomed in his silver-gray suit vest and freshly shaved head and beard, a look only seen on rare occasions. After the ceremony, my family backtracked two blocks to my house, and while we freshened up to leave for dinner, my dad pulled my mom outside for a talk. As any nosy children of divorced parents who frequently heard whispered conversations, my sister and I ran up to our room and listened through the window, but our efforts proved futile. My parents returned inside, my dad congratulated me and just left. It didn’t make any sense. He had news, so why hadn’t he told us anything? My mom took on her role once more and was the bearer of bad news. There was a shooting, not only at our house but at two other houses in the neighborhood as well, one home to another family with children and the other to a retired couple.

I’ve always felt like the black sheep in my family, and this only intensified that feeling. After the shooting, my dad started looking for places to move. My little brother’s mom wouldn’t allow him to sleep at our dad’s house anymore, and my grandma was worried about my older sister and I’s safety. But, I was completely detached from the whole situation.

Everybody was fine, so I didn’t see the need to worry. My dad hadn’t been hurt, my little sister was fine, our dogs were fine, 60

and my step-mom was recovering from minor flesh wounds.

In retrospect, it could have been a whole lot worse. We all had to adapt. My dad and step-mom moved into the den because of my step-mom’s constant paranoia. My little sister remained in her room, the only damage being a couple of bullet wounds in a stuffed lion that took up half of the top of her closet. One of the thin, decrepit windows in the front living room that had been shattered in the shooting was boarded up with a piece of cardboard and duct-tape. And during Christmas, we placed palm-sized, sparkly, royal-blue ribbons over the bullet holes in the front of the house. Life moves on, and if you stop, then you run the risk of being forgotten or run over by the constant surge of everyday life.

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Big Bear Lake Sunset Justin D. Reed

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Wildflowers Rickie Farnes

Vivacious and bold, whirling in the field Tender innocence arrayed in blush, Incorruptibility revealed A swirl of lavender set by a brush The sea may join in radiant song Swelling and ebbing the sparkling hue, Yet simply, in contrast, it plays along Beside the exquisite, efflorescent strew How do they dance so blithely, so lovely?

Impart Your wisdom, whisper Your secret To spirit abloom, fragrant as honey That inspires awe in the still quiet – Dearest beloved, do you not suppose?

You are far more captivating than those.

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Lovely Tree

Eduardo Lucas-Lebron 64

Drowning in “Friends” Lauren Turner

She woke up to the blinding light of her phone that buzzes with snapchats from her friends. “Good morning streaks,” they said with filters hiding their pimples and whitening their teeth. After opening the snaps quickly, the girl took a picture of her own, hiding half of her face and scribbling a small “S” in the corner. It was 6:47 AM, too early to write out an entire sentence.

Snapchat sent.

Crawling out from under the covers, the girl sludged over to the bathroom, where she stared in the mirror at a face she didn’t like. She exfoliated, she cleansed, then she beat her face with makeup brushes until it turned into a face she did like. She spent almost two whole songs from the “Today’s Top Hits” playlist, getting her eyeliner just right. Once her straightener heated up, the girl flattened her curls and slicked back her hair. She added enough hairspray so that it would last the whole day.

Lacy underwear, push-up bra, tight jeans, low-cut top.

Too slutty. Comfy leggings, strappy tank-top, long-sleeved shirt, furry boots. Too basic. Black pants, high-collared shirt, nice shoes, a thin sweater. Too Amish. Skinny jeans, slip-on sneakers, graphic tee-shirt, trendy jacket. Too late to change again, it would have to work.

Arching her back and pouting her lips, she took a picture of herself in the mirror. As she swiped through filters, the girl wondered if any of the boys from her phone would like it.

Maybe they’d call her beautiful or send her messages throughout the day. She didn’t like any of them in particular, but she 65

did like the feeling of being wanted.

Picture posted to story.

She scrolled through Instagram while eating her cereal and drinking her coffee. The models, celebrities, and even her friends taunted her, seeming to say, “Why even try? You know you’ll never be like us.” She found herself in a constant state of comparison. Nothing she said, did, or looked like would match up to the people on her feed. She wanted not to try, she wanted not to care. Truly. But, unfortunately she did, and all too much.

The dreariness of the dark kitchen dulled any hope she had for the day. The walls of her empty house closed in on her.

The silence in the house suffocated her, with her Dad gone for work and her Mom busy dropping her sisters off for school.

She had her phone and the friendships that lived inside it, but most of the time, they fell short of what the girl needed.

@DYLANNJOHNSONN.23 responded to your story.

The girl’s heart skipped a beat. Her spirits lifted as she

swiped right to open the message.

“hey beautiful”

“Aww hey! What’s up?”

“not much wbu”

“Just getting ready for school haha”

“nicee”

The girl rolled her eyes as she grieved the death of their conversation. She went back and forth between whether or not she should reply until the highly anticipated double-text appeared.

“cant wait to see u today”

“Me too! See you soon :)”

The messages and the attention fueled her thoughts with positivity, giving her hope that maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all. Because Dylan was cool, he was on the football 66

team and always had people to hang out with. The girl’s phone buzzed again.

@EMILY_HOPE16 responded to your story.

She opened her phone to three heart-eyed emojis. The cartoon faces made the girl smile.

“Thanks see u in class :))”

Seen.

She couldn’t remember the last time she talked with @ EMILY_HOPE16 about anything that did more than skim the surface of conversation. Or even the last time they talked at all.

But maybe if @EMILY_HOPE16 responded to the girl’s story, then she would talk to her at school, too. Being in the positive mood she was, the girl looked forward to the talk.

“Hey! How are you!”

“I’m good, what about you?”

“Great!”

“Aw, good.”

“Well, I’ll see you at lunch!”

“Ok! Save me a seat.”

That would have been the extent of it, and the girl would have been glad. The only thing was, in real life, @ EMILY_HOPE16 passed by the girl in the hallway without saying hi. There were no open seats at her table because @ EMILY_HOPE16 had saved them for her other friends. And the girl definitely wasn’t feeling “good:” a fact no one in the entire school could have known because no one had bothered to ask.

Not because the girl didn’t try. She smiled at people as they passed by in the halls. She tried to initiate real-life conversations with her Snapchat streaks, Instagram followers, and Facebook friends, but she was quickly discouraged, retreating to the comforts of her phone. There she could be someone different––someone popular, confident, put-together. She could 67

have friends and live an enviable life. She could be the girl that other girls were jealous of.

The hours at school droned on painfully. The girl turned in her homework, took notes, did what she was told.

The hours at home taunted her. The girl did her homework, reviewed her notes, did what she was told. Another day almost gone, and for what?

She scrolled, double-tapped, and typed until her fingers ached. She watched, streamed, and stared until her eyes burned. Sitting in silence, she lost herself in her thoughts, thinking about how if she drowned, she wasn’t sure if there was anyone who would rescue her.

After a long day of going through the motions, the girl crawled under the covers and plugged in her phone.

Snapchat from Dylan Johnson.

“hey beautiful”

“Hey! Sorry I missed ya today, didn’t see u!”

“yaaa sry about tht I had a busy day”

“No worries! What’re you up to so late?”

“thinkin bout u”

“Oh yeah haha what about??”

Part of the girl knew what it was about. Part of her knew that Dylan was bad news, especially this late at night. And she didn’t know what it was, but she shoved those thoughts to the back of her head, and she kept on messaging him.

“how bad I want ur body next to mine rn”

Her stomach tied itself into a knot of confused feelings.

She felt both flattered and uncomfortable at the same time.But she didn’t stop messaging him.

“Haha that would be nice”

“haha send me a pic of u” 68

The girl lay there, wondering what that meant. Was she wrong to assume that he had the worst intentions? Was she wrong to say no? Was she wrong to say yes? Stuck in the vagueness of his message, she decided to assume the best of Dylan.

She took a picture, hiding half of her face, scribbling a small heart in the corner. He responded right away.

“ur so beautiful” She relaxed a little, no longer fearing that the conversation was going to take a turn for the worst. Maybe he was an okay guy after all. Then he sent another text.

“i didnt mean of ur face tho ;)”

Read 12:07 AM.

Even though it wasn’t the girl’s doing, she felt guilty and dirty and wrong. Did she trust too easily? Did she give off the impression of a girl who would do something like that? Did she ask for it in any way? She lay in bed, feeling uncomfortable in her own skin. A tear streamed down her cheek. If she drowned, who would rescue her?

69

In Her Heart Corena Lentz

She sits alone, waiting for the man who will never come dressed from head to toe in her Sunday best The cup of coffee, growing colder; the taste is bitter than before, bitter like so many other things to come.

It wasn’t always like this; she remembers a time where everything was filled with wonder, a bright green coat he once gave her, to keep her safe from the cold.

Makes her laugh now, the snow is still on the ground but, with every step she takes, it begins to melt under her feet.

The people have been long gone, in this once packed place; time has remained still; she can’t recall the time spent on this warm wooden chair.

Time, so much time wasted at her feet. the green coat keeps her body warm; But her heart may forever be this cold lump of space waiting to be filled again.

She supposes not even he can fill it now.

For all that remains is the bitter taste in her mouth, left by both the man and the now cold coffee, left in her hands.

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My Papa

Venus Calangian

71

Walls

Ket Barr

In the chronicle of my current existence, “Walls” won the best supporting character in every episode. Throughout life, people endure betrayal, pain, heartbreak, just general devastation, and as a result, walls begin to construct around the fragile remains of their still-beating heart. These figurative walls become a safe haven for many and set the story for many childhood plots. While my collection of figurative walls were extensive and rather impressive, my physical walls were perhaps the most beautiful.

In a one-story, three-bedroom house somewhere in a Seattle Suburb, there sits a closet of a young girl, no more than five or six years of age. The closet was small in size--much like the girl-- expanding no more than three feet in width and five feet in length. To the girl, however, the closet seemed enormous--her own version of Narnia. The walls of that closet were once a pristine white, but as time wore on, and the girl built up the walls around her, the physical walls of her hiding place began to change.

In the left corner towards the bottom, a proclamation of hatred after a fight erupted between herself and her older brother that was poorly quelled by their mother has since been scribbled out by guilt and black ink. Lyrics, poems, articulations of deep-set emotions displayed in poorly etched expert stick-figures grace the three walls of the little girl’s cave.

In the center of one wall, a swan taking flight finds its home. The only picture not expertly crafted by the girl, but by her cousin--the only person allowed in by no fault other than her own lapse in judgment. Her too hopeful nature that per72

chance someone may have finally understood her. Many times, as the little girl sat curled in the corner of that closet, waterfalls cutting through the rocks of her cheeks, her family absent to her whereabouts, that swan was the only thing her blurring eyes could see. She would stare at the swan, envious that it could fly away on its will.

This closet, with its three walls and custom wallpaper, held the greatest power in this young girl’s life. Her soul laid bare on the once perfect walls. While her words were few in speech, they blessed the walls with their symbols--thumbnails of her moments meeting a God she did not yet comprehend.

These walls were her secret, her beautiful, painful secret.

Three years after the union of the girl and the closet, life began to tear their love apart. “We’re moving,” the two words that embed the final nail in the coffin of her first love-her first confidant. The bittersweet goodbye between the two was poisoned upon her parents’ discovery of her hidden haven.

Even now, well into her adult years, the girl can still picture the look of rage on her mother’s face as she observed the marred closet walls. With every wall that her mother criticized, another layer was added to the one around the girl’s heart. She could see the beauty, the pain, the depth in the images and markings of those walls, the documentation of her life. Her mother, however, saw only the blemishes of her perfect ideal, the work she would have to do to clean it--make it right to her.

The girl’s new room had no closet--perhaps it was on purpose--just four beige walls. These walls lay bare, empty of any clue to the girl’s soul. It seemed that she learned her lesson, respected the image of her mother’s walls, but as a child, she drew from within her the fountain of confusion and emotion overflowing inside of her. But now, that fountain had since 73

dried up, a small gurgle here and there, but nothing worth inspiring the artistry of the girl.

Occasionally, she would think back to the walls of her closet, the freedom she felt being trapped within its walls, but she would soon forget the warmth as the nipping cold of her new, closet-less room seeped into her bones. And with every passing moment, a new brick was added to the ever-evolving labyrinth around her heart.

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Life In the Light Jackie Gutierrez

75

The Yemen Crisis Idalis Moscoso

Since 2015, the country of Yemen, located in the Arabian Peninsula, has been in a civil war, causing what UNICEF has called “one of the worst humanitarian crises in the world” (UNICEF, 2018). As the war has increased and civilians taking the brunt of the violence, the UN has called for all parties to stop for a brief moment in order to address the people who are being affected the most. The coalition air raids and blockades are causing more stress on the already impoverished country.

The crisis in Yemen deepens as Yemen remains a destination country for refugees fleeing Somalia and Ethiopia. In the UN’s 2018 report, 22 of the 29 million Yemenis require some time of humanitarian assistance. The war in Yemen involves an international coalition, made up of Arab states as well as the United States and the United Kingdom, and multiple parties within Yemen: a Houthi rebellion, a separatist’s movement, and al-Qaeda.

Civil War

In 2010, a 26-year old street vendor, Mohamed Bouazizi, set himself on fire after being humiliated and assaulted by the Tunisian police for not having a permit to sell his fruit.

Bouazizi’s public immolation sparked waves of protests throughout Tunisia, calling for the resignation of President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali. With the immediate spread of the protest through social media and the result of the president fleeing, protests proliferated throughout the middle east, prompting the Arab Spring (NPR, 2011).

The Arab Spring struck Yemen in February of 2011, 76

prompting the Yemeni Revolution. Uprisings spread throughout Yemen, calling for an end to President Saleh’s 33-year reign.

A New York Times article explores how the initial protests were peaceful and “carefully organized” as 16,000 Yemenis protestors gathered, all carrying pink banners or wearing pink headbands (Bakri & Goodman, 2011). The color pink originates from a coalition of six opposition parties that created “an escalating scale of color to accompany their own plan of action,” with pink to be utilized for street protests. The deep divides within the country foreshadowed the unavoidable war. In 2011, at the onset of Yemen’s revolution, the people were not unified in their message for change: some called for the removal of President Saleh, others wanted Saleh to implement reforms, and then those in the South called for secession. Unlike other countries in the Middle East that underwent revolutions simultaneous to Yemen, Yemen is amongst one of the poorest and posed great concern for instability (Bakri & Goodman, 2011).

Amid the protests, opposition forces launched a missile attack on the presidential palace (CNN, 2017). Saleh was injured and fled to Saudi Arabia. After Saleh’s return in September of 2011, he signed an agreement in November, handing power over to his deputy, Abdrabbuh Mansour Hadi (CNN, 2017). Even with Hadi in power, tensions continued to rise throughout the country, and in 2014, Houthi rebels invaded the capital of Sana’a (BBC, 2019). In early 2015, the Houthis, along with the help of Saleh supporters, gained full control of Sana’a, prompting president Hadi to flee to Saudi Arabia.

Believed to be backed by Shia power Iran, Sunni power Saudi Arabia enacted an international coalition against the Yemen government opposition. With Saudi Arabia’s support, Hadi 77

returned to the southern city of Aden, making it the temporary capital of Yemen (BBC, 2019).

Houthi Movement

The Houthi movement is a Zaydi Shia Muslim minority that has fought in Northern Yemen since the beginning of the 20th century (Riedel, 2017). The Zaydi sect believes that male descendants of the prophet Muhammed, through his daughter Fatima and son-in-law Ali ibn Abi Talib, are the rightful and qualified spiritual leaders of the Muslim state. After the first three, rightful imams (Ali, Husayn, and Hasan) Zaydi’s believe the imam should remain a sayyid (descendent of Muhammed) and the “supreme ruler of the Muslim state” (Riedel, 2017).

Followers of Zayd established themselves in northern Yemen in the 9th century (Riedel, 2017). Throughout the 18th and 19th centuries, the Zaydi’s defended themselves against the impeding Ottomans and Wahhabis. After World War I and the fall of the Ottoman Empire in 1918, the Zaydi’s established the Mutawakkilite Kingdom in northern Yemen. In 1962, a military cabal, backed by Egypt and the Soviet Union, challenged the Zaydi royalists; the royalists themselves were backed by Saudi Arabia and Israel. The civil war ended in 1970 with the creation of the Yemen Arab Republic (YAR). In 1974, Ali Abdullah Saleh aided in a military coup that creates a 10-member military command council (CNN, 2017). Four years later, in 1978, Ali Abdullah Saleh is named President after the assassination of former President Ahmed Hussein al-Ghashmi (CNN, 2017).

In 2003, President Saleh launched a campaign against the Houthis. In 2004, a Houthi rebel insurgency emerged, led

by Hussein al-Houthi, who was eventually assassinated by Saleh forces in September of 2004.

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Southern Movement

Between 1839 and 1967, southern Yemen was a British protectorate (BBC, 2019). In 1967, southern Yemen gained independence from the British after a pro-independence insurgency, becoming the People’s Republic of Yemen. Two years later, in 1969, the Yemeni Socialist Party led a communist coup and transformed southern Yemen into the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen (PDRY) and repositioned the country toward the USSR (BBC, 2019).

In 1986, President Ali Nasser Mohammed al-Hassani led a coup against the countries Politburo (Kifner, 1986). The failed coup resulted in a 12-day conflict, reportedly killing over 10,000 people, and pushed President Hassani into exile, who was replaced by a pro-Soviet, “hard-line communist” (Kifner, 1986). Experts report that the USSR was pushing for a return of a pro-Soviet leader because of the proposed “policy of improving relations with…conservative Arab neighbors and opening [the] country to Western investment” by President Hassani (Kifner, 1986).

When PDRY and YAR merged into the Republic of Yemen in 1990, former president of Northern Yemen, Saleh, transitioned into being the President of Yemen, and the former president of Southern Yemen, Beidh, transitioned as the vice-President of Yemen. Tensions eventually arose between the two regions as the south rejected the north’s control in 1994, sparking the First Yemeni Civil War. The north accused vice-President, Ali Salim al-Beidh, of supporting a southern rebellion (Hedges, 1994). The north initiated air raids against the port city of Aden, leading to the southern population to fight on the front lines, but was eventually defeated by the national army (Hedges, 1994).

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In 2007, the southern rebellion transformed into al-Hirak al-Janoubi and led an insurgency against former President Saleh until his resignation in 2011 (Gasim, 2018). In 2015, the southern movement allied with the Hadi government and the Saudi-led coalition when they defended the city of Aden against a Houthi-Saleh advance (Gasim, 2018).

In 2017, al-Hirak established the Southern Transitional Council (STC) to represent “the will of the people of the South” (Gasim, 2018). In 2018, STC accused the Hadi government of being corrupt and demanding the removal of the prime minister. Tensions began to arise in the Saudi-led coalition as Saudi Arabia aligned themselves with the Hadi government, and the United Arab Emirates (UAE) aligned with the southern movement. The UAE’s alliance with southern Yemen, and specifically al-Hirak, is seen as an economic alliance because of the port of Aden’s location near the Bab al-Mandab Strait (Gasim, 2018).

The United States

The United States has backed the Saudi-led military coalition in Yemen, providing intelligence, logistical support, and arms sales. In December 2018, two New York Times reporters released an article on Saudi strikes using the U.S. supplied military equipment (Watkins & Walsh, 2018). In September of 2015, a wedding reception was bombed, killing at least 130 civilians. In October of 2016, American made bombs were dropped at a funeral service, killing at least 155. Saudi Arabia initially denied the bombing, then later released a statement that the aircraft had “wrongly targeted the location.” In August of 2018, another American made bomb was dropped on a school bus, killing 44 children and ten adults, the youngest student being 6-years old. (Watkins & Walsh, 2018).

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The Yemen Data Project (2019) has estimated that at least 8,300 civilians have been killed due to air raids in the war.

Founded in 2016, the Yemen Data Project calculates data on the war in Yemen “with the purpose of increasing transparency and promoting accountability of the actors involved” (2019).

The U.S. has taken a stance of backing the coalition air raids, in which there have been 19,574 since the beginning of the war (Yemen Data Project, 2019).

In 2016, after the funeral bombing, the Obama Administration blocked sales of precision-guided munition (smart bombs that are wired to hit a specific target to reduce collateral). The missile ban was overturned in 2017 with the introduction of the Trump administration (Watkins & Walsh, 2018).

On October 2nd, 2018, Jamal Khashoggi, a Washington Post journalist, was killed by members of the Saudi Arabian government in the Saudi Consulate in Istanbul, Turkey. The CIA confirmed with “high confidence” that the crown prince of Saudi Arabia, Mohammad Bin Salman Al-Saud, ordered the death of Khashoggi (Dawsey, Harris, & Miller, 2018). President Donald Trump has taken an opposing side to U.S. intelligence and has defended the crown prince (Haltiwanger, 2018).

Trump’s response to the killing of Khashoggi gives an insight into his entire view about U.S. involvement in Yemen by providing arms and intelligence to Saudi Arabia. On November 22nd, in an interview with the Washington Post (Dawsey, 2018), Trump argues against the statement that the CIA has confirmed the death of Khashoggi was ordered by the crown prince, stating that “They did not come to a conclusion…I don’t know if anyone’s going to be able to conclude that the crown prince did it” (Dawsey, 2018).

Throughout the interview, Trump repeatedly prioritizes the wealth Saudi Arabia brings to the US through arms sales 81

over the war in Yemen. “We have hundreds of thousands of jobs, do people really want me to give up hundreds of thousands of jobs?” asked Trump in the interview. “The fact is, they have been a very strong ally, they create tremendous wealth…a tremendous number of jobs in their purchases. Very importantly, they keep the oil price down” (Dawsey, 2018). Trump has also been backed by Secretary of State, Mike Pompeo, who also supports US military sales to Saudi Arabia after being told that ending sales could “jeopardize $2 billion in weapons sales to America’s Gulf allies” (Nissenbaum, 2018).

Effects of the War

In an article released in August of 2018, NPR reported on the latest United Nations Human Rights Council report that some countries could be responsible for war crimes in Yemen. The report cited violations of “unlawful deprivation of the right to life, arbitrary detention, rape, torture, ill-treatment” (Neuman, 2018).

Two years into the war, the Associated Press (2017) released an article on allegations of torture at prisons in Yemen. The article covers accusations of torture from the United Arab Emirates against Yemenis prisoners while U.S. personnel interrogate. Former Yemenis prisoners reported that abuse was “routine and torture extreme,” and lawyers and families have reported that almost 2,000 men have “disappeared into the clandestine prisons” (Michael, 2017). Some of the reported forms of torture and abuse include the “grill,” where a prisoner is tied to a spit and turned over a fire, being flogged with wires, and being put in a metal shipping container and having a fire lit underneath.

Senior American defense officials did recognize and report that the U.S. has been a part of interrogations of detain82

ees. Officials reported that they were aware of allegations of torture but were “satisfied that there had not been any abuse when the U.S. forces were present” (Michael, 2017). While U.S. Defense Department spokeswoman, Dana White, stated that they would have reported any “violations of human rights,” there are reports that U.S. forces “were at times only yards away” (Michael, 2017). However, all the Yemen prisoners interviewed reported that U.S. personnel were never part of the “actual abuses” (Michael, 2017).

Ryan Goodman, a law professor at New York University, stated that it did not matter whether or not U.S. forces were a part of the interrogations where torture was involved. The U.S. could still be found guilty on war crimes if American interrogators were obtaining information that was a result of human rights violations, and that this in itself would violate the International Convention Against Torture (Michael, 2017).

The UN Human Rights Council report also noted human trafficking crimes of “enforced disappearance and child recruitment” (Neuman, 2018). In the 2017 Trafficking in Persons Report, released by the US Department of State’s Office to Monitor and Combat Trafficking in Persons, Yemen was classified as a special case. This is the third consecutive year Yemen has been classified as a special case as a result of its civil war and the loss of governmental control over the country.

In 2014, the Yemen government recognized the use of child soldiers within their borders and signed a UN action plan to end the recruitment and use of child soldiers. Due to the limited capacity and continuing civil war, the government has failed to implement the 2014 UN action plan to end child soldiering. Reports have indicated that government forces, Houthi rebel force, and AQAP have all intensified their recruitment and use of child soldiers, with children as young as 12 83

years old. At the beginning of 2015, when Houthi rebels took control of Sana’a, Yemen’s parliament was disbanded, and the drafted anti-trafficking legislation forgotten in the process.

Due to the lack of government control and regulation throughout Yemen, the Yemen government did not investigate any reports of government officials complicit or engaged in domestic servitude of women and children, forced prostitution, forced labor, or recruitment and use of child soldiers. Additionally, the TIP report highlights that government officials have also ignored crimes of human trafficking in their regions because of the lack of resources to combat trafficking and the financial benefits from trafficking for the elite.

The last group of war crimes the UN Human Rights Council cites is “violations of freedom of expression and economic, social and cultural rights, in particular the right to an adequate standard of living and the right to health” (Neuman, 2018). The report states that “coalition airstrikes have caused most of the documented civilian casualties” (Neuman, 2018).

In December of 2018, UNICEF published a Humanitarian Situation Report that evaluated civilian living standards due to the war. The report found that 11.3 million children need humanitarian assistance, 4.1 million children in need of educational assistance, 1 million have been internally displaced, and 400,000 children under the age of 5 are suffering from Severe Acute Malnutrition (SAM). Out of the total Yemen population, 22.2 million people need humanitarian assistance, 16 million need WASH (water, sanitation, and hygiene), and 16.37 million people need basic health care (UNICEF, 2018).

A Saudi-led coalition blockade on Yemen’s airports and main seaport, Hodeida, has stopped supplies from reaching the rebels and has also delayed and diverted aid shipments.

Hodeida is responsible for 80% of the country’s essential im84

ports and goods (WHO, 2018). Human Rights Watch has called Saudi Arabia’s actions, “weaponizing aid” as the people of Yemen have become more vulnerable (Strochlic, 2018). Over 50% of medical facilities in Yemen have closed, many abandoned by doctors seeking haven in other countries, and others bombed by military coalitions. Public hospital workers have not been paid since 2016. An NGO in Yemen ordered a shipment of medication in July of 2017, and they did not arrive until April of 2018 (Strochlic, 2018).

A 2018 UN Report estimated that 130 children died every day from extreme hunger and disease in 2017, a total of 50,000 children throughout the entire year (Lowcock, 2018).

Many reports state the deaths being calculated are most likely incorrect as many people die at home, unable to afford going to the hospital “their stories go unrecorded” (Lowcock, 2018).

The crisis in Yemen is worsening due to increased fighting in the port city of Hodeida, and the decline of the economy.

In 2017, Houthi rebels attempted to launch a ballistic missile towards the capital of Saudi Arabia, Riyadh, which led to the Saudi-led coalition to tighten its blockade at Hodeida (BBC, 2018). Since 2015, Yemen’s GDP has been cut in half, over 600,000 jobs have been lost, and more than 80% of the population is living below the poverty line (Lowcock, 2018).

The war has led to 3.9 million Yemenis to become internally displaced (UNHCR). Many live in makeshift shelters in urban and rural areas, and 62% are being hosted by family and friends (Refugees, 2016). Since the conflict, 3 million have fled the country, seeking safety in surrounding countries, such as Oman, Saudi Arabia, Djibouti, Ethiopia, Somalia, and Sudan.

Oman, neighboring Yemen, has received the largest influx of Yemen’s refugees, over 50,000 in 2017 alone (UNHCR).

Due to its location along the Arabian Peninsula, Yemen 85

has also been a destination country for Somalian and Ethiopian refugees (Wilson-Smith, 2019). By 2017, over 250,000 Somalian refugees fled to Yemen through the Gulf of Aden, fleeing from the city of Bossasso. By 2017, there were an additional 15,000+ Ethiopian refugees who crossed through the Red Sea, departing from the city of Obock in Djibouti. Although Yemen has been a destination country in the past, many refugees are now embarking on a second migration to another surrounding country, or back to their home country, especially as violence has increased (Wilson-Smith, 2019).

Getting Out

In November and December of 2018, a resolution was proposed in Congress to end U.S. support for Saudi Arabia and the war in Yemen. The legislation was passed in the Senate 56-41, but the Republican majority House blocked any movements on U.S. involvement in Yemen. After the 2018 congressional elections, with a shift from Republican to Democratic control in the House of Representatives, the legislation was reintroduced on January 30th of 2019. Senator of Vermont, Bernie Sanders, stated that U.S. involvement in Yemen’s civil war has been “unconstitutional.” In a statement during the proposal of the legislation, Sanders stated: “The Founders specifically gave Congress—the branch closest to the people—the power to declare war. Yet we’ve been participating in war actions in the Yemeni Civil War since 2015 without the go-ahead from Congress” (Carden, 2018).

Many also argue that the war is not just about economics, but it is also a moral issue. Saudi Arabia has imposed blockades on Yemen’s main port of Al Hudaydah. With Yemen importing 70% of its food, the Saudi blockades are putting further stress and restrictions on an already impoverished 86

country. The New York Times article claims that at least 85,000 children have died, and that “starvation has become a weapon of war” (Watkins & Walsh, 2018).

Many speculate that U.S. involvement is a result of tension with Iran and so the US has chosen to support Saudi Arabia “despite reckless bombings and civilian casualties” (Haltiwanger, 2019). Supporters of U.S. support for the Saudi coalition, including Trump, argue that it would not be worth the risk to end arms sales to Saudi Arabia and harm the American economy.

Current Status

At the start of 2019, the newly elected Congress introduced the War Powers Resolution for the third time. In the January vote, the Senate voted 63-37 in favor of the resolution.

While Senators and House Representatives face opposition, public opinion polls show that they have the support of the people with 70.8% of those surveyed saying, “Congress should pass legislation that would restrain military action overseas” (Carden, 2018).

In an interview with The Nation (2019), Senator Ro Khanna explains that opposition to the legislation is due to fear that it will affect U.S. counterterrorism operations against Al-Qaeda. However, Senator Khanna emphasizes that the proposed legislation has nothing to do with American operations regarding Al-Qaeda and counterterrorism (Carden, 2019).

Not all congressmen and women quickly recognized that the US was at fault. Khanna explains that there were three significant events that caused those in office to shift their perspective. The first was false reporting about the humanitarian crisis in Yemen. Second, an increase in reports about the bombing of women and children, and the overall increase of 87

civilian causalities. Lastly, the recent killing of Kamal Khashoggi (Carden, 2018). “Congress, for the first time, acknowledged that our involvement in the Saudi Civil War was unauthorized,” stated Khanna, “that we had no authorization to be providing fueling and targeting assistance” (Carden, 2018).

While the Trump administration continues to support the military sales to Saudi Arabia, polls have shown that 57% of those surveyed feel US military aid is “counterproductive.”

Those fully opposed to military aid increases to 63.9% when involving countries like Saudi Arabia (Carden, 2018).

References BBC News (2019, February 18). Yemen profile – Timeline. BBC. Retrieved from https://www.bbc.com/news Bakri, N. & Goodman, J.D. (2011, January 27). Thousands in Yemen Protest Against the Government. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com Carden, J. (2018, January 9). A New Poll Shows the Public Is Overwhelmingly Opposed to Endless US Military Inter ventions. The Nation. Retrieved from https://www.thenation.com Carden, J. (2019, January 30). Q&A: Congress Takes a Historic Step to End the War on Yemen. The Nation. Retrieved from https://www.thenation.com CNN Library (2017, December 7). Ali Abdullah Saleh Fast Facts. CNN. Retrieved from https://www.cnn.com Dawsey, J. (2018, November 22). Trump brushes aside CIA assertion that crown prince ordered killing, defends him and Saudi Arabia. Washington Post. Retrieved from https://wwwwashingtonpost.com Dawsey, J., Harris, S., & Miller, G. (2018, November 16). CIA 88

concludes Saudi crown prince ordered Khashoggi’s assassination. Washington Post. Retrieved from https://www. washintonpost.com Gasim, G. (2018, January 29). What is going on in southern Ye- men? Al Jazeera. Retrieved from https://www.aljazeera. com Haltiwanger, J. (2018, November 28). The world is slowly turn ing against Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman even as Trump digs his heels in. Business Insider. Retrieved from https://www.businessinsider.com Hedges, C. (1994, May 16). In Yemen’s Civil War, South Fights on Gloomily. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com Kifner, J. (1986, February 9). Massacre with Tea: Southern Yemen at War. The New York Times. Retrieved from https:// www.nytimes.com Lowcock, M. (2018, October 23). Half the population of Yemen at risk of famine: UN emergency relief chief. UN News.

Retrieved from https://news.un.org/en/ Michael, M. (2017, June 22). In Yemen’s secret prisons, UAE tor tures and US interrogates. Associated Press. Retrieved from https://www.apnews.com Neuman, S. (2018, August 28). U.N. Experts: Some Saudi-Led Airstrikes In Yemen Could be War Crimes. NPR. Retrieved from https://www.npr.org Nissenbaum, D. (2018, September 20). Top U.S. Diplomat Backed Continuing Support for Saudi War in Yemen Over Objections of Staff. The Wall Street Journal. Retrieved from https://www.wsj.com NPR Staff (2011, December 17). The Arab Spring: A Year of Revolution. NPR. Retrieved from https://www.npr.org Refugees and Migrants (2016, August 22). Joint UN agency 89

report. UN. Retrieved from https://refugeesmigrants. un.org Riedel, B. (2017, December 18). Who are the Houthis, and why are we at war with them? Brookings. Retrieved from https://www.brookings.edu/blog/markaz/ Strochlic, N. (2018). The World Has Left Yemen to Die. National Geographic. Retrieved from https://www.nationalgeographic.com UNICEF (2018, December). Yemen Humanitarian Situation Report. Retrieved from https://www.unicef.org/appeals/ files/UNICEF_Yemen_Humanitarian_Situation_Report_ December_2018.pdf Watkins, D. & Walsh D. (2018, December 27). Saudi Strikes, American Bombs, Yemeni Suffering. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com WHO Yemen (2018, June 12). Hudaydah Port in Yemen. World Health Organization. Retrieved from https://twitter.com/ whoyemen/status/1006520621990404103 Wilson-Smith, H. (2019, February 6). On the Move in a War Zone: Mixed Migration Flows to and through Yemen.

Migration Policy Institute. Retrieved from https://www. migrationpolicy.org UNHCR (NA). Yemen Crisis. UN Refugee Agency. Retrieved from https://www.unrefugees.org Yemen Data Project. (2019). Civilian Casualties. Retrieved from https://yemendataproject.org/index.html

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Kobe and Gigi Bryant Kelly Pozil

91

Blueberry Picking Rickie Farnes

The land does not mind as we pluck Its bowers dry, steal its treasured prizes, Reaching like newborn babies in delight Toward those slight, delicate, slippery spheres.

They pop in our mouths, gushing their juices, Leaking their insides on our white shirts, Now gloriously stained with memories Of rope swings, picnics, pinecones, and sea birds.

As we trace the jagged curves of the hill, Pails, arms, and hearts intertwining, We are strong, we are proud, we are the bears That charge forward, trampling berries underfoot.

The path that calls us home is now engraved With the signatures of our adventures, And we are drawn inside by the wafting Of warm blueberry buckle.

When the sea swallows the waning sunlight, Spraying rosy sparks off Penobscot Bay, We leave our grandparents’ house, Waving through raucous showers of mountain rain.

Many seasons have passed with the ticking of the clock, The ebbing and flowing of the tide of being: This tiny thing called life, 92

And I return like the July berries.

Now I see my daughter in the meadow, Clinging to her brother as he twirls her, Shrieking, laughing, bubbling over Like the brooks by the water’s edge in springtime.

Inhaling balsam fir and salty air, I am spinning with them.

How could I have known at such a tender age, How could I have seen and savored, That life’s greatest, simplest, purest pleasures Would be found in a field that feeds.

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Mary

Rachel Silverio looking down i see my hands covered in dirt and blood the viscous mixture dripping down in clumps that land at my feet on the ground i see it my white wool’d friend its once white wool soft and untouched now trampled and drenched in sickly crimson and burgundy its once white wool full of music and life now motionless except for red oozing like a slow, somber ballad who else can i blame when there is no wolf in sight only me only curiosity only compromise placing it in the earth i cover it and pat the shallow grave once or twice saying goodbye to my white wool’d friend i continue walking knowing the blood on my hands will soon dry and fall off leaving no evidence to remind me leaving only the absence of my white wool’d friend at my side

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If I could be anywhere, I would be here.

Samantha Noel Depue

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On the Island of Lesvos Rickie Farnes

A Doctor in poor health With his wife And three sons, Little pawns, Lurch forward on the horizon Toward this occidental shore.

As I watch them surge Against the liquid mountains, Toward a murky coast, I see they are under siege, The ice-cold hand of their oppressors Ever-stinging.

Their flimsy bodies Whip in the air, Like kites in the wind, Still anchored to the deep.

In his approaching face Is the look Of a healer Defeated.

Blankets, they are given, But not warmth, A meal, But not nourishment, 96

A shelter, But not belonging, A smile, But not understanding, A country, perhaps, But not acceptance.

Forever aliens, The present is foreign, And the past is home.

97

New Year City Motion Justin D. Reed

98

No More Training Wheels Corena Lentz

I needed air. The walls were closing in on me. I couldn’t take working at this desk for another minute, let alone another three hours. This wasn’t like me. I don’t do this, I have worked too hard to be this person. I have worked myself up in this company from just the intern to Head Editor, Donna Millstone’s personal assistant, till finally being promoted to Travel Writer of Independent Travel for All. It finally seemed like my big move to New York from my small town in Oregon was finally paying off. It took five years of hard work, late nights in the office, no free time on the weekends, and basically no social life to finally get my dream job. In every way, this should be the happiest time in my life. And if that’s the case, then why do I feel like the walls are closing in on me?

I blame Stuart for doing this to me; we have been dating for a year and a half now. I wouldn’t say it was love at first sight.

Actually, it was more like an attraction with a hint of regret tied into it. From the start, I shouldn’t have been dating with my work life being so crazy and unpredictable. I couldn’t afford to get thrown off by some boy with a pretty face. That stupid face, with his bright blue eyes, wavy brown hair, dark complexion, and those two small dimples when he smiles. He is, in every way, the perfect boyfriend. From the first moment we met, he has been nothing less than a gentleman. * I had been dragged by my best friend, also roommate, Sarah, to Scout’s Pub. I had just finished a forty-hour workweek, and I was still on call that weekend. While Sarah just finished her third martini of the night, I was still working on 99

100

my first.

“You know what your problem is?” Sarah screamed over the loud music, as I took another sip of my drink, and I leaned against the bar, “You are a workaholic, all you think about is work! You need to live your life! You’re only 25 for Pete’s sake!”

I laughed as I watched her chug down her drink before waving down the bartender for another. The crowded bar was filled with all different kinds of drunk people, from the newly turned 21-year olds to the middle aged-old men looking to find what was left of their youth, and the group of men screaming at whatever fight was playing. It wasn’t long before I had to wave down the bartender to ask if he could watch Sarah while I go to the bathroom.

“I don’t need a babysitter!” she informed me as the bartender laughed and nodded his head. With that, I made my way through the crowd to the opposite side of the bar in search of the bathroom. In truth, going to the restroom in a bar in New York City was probably the biggest adventure a girl could make. Most New York bathrooms are famous for being covered in pee or vomit or having some crazy girl crying in the stall next to yours. But I was desperate, I had held it in for the past thirty minutes and the way Sarah was pounding drinks, this might be my only time to leave her alone.

“Lady watch out!” screamed a voice. Being lost in thought, I didn’t realize I was walking right into the middle of a fight between two heavy-set men. I quickly turn to see the two men charging at me both holding on to their half-finished beers for dear life. At the same time, I felt someone grab hold of my waist lifting me away in the opposite direction right as one of the men went in for the blow out punch, causing the man’s drink to spill all over the floor in the exact spot I was standing only a second ago.

“What the he--!” I whispered as I stared at the puddle of

beer.

“Are you ok?” said the calming voice of my rescuer as I was now holding on to his arms without even realizing his hands were still on my waist.

“Um…yeah… I think so… Thank you….”

“Stuart.”

“Stuart,” I whispered, smiling. * Now look at me, I just ran out of the office in the middle of the week, on the verge of an emotional breakdown. Taking hold of my old beat-up bike, I quickly made my escape before I could talk myself out of it. My bike has been my road to freedom since my first day in the city. Being able to ride through the streets and having everyone jumping out of my way is probably the best feeling in the world. My bike is what makes me feel like I have some kind control in this crazy, never-ending city. As the wind hit my face, I closed my eyes for a brief second to imagine I was hiking on some mountain in the fields of a far-off country. Soon that would be my life. Why did he have to ruin everything?

I came to the edge of Central Park, stepping off the bike to take in the wonders of children playing, couples walking hand and hand. Taking another deep breath, I grabbed on to my hair to pull it out of my face, as my other hand reached into the brown woven basket on the edge of my bike, pulling out a small black jewelry box. How can one tiny box cause so much trouble? I open the box to reveal a beautiful oval-shaped Diamond, with a simple 14k gold finishing. It must have been at least a two-carat Diamond ring. It was everything a girl could ask for. Stupid Stuart. It has only been 24 hours since the big ask. In fact, it wasn’t even a big ask, it was simple as making breakfast.

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* We were in the kitchen of his apartment, making breakfast to celebrate my new promotion. Stuart was making our omelets while I was pouring coffee and setting up the table. It was so simple. It was something we had done at least once a month, blocking out time in the morning to spend a few uninterrupted hours together.

“Stuart, do you want milk and sugar in your coffee? I know it's healthier without, but I figure it’s a celebration, so it doesn’t….” I turned around to grab the milk as I saw Stuart had stepped away from the stove and was now on one knee, holding the small box.

“What are you doing?!”

“Will you marry me?” The world had stopped spinning, time froze, and I didn’t know what to do. My eyes kept shifting from Stuart to the ring, back to Stuart; there was no good answer here.

Closing my eyes, I whispered, “Ok.” * Who knew one word could change my life forever in a way I didn’t expect. I should be happy right now. I should be showing this ring off to everyone I met today. I should be calling all my family members, telling them the great news.

I should be on cloud freakin’ nine. I love Stuart, but do I love him enough? How do we know we know we love someone enough to change our entire life for them? I use to think love was simple, all I had to do was look at my parents. My mom married my dad at twenty- six. She was on her way to being the lead reporter at our small town’s newspaper. Her dream was to see the world and report the news to everyone. Her dream was to travel across the country to places below the poverty line. To meet people where they are and share their personal stories 102

to the world in the hopes of trying to make their lives better.

When she met my dad, everything changed, she fell madly in love, and they were married after only six months of dating.

Thirty years later, and they are still just as madly in love as they were back then. When I made the big move to New York, I asked my mom if she had any regrets about not continuing her journalism career. She just smiled as she gave me a hug, “ I don’t have any regrets. I love your father,” she whispered in my ear. I let go of her embrace, seeing the water building in her eyes. This was my moment to shine, to break away from the world of a small town, and find a life in the big city with new opportunities. Even if my mom wasn’t lying about not having regrets, there still had to be a small part of her that wondered, what if. What if she asked my dad to wait on the married life, or if she had tried harder to keep her journalism career alive. “What if” can be two words that haunt a person for the rest of their lives if they let it. I never wanted that to be me. * I slowly grabbed the ring removing it from the box, slipping it on to my left hand. Holding it up in front of me, I stared at the ring as it sparkled in the sunlight. A dream ring, but was it my dream man? We grow up hearing stories of women who screamed yes at the top of their lungs, tears flowing down their faces as they wrap their arms around the love of their life.

They know with everything in them that this is the person they want to spend their lives with. I never felt that with Stuart. I spent five years in a job that at times, I hated more than anything. But I stuck it out for the moment, I would finally build my career as a professional writer, and for a moment I knew it was all worth it. Maybe Sarah was right; I am a workaholic, maybe I spent far too much energy caring what my boss 103

thought of me. I own those choices, and if it wasn’t for those long hours, I wouldn’t be the published writer I am now.

My destiny is to travel the world and write about life in other countries. But can I do it all and have the man of my dreams by my side? Five years ago, I thought the scariest thing in my life was making a move to the city. I had so much fear that I would fail, but I did it, and I kicked butt. I built my career to what it is today, and I have zero regrets. Every late-night, every weekend I spent running errands for my boss, all the time I had to turn down late nights partying with my friends. I don’t regret a single thing. I didn’t settle for my dream job, so why would I settle for my dream guy? My mom loved my dad with her body and soul; she knew from the moment she met him that he was the one. She had no regrets in her career because she had the love of her life by her side. I want that kind of love.

I want to know with everything in me that I am making the right choice because he is the one for me.

As I stared back down at the ring on my finger, a high pitch screamed came from the distance. I turned to see a young man down on his knee with a girl standing over him with her hands to her mouth as tears ran down her face; “Yes!” she screamed as the man jumped to his feet and pulled her in for a kiss. I smiled as I stared at the young couple having their own perfect moment. Reaching into my pocket, I dialed Stuart's number.

“Hey Stuart, I was wondering if you could meet for coffee right now? Meet me at the usual coffee shop?” I hung up before he could say no, putting my phone back in my pocket.

I took one more glance at the couple who was still kissing in the middle of the walkway. Taking a breath, I took off the ring, placing it back in the jewelry box, tossing it into the basket in front of my bike. I knew what I had to do.

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The Queen of Ravens J. Luke Herman

She takes and she steals, the queen of all ills, with her wings that fly like a shadowy kite, with beady black eyes that gaze eternally.

Here she glides and there she cries, her lies like flies that infect good life, she takes and she steals, the queen of all ills.

For those that seek her never do sleep, as she weaves tales of hysteria to keep those in mania, with beady black eyes that gaze eternally.

There they walk and here they stumble, the mind is hers now after they’ve fallen and fumbled, she takes and she steals, the queen of all ills.

And in the darkness, she calls them forth, ghouls and ghasts, the remnant souls, with beady black eyes that gaze eternally.

They do grumble as they grope, their minds forever lost, their bodies rot and crumble, she takes and she steals, the queen of all ills, with beady black eyes that gaze eternally.

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prism no. 3 Emily Brown

106

And Otherworldly Affliction Asia Marie Collins

“Dr. Challaner’s Theatre for the Obliged” it read, “only when the estranged rise with melody.” Words read by I, every day.

“Estranged. What do you reckon that means?”

A question asked by I every day.

In a village just north of Brussels, lived nobles and peasants who surrendered to the questions surrounding the infamous parchment paper from down the creek. The parchment that appeared ever so often, since first recorded in Dublin almost 100 years earlier. Though it had now been in our small village, this parchment was a burden to no one. One parchment would flow down the water of the creek, sometimes two parchments, other times three. The same ink, spelling out the same words, “ Dr. Challaner’s Theatre for the Obliged,” and then in small print below “only when the estranged rise with melody.” No one knew where these came from. No one knew a “Dr. Challaner.” No one cared anymore; when the parchments first appeared, our fearful ancestors beheaded the only Challaner family, believing they were the source of the papers.

However, the parchments continued to sneak within their eye lines; no visible consequence recorded. Sorrow arose when they came to realize that The Challaner kindred they slaughtered were nothing more than an innocent family with unfortunate luck.

Every day I thought about those words.

Every day I asked myself questions about those words.

Those words: Dr. Challaner’s Theatre for the Obliged, only when the estranged rise with melody.

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Plague was the sickness that hunted and captured.

Plague was the illness that took lives to a place of otherworldly suffering. It wasn’t until I lie on the pavement that I knew of another world. I lied on the pavement. I lied in my nightgown, staring up at the moon. I lied on the pavement. Pavement I had not recognized and pavement that felt cold. I was in no heaven.

Plague was no heaven. Vision blurs. My weary body trembling on the cot. My dearest father cleaning the supper that had seen my insides. Vision blurs. Eyes on the pavement. At one moment, I felt hot and another cold. At one moment, I saw my father, and another I did not. My vision blurs a final time, and I find myself on the pavement for good.

No father, no plague, just restlessness. No father, no plague, just confusion.

No father, no plague, just body thrusts. No father, no plague, just music.

No father, no plague, just the sounds of the unfamiliar.

Honey, oh Honey,

Had my eyes deceived my brain? No. My life had deceived my eyes. Here I lay, dying on the pavement from what I had thought was my cot. Here I lay, humming to the instruments I had not heard before.

Honey, oh Honey,

“I will Oblige, I will Perform!” screams an older woman in fear of her fate. An older woman I had recognized; the baker’s mother who had become bedridden. If I had only made the connection at the time.

“I promise to perform, I promise to sing,” she pleaded, 108

though it did not seem like anyone was listening. They continued to chant and sing. They. Who was 'they'?

Honey, oh Honey,

A creature stood, holding the baker’s mother in an unbounded grasp in the dark moonlight. A gray bear creature, with the face of a hare whose unruly presence made me shake uneasily. Shaken I was, lying on the streets of the unfamiliar.

Shaken I was when I had finally come accustomed to my surroundings. Everywhere I looked, I saw creatures. Not men, not women, not children, not elders. Creatures, all with features that would give the gods nightmares. The bear-hare held her down and locked her in chains on the wooden table across from the building they had come out of. The brutes began singing: Honey, oh Honey, we sing forth these words.

May love and her nature be torn by the birds.

Honey, oh Honey, we act for the king.

May all come to realize, we bow down and sing.

Honey, oh Honey, we dance for the doctor.

Perform and be pleased for the Theatre Conductor.

The woman I had once known, was devoured by a swarm of darkened green birds that had crept from the skin of the dead. Fearful of my fate I had become when the feasting began. Fearful of my fate I had become when the creatures from down the road caught my darkened eyes. And just in one moment, I was transported. Transported to a building. Transported to a theatre. Transported to a stage. I remember looking down, afraid to face the demons in front of me and afraid to do 109

the wrong action.

“Sing forth your words,” stated calmly by a brute in the audience. His accent, I had not recognized, and when I looked up, his face I had not recognized. There sat in the audience, was something, sitting straight in a chair too small for him, as if he were human. Tall was this something, and lean was it, but what made him strange was his smile. The end of his lips, terrifyingly connected to the corners of his bright blue eyes.

Every feature of his face was connected somehow, and when he smiled, they all moved upwards in unorganized chaos that would make any person feel as though the impossible was better left untouched. He was fear; he is fear.

“Perform my dear, perform for your place,” he encouraged. As the movement on his face caused me to shudder, I heard the sound of an organ. I did not know where it came from; there was no instrument in sight. What once was a beautiful sound became a haunting mind blend that I would be forced to hear until the end of time. Nevertheless, I began to sing.

Ah. Different forms of “ah.” I sang with the organ, but little did I know that it was better to have not sung.

Dr. Challaner’s Theater. A theater for the obliged. A theater for the sick and deranged who are knowingly trapped in purgatory. A theater to watch all the people who have died, scream for a life that they think they have a chance for. A theater for the beasts who thrive on the misery and the woes of others. Ah yes, a theater for beasts. I have too, become a beast; my nightgown now shredded, and my hair now growing only in the middle of my face. I sit watching with my eyes now stretched down to my cheekbones and my ears pulled around my neck. As another human starts to quiver in fear of Dr. Challaner, I prepare myself to feast on his brain that will soon 110

be given to us. Us. Yes, “us,” the creatures from down the creek.

The creatures that determine the torture of lost souls in a theater, owned by the one and only: Dr. Challaner. A doctor who wants a show. A doctor who was too hideous for hell. A doctor who rules the otherworldly affliction. Pleased be us when we feast and thrive on the bodies of the two hundred million affected by the Plague in the next century. We, creatures, take the humans who refuse, and we sing:

Honey, oh Honey, we sing forth these words.

May love and her nature be torn by the birds.

Honey, oh Honey, we act for the king.

May all come to realize, we bow down and sing.

Honey, oh Honey, we dance for the doctor.

Perform and be pleased for the Theatre Conductor.

I wish I was the baker’s mother.

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on the streets of barcelona Emilie G. Bakker

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Romans 8:18 Elijah Lemna

“What we suffer now,” is hard.

Sometimes, we even have the audacity to tell ourselves this is how it will be.

Forever. “is nothing,” ya, right.

How is poverty nothing?

How is homelessness nothing?

I used to hate when people would tell me ‘It just wasn’t in God’s plan,’ as if I’d never heard those words. “compared to,” oh and now you’re gonna say it could always be worse.

I understand that.

I do.

But I don’t know what to do; What’s supposed to come next?

What am I waiting for then? “what he has in store for us.”

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In the Laughter Anonymous

The girl’s boyfriend of nearly one year sits in front of the piano plunking out some chords. Badly, too, but she still thinks he looks so cute hunched over, hyper-focused on playing the right notes. Through his mistakes, the lonely but beautiful melody echoes through the house. The girl joins him on the piano bench, carefully sliding on the other end, not to mess him up. The couple stays there for a moment, him playing and her listening, and for a moment, it is perfect.

He stops playing piano suddenly and turns his attention to her, running his fingers gently up and down her spine, sending a wave of warm feelings throughout her body. He brushes away her long hair and starts to kiss the back of her neck softly. The girl finds herself constantly craving any form of affection or validation that he can give her; her instinctual reaction is to give into his embrace, falling into him, into the comfortable and familiar. It is in this moment, though, that something about it feels so wrong.

She pushes him away, her stomach rising to her throat.

“No, stop.” Her words ring abruptly through the air as if she’s just played clashing notes on the piano.

“What’s wrong?”

He asks this question more out of courtesy than anything else; he can probably venture a guess as to what’s wrong.

If they both are honest with themselves, things haven’t been good for a long time. They both have chosen to stick it out, letting things slide and shoving things under the rug, blinded by their love for each other. But it is only a matter of time when that will no longer be enough, because the two of them togeth114

er are like glued porcelain, ready to fall back to pieces with even the softest touch.

“I think we need to talk.”

“Okay, c’mon.”

He stands up from the bench and extends his hand, which she somewhat cautiously takes. She can’t help but notice how easily their fingers weave together as they walk side by side. The two exit the house, occupied with the potential to interrupt a serious conversation such as this one, and instead climb inside his beat-up, smelly car that is parked outside. Normally when they go out on dates, the boy runs to the passenger side of the car to open the door for her. Sometimes, just to mess with him, the girl races to the driver’s side, trying to open the door for him instead. They almost make a game of it. Today, they both individually walk to their perspective sides of the car with an obvious silence that is only interrupted by slamming the doors behind them.

The girl thinks she might be sick. Her mouth suddenly becomes very dry. It feels like her entire world is coming to a crashing halt.

“So what’s up?” he asks in his usual upbeat and positive tone.

Stop playing dumb, the girl thinks. You know what is up.

It takes almost everything left inside her to eventually let out a weak, “I think we should break up.”

He seems disappointed, but not entirely surprised.

Again, out of courtesy, he asks the girl why she feels this way.

She proceeds to talk for a long time, finally bringing to light all of the issues that he always tries to ignore. In a strange way, it is somewhat freeing.

The boy doesn’t try to fight her on it. He doesn’t disagree or try to do something to prevent the breakup. This makes the girl even more sad, because what she secretly wants,

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more than anything, is for him to fight for her, for their relationship. She wants him to truly understand what it is he did wrong, to apologize for hurting her so badly, and to want to fix it. But the bottom line is that he doesn’t do any of those things, and he doesn’t want to. That is why they are in this situation in the first place, and the girl finally has the courage to recognize that.

And this fact only makes it that much harder. She is so deeply in love with him. Her first love. Her first everything.

And he doesn’t care, not anymore at least.

They continue discussing their many problems for awhile, finally having the courage and respect to be brutally honest with each other. They talk, they yell, they argue. Finally. They have a moment where they scream angrily in each other’s faces and a moment where they hold each other desperately, tears streaming down both their faces. The girl has never seen him cry before. After a while, an awkward silence persists. And then there comes a tender moment that neither of them could have expected in that particular moment.

Not knowing what else to say, the girl makes a joke.

“Well, this sucks,” she quips with her usual sarcasm.

Even though it isn’t an objectively funny joke, they both erupt in laughter, truly making the encounter a rollercoaster of emotions. The two of them sit next to each other, enjoying a prolonged moment of happiness amidst the mourning. And for a moment, a brief moment, they both question their decision to break up in the first place. After all, it is easier to imagine ending things when they are in a screaming fight, or complaining to their friends, or miles away from each other. But here, in the laughter, they are reminded of how comfortable and easy and wonderful being together could be.

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Pathway to Snow Kristian Davis Jr.

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It Keeps Going.

Lauren Pohl

She met him then, the same age as her.

He's gone now— She’s now as old as he was.

They're still together, still in love— They're just starting out, still discovering.

They haven’t met yet.

He remembers the car, the convertible— She drives one now.

She used to play kitchen in the dirt-She makes the most thanksgiving meals.

He proposed at a baseball game— She remembers going to ball games with grandpa.

He loved Dr. Pepper— She loves that he loved it.

She was a seamstress, she still sews— She looks at grandma as she hand-stitches.

He stresses about asking her out— She wonders what he is thinking.

She got her license at 40— She worries about driving.

She loves driving in the rain— He loves his coffee bitter— He fancies a latte.

She was never allowed to wear jeans— She wore a suit to the wedding.

They got married—they split up.

He worries.

She laughs.

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He jokes.

She runs.

He sings.

She can never remember the words.

He yells.

She's patient.

He's gentle.

She gets angry.

He tries to stop it all— She lets time carry her.

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Two Girls Linking Arms Kelly Pozil

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Women’s Inclusion in the Church Kaleigh Lawrence

Have you ever been asked, “If you could live in any time period, what would it be?” Younger me wanted to live during the medieval times wearing beautiful gowns, or during the regency era, dancing at balls and finding my true love. However, as I grew older and learned more about history, my answer changed. I would like to stay right here in the 21st century.

Being a woman before the 21st century meant living a confined life. It meant not having equal rights for both men and women. Ultimately, it meant being treated as less than God’s image-bearer and being prevented from walking in the gifts God gave women because a woman could only function where men permitted. Then how did our society, and many churches, get to where they are now, where women have greater freedoms to live out their vocation in some church circles, yet are subordinated in others? Throughout the following pages, various sociological axioms and principles will explain how and why women were first excluded from church and society; why this exclusion persisted for centuries; what ignited the change that led to greater inclusion of women within secular society; and finally, future predictions of female inclusion within church.

How did we get here?

The systematic subordination and subjugation of women within our current church culture has gone on for millennia–but how did we get here? Though a question so rarely asked, to begin explaining this phenomenon through various sociological concepts, one must go back to a time before the “church” was formed. When examining the ancient Near-Eastern context, where Judeo-Christianity began, one can see that

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the “anti-woman” sources came from pagan cultures, not from God or Biblical sources. According to the Values Axiom, influenced by the work of German sociologist Max Weber, “as a set of values becomes more deeply embedded and more uniformly held by people in a society, common social roles and widely institutionalized systems of rules are progressively modified in ways that manifest and maximize adherence to core values” (Powers 135). This axiom helps explain how first-century Greco-Roman culture “influenced ancient Jews and Christians so strongly that their effect is still felt today” (Gill and Cavaness p. 61). Highly regarded Greek philosophers, such as Socrates (470-399 BC), Plato (428-378 BC), and Aristotle (384-322 BC) believed women to be inferior to men and that women should be ruled by men (61). These “values” of the Greco-Roman culture deeply ingrained themselves in Jewish culture because Jews were impressed by their philosophical intellect. Further, in avoidance of seeming “backwards” and to prove their “enlightenment,” the Jewish people “adopted many of these philosophers’ world-views” (62). This new “value” of female inferiority is exemplified in Jewish texts of biblical interpretations, such as the Apocrypha, Pseudepigrapha, and Midrash texts.

This male chauvinism within Jewish interpretations of the Biblical text also can be explained by W.I Thomas’s Definition of Situation Axiom, that states, “people respond to situations according to what they believe to be true about those situations, rather than what is actually true” (Powers 20). Jewish interpreters and scholars, believing that women were inferior due to Greco-Roman influence, consequently would interpret the Biblical text through the lens of female inferiority. Unfortunately, even though Jesus and the Apostle Paul both defied male chauvinism (i.e., John 4:1-42, Luke 10:38-42, Ephesians 5:25-31, Galatians 3:28), “pagan influence that affected Judaism 122

is also seen in the writings of some of the early Church Fathers” (Gill and Cavaness 61). These Fathers, such as Tertullian (AD 160-230), Augustine (AD 3540430), Aquinas (AD 1224-1274), and Martin Luther believed women to be “the devil’s gateway,” not individually made in the Imago Dei, “defective,” and lacking the intelligence possessed by men (Gill and Cavaness 67-69). When examining the writings of these early Church Fathers, evidently, their “truths” about women become true in their consequence in how women are regarded, even though biblical and scientific truth regard women as equal bearers of God’s image, equally sinful, and equally empowered by the Spirit.

Why does female exclusion persist?

Though seemingly untrue within our postmodern world, Judeo-Christianity lies at the base of our society. As established above, early influencers of Christian thought, and the Christian Fathers themselves, believed that women were inferior to men, and as such, we have seen the systematic oppression of women continue today. Though these founders of our religious ideologies lived hundreds and thousands of years ago, one can see through the Founder’s Effect Axiom how “those interests and concerns of earlier figures that became an active part of institutional memory or are deeply embedded in institutional practice and shape the activities of others for a long time” (Powers 50).

Another explanation for the oppression of women can be seen through Karl Marx’s Structured Inequality Axiom, in that “the social structural arrangements that survive tend to be those that protect the interest of more-powerful people at the expense of less powerful people” (Powers 177). Over the past few millennia, the Church, and societies in general, have been 123

structured to benefit men at the expense of women, keeping men in positions of power, while women were domesticated, disempowered, and reliant on men for survival. Finally, according to Emile Durkheim’s theory of Collective Consciousness, a well-integrated, usually pre-industrial, “strong collective conscience discourages questioning and fosters a sense of moral outrage when people violate the rules” (Powers 106). Before the Industrial Revolution, when religion was often the means of creating a collective consciousness, it would be nearly impossible for beliefs about women to change. Since women were inferior in the eyes of the church, and men held the power, women within a collective consciousness wouldn’t think about questioning their position, or would not want to for fear of questioning authority or tradition, or disrupting the collective.

What caused the change?

In order to explain how women’s roles in the church have become more expansive, one must first view the macro trends regarding women’s rights and their societal inclusion. In the previous paragraph, the Structural Inequality Axiom explained why the oppression of women persisted, but its companion, the Intransigence Axiom, reveals how “the powerful do not loosen the grip of exploitation [or abuse of power] without being pressed to do so” (Powers 177). So what pressed the patriarchal culture to loosen their grip? There are many historical factors that led to this change. The Industrial Revolution, being one of the greatest social changes in the modern era.

Machines led to the deskilling of labor, forcing men to leave the homestead to work in factories, leaving women as managers of the home. Additionally, small social collectives of the pre-industrial era were now growing due to industrialization, which resulted in migration influencing diversity. This ulti124

mately led to the enfeeblement, or weakening, of the collective conscience, which in its consequence, allows for their susceptibility to outside forces.

One can also look further back to see the seeds planted within and by the Western patriarchal society during the Enlightenment era that would result in men loosening the grip on women's subordination. According to John Locke (1632-1704) and his beliefs of the law of nature, “‘all mankind … that, being all equal and independent, no one ought to harm another in his life, health, liberty, or possessions’” (William, 2017). Though women were not considered intellectually or cognitively apt compared to men during that time, this value of equality and independence would eventually lead to societal change. As science grew, rationality heightened, and changes in society called for various structural shifts (such as the passing of the 13th [slave emancipation] and 15th [black suffrage] Amendments). Consequently, women became more aware of the structural inequalities against female inclusion within societal (and personal) decision making, as theorized by Karls Marx. Marx proposed that as subordinate groups become aware of their “true collective interests” they are more likely to question the existing pattern of scarce resource distribution (Turner 136).

The female realization of inequalities between men and women can be explained by Marx’s insight into the theory of Relative Deprivation. His theory states that as the subordinates of society become aware of their collective interests (such as the unequal treatment of women) and “the greater is their questioning of the of the distribution of scarce resources, the more likely they are to join overt conflict against dominant segments of a system” (Turner 136). This is exemplified through the formation of the 1848 Declaration of Sentiments at the 125

Seneca Falls Convention for the rights of women. Not only did the Convention influence the cohesion of women and men for the continuum of fighting for women’s suffrage, but it also revealed further incongruencies within the US between what was valued (independence from a controlling patriarchy of King George III as seen in the Declaration of Independence) and what was structurally practiced (patriarchal control over female rights).

Furthermore, Talcott Parsons’s Principle of Structural Strain, explains how “other things being equal (OTBE), the pressure for change grows internal to systems of organization as a function of the degree of… inconsistency between expressed values and common patterns of behavior, with change of behavior in the direction of greater consistency with core social values when there is general agreement about the value that seems most relevant” (Powers 170). Women called-out these inconsistencies between U.S. values of equality and independence and the actual application of this value within society for women, forcing the government to consider and, in time, enact legislation granting women rights.

One of the greatest pushes that led to the expedited movement towards women’s rights within the US was World War II, which the Form Follows Function Axiom gives further insight into. According to this axiom developed by Durkheim, “form follows function in the sense that widespread patterns of structural change emerge as systemic responses to meet new needs” (Powers 231). In the case of WWII, the function, or need for function, was triggered due to the war demanding greater production of military goods and that most males within the U.S. were drafted into the war. Therefore, this resulted in many jobs “unmanned” that were necessary for the war effort. The U.S. had to follow this form with a new function: an undomes126

ticated female workforce. Women found themselves in jobs never performed by their sex, such as “Rosie the Riviters” and code decrypters. Unfortunately, after the war, women were no longer needed in the labor force and were once again confined to “their place” within the home or in jobs as secretaries, aids, or non-profit work.

Even though women went from being empowered and treated like full-citizens to their old realm of subordination and domesticity, once again Relative Deprivation reveals how women’s knowledge of their freedoms, and capability to be fully integrated into society could only lead to the questioning of patriarchy and the joining together in conflict against it, thus leading into the Second Wave of the Feminist Movement. The occurrence of these changes within society (due to the Industrial Revolution, the Enlightenment, WWII, and advancements in science) started a chain reaction that resulted in women gaining more and more freedoms within the patriarchal society that they lived in.

How did this affect women’s full church involvement?

Before the mid-twentieth century, women’s church and societal prohibited involvement tended to mirror one another, but as secular society began to remove itself from the integration and cohesion of religion (as a result of the enfeeblement of the collective conscience caused by industrialization and globalization), the Second and Third Feminist Waves were moving secular society into greater female integration. Ironically, “Christians” churches, who seemingly know the “Truth” and supposedly reflect the ways of Jesus Christ, tend to be the most oppressive and male chauvinistic social structures within the U.S., besides radical minority groups. Even so, the “Church” (body of Christian followers) has slowly grown to 127

include women within leadership positions–some faster than others. The slow pace of this inclusion is likely due to church groups having a stronger collective consciousness, which is particularly evident within the Catholic Church, who is known for their strong cohesion and collectivity. This cohesion, as described by Durkheim, discourages questioning and helps maintain ideas of what is and isn’t appropriate (Powers 106).

But why have some churches remained patriarchal while others have allowed women greater inclusion? This is particularly true within certain Protestant denominations that have been morphing, changing, and splitting since the Reformation of the 16th century due to “the doctrine that the individual conscience is the valid interpreter of Scripture” (Protestantism [Religion]). This denominational splitting resulted in the enfeeblement of the collective conscience within Protestant churches (as seen in the many different sects of Protestantism). The enfeeblement of the Protestant church led to Protestant sects becoming susceptible to the beliefs and values of outside sources, particularly in regards to female inclusion and ordination. The inclusion of women within the church can be explained by, once again, Max Weber’s Value’s Axiom, which reveals how some Protestant social structures were progressively modified due to the value of women as full citizens with equal rights within the increasingly feminist U.S. society.

This axiom also explains why some Protestant churches have adopted female inclusion, while others haven’t. It is more common for churches within urban (diverse, fast-paced, and conflict-prone) settings to take a feminist stance, compared to rural (traditional, unified, slow) community churches, since in urban areas, the pressure to change and conform to society’s values is amplified.

Similarly, as the U.S. societal structures began to value 128

women as equals to men, churches that desired to remain relevant within the current culture needed to “selectively retain old beliefs and practices and… actively redefine old identities and commitments in ways that optimally balance [their] sense of belonging with [their] ability to successfully adjust to changing conditions,” according to the Selective Retention Axiom (Powers 53). This meant that churches had to examine old beliefs about the inclusion of women within the church, particularly those that demanded women to be silent, passive, and submissive. Verses such as 1 Timothy 2:11-15 and 1 Corinthians 14:33-35, called for a reexamination in order to align with feminist beliefs, and what many scholars have found is that traditional biblical interpretation of texts were abounding with bias due to the patriarchal beliefs of biblical interpreters/translators (as explained in the “How did we get here?” section). A further example of this exists in the Bible verse Romans 16:7, which states “Greet Andronicus and Junias, my kinsmen and my fellow prisoners, who are outstanding among the apostles, who also were in Christ before me” (NASB) The name “Junias,” though a feminine name, was made masculine by Aegidius of Rome (1245-1346) within his commentary which has now become a common reading within the Church (Gill and Cavaness 116).

Finally, as Marx proposed, as both men and women have become aware of the misconceptions about women within the Bible and how this affected the involvement of women within the church, they have come to “question the legitimacy of the existing pattern of distribution of scarce resources” (Turner 136), which is the distribution of power by the patriarchy. Furthermore, as women (and some men) became aware of their collective interests of greater inclusion in the church and began to express their grievances of exclusion and sub 129

ordination to each other, the more they will join in conflict against Christian patriarchal structures (Relative Deprivation).

Ultimately, as the rest of society changes their values and beliefs of women towards inclusion, either church must change their stances (Selective Retention Axiom), or maintained a strong collective consciousness that allows the group to continue defining the Biblical situation of women involvement through a patriarchal lens.

Future Predictions

In our current society, though we are still striving to completely shatter the glass ceiling for total female inclusion within secular society, the majority of “the Church” has a lot of work to do. Even so, the future of the Church regarding women's inclusion seems hopeful. Increased globalization and the dominance of technology will undoubtedly result in great pressures on churches who maintain patriarchal views, due to increased knowledge of how destructive patriarchy is to females and males (i.e., rape culture, human trafficking, education, poverty, etc.). Ultimately, it is intrinsically unbiblical to subordinate, oppress, or minimize women, and therefore does not align with true Biblical values nor societal values. As such, according to the Principle of Structural Strain, the structural function of the Church is not in line with true Christian (referring to Christ) values, and the Church’s behaviors will change in the direction “of greater consistency with core social [and biblical] values” (Powers 170).

Looking at various sociological axioms, principles, and theories in order to analyze and explain sociological phenomenon, one can understand how and why women were first excluded from church and society; why this exclusion persisted for centuries; what ignited the change that led to greater 130

inclusion of women within secular society; and finally, future predictions of female inclusion within church. As such, one can see how our society, and the Church, got to where they are now: where women have greater freedoms to live out their vocation in some church circles, yet are subordinated in others.

Fortunately, through the lens of sociological theory, one can find hope in future predictions of the continuous inclusion of women within every level of the Church.

References Bristow, William. “Enlightenment.” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Stanford University, 29 Aug. 2017, https:// plato.stanford.edu/entries/enlightenment/.

Gill, Deborah, and Barbara Cavaness. God’s Women Then and Now. Colorado Spring, Grace & Truth, 2004.

Powers, Charles. Making Sense of Social Theory: A Practical Introduction. Lanham, Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 2010.

“Protestantism (Religion): Branches and Sects.” Infoplease, The Columbia Electronic Encyclopedia, 6th Ed, 2012, https://www.infoplease.com/encyclopedia/religion/chris tian/denominations/protestantism/branches-and-sects.

Turner, Jonathan H. Sociology: The Science of Human Organization. Nelson-Hall, 1986.

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Your Name Isaiah NuĂąo

One day, I will stop saying your name. But not today.

Today, it hurts. This hurts. It hurts to know you’re no longer in my life, no longer mine. It hurts because I still love you. And how I wish I could spit out your name. I wish your name was like burning bile in my throat; nails dragged down a chalkboard. But your name is not that. It can never be that. Your name will forever be like honey, sweet to the sound and taste.

I will savor the feel of each and every syllable as it dances off my tongue, the taste of each letter and the memories in every utterance. Your name is not poisonous, though I wish it were.

It is the morning dew and the rainbow after each rain. It is my hope, my comfort, and my pain. Your name is the name I cry out when tears roll down my cheeks, and the name I hold tight in my arms in hopes that somehow, someway, the name might be replaced by your body. Someday I will stop saying your name and will say another. But your name will not be forgotten. I will write it down in the archives of my heart and hold close the memories. One day, I will stop saying your name. But not today.

Demons of Grace

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Rockwell Snowfall Kinsey Roehr

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Three Years Ashley Collins

She leans back into her chair, takes a sip of her orange juice, and transfixes her eyes on her boy.

She watches the way he plays with his wooden train in the middle of the room. The way he pushes the wheels into the lifted carpet in an effort to get it to ride smoothly. No matter how many times she’s told him that he’d have better luck at the table, he continues to lie there, on his tummy, with his feet up, like he never heard her.

His glasses slide, every now and then, down his round, hornshaped nose as he tinkers with the front of the train. But he doesn’t seem to mind as he pushes them back up and continues to let his imagination run in its solitude. And she, Kerri, smiles at the sight of him.

She fiddles with one of the gold hoops in her ear as her eyes stray to the small white bottle that sits off to the side. She thinks about swallowing one of the small tablets, but she doesn’t. She wants more time.

And when she looks back up, she sees his little, long legs running off to the back of the house. She laughs to herself and calls after him.

She puts her orange juice down and follows him to the kitchen, where the dog rests in his bed. The dog's eyes open, and a nonexistent eyebrow raises, as if he’s been burdened by her 134

presence.

She calls again but hears nothing. She looks down at the old dog with hands on her hips. What good are you if you don’t chase after him when he runs away, she thinks to herself. She shakes her head and the dog stays put.

She walks to the window that overlooks the backyard. She assumes that her boy is playing outside, probably throwing that raggedy baseball, a gift from his father.

His father, Joseph, had left her a year after her boy’s sixth birthday, his only birthday spent away from home. Her face scrunches up at the thought of Joseph. He couldn’t handle it anymore, he had once said. No, it was too hard, he had said, he had to move on.

She opens the back door and is startled at the empty yard. Her boy isn’t playing as she had thought. Her boy is gone.

She runs down the steps and yanks open the small shed a couple of feet away, thinking he’s in there. She sees his raggedy baseball, his old toy train tracks, but not him. And in that moment, she begins to remember.

She sees her boy, lying in a bed that doesn’t belong to him.

Joseph and her try to cheer him into blowing out his candles, but he can’t. He’s too weak. So they watch the wax burn until a nurse waves it out.

Kerri shakes her head. No, no, something else must have happened, she thinks. Her hands shake as she closes the shed. She walks out onto the unkept grass, twisting and turning, scream-

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ing and shrieking her boy’s name, over and over again, but all that replies is the wind blowing back at her.

It’s quiet. The dogs in the neighborhood don’t bark at her frenzy, and the neighbors simply lurk behind their curtains. They watch her in the midst of her terror, but they never come out.

They only watch.

She runs back into the house, picks up her phone and dials the only number that her boy knows by heart.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Yes, hi, my name is Kerri Thomson. And my boy is missing.

He’s gone. I don’t know where he is,” she cries. “I think— I think someone took him!”

There’s a pause on the line and Kerri’s eyebrows furrow into a tight line. “Hello, is—?”

“Ms. Thomson, can you hold please?”

“Hold? But this is an emergency! Did you hear what I just said?

My boy is—” There’s a click on the other side. Her hand covers her mouth as her body begins to shake, and her fist slams against the wall. She waits for a minute before the line clicks again.

“I want to talk to your supervisor right now! My boy is missing!

Do you hear me? He-he’s scared, and he needs his Mommy, and-and—” 136

“Kerri.” She blinks. She knows this voice. She recognizes its guttural and refining essence.

“Joseph?” Kerri can hear bustling in the background; he’s working. She heard that he never leaves the police station anymore, that he practically lives there now.

“When’s the last time you took your meds?” She blinks again at the emptiness of his voice; her eyes focus on her chair, her glass of orange juice, and the unopened bottle that sits next to it. And that’s when she really remembers; she had lost more than just her husband.

“Kerri, I know it’s hard, but you have to accept that he—” The line clicks. No one had taken her boy, after all, she remembers.

No one on earth that is.

She falls into her beloved chair and slides one of the pills into the palm of her hand. She holds it up high and into the light, wondering how something so small could be so daunting. And before she can drown it down, she hears him.

“Mommy? What’s wrong?”

Her watering eyes transfix on her boy, her sweet boy. The boy she knows isn’t really there, just a figment of her dark imagination. Yet, he stands there, with his lanky frame and toothy smile.

She fiddles with the same gold hoop earring as she studies the pill in between her fingers. She needs more time, she decides, and screws the cap closed.

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“Nothing, baby. Go play with your train.” She leans back in her chair, takes a sip of her orange juice and transfixes her eyes on her boy. Her sweet, sweet boy.

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Not Easy

Rachel Silverio There is a limit to how much one can give you can only take so much of someone till there is nothing left the problem then becomes this you may take and take and take and they will somehow find more to give they will give till there is no more compromise to be made only sacrifice and once that sacrifice is done resurrection is not easy it is painful and long which is not comfortable so you’ll leave and they will stay dead hoping and praying that they can again come alive to somehow give you more of what they no longer have to somehow give you enough to make you want to give but that is not easy so you’ll leave and they will stay dead.

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Outside the Garden Eduardo Lucas-Lebron

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The Case of Johnny Depp Ket Barr

The date was the twenty-ninth of September, the year of the Dog. It was dark in the basement room of that church, too dark. I had just arrived with eighty dollars worth of blacklights to a room not yet ready, but kids already loitered about.

There was a man in the far corner who I had never seen before. He was crouched on the floor with a student, drawing on the black parchment paper. Long black hair brushing against his shoulders, feet as bare as the day he came out.

At first, I had ignored his presence, too preoccupied with getting these lights up. The annual Glow Party was thirty minutes from birth, and the room looked more like the back closet of a Michael’s craft store. From the corner of my eye, I saw the man stand up and turn around. My eyes scarcely scanning the contents of his face. Yes, I was sure of it, this man was a complete stranger. I stayed in the back as the female leaders began to surround him on all sides, fawning over him like Wilbur at the county fair.

I hear the voice of one dame cut through the steadily rising volume of the basement room. “You look so handsome, just like Johnny Depp!” I studied the man’s face clad in hipster glasses, long hair, mustache, and goatee, and impolitely disagreed.

His gaze hit mine for only a flash, and my stomach churned. There was something about this man, something... not right...dangerous?...exciting?...terrifying?... suspicious. He left soon after, but my gut was telling me that this would not be the last I saw of “Johnny Depp.”

We met again in that very basement room a mere month later. This time around, he had the gall to make an in

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troduction. “Alex,” he called himself. Even with his true identity, there was still something about this man that got right into my bones. Perhaps it was the way he walked into the room and everyone was in love with him. Or maybe it was the way all the dames batted their eyes in his direction and hung on to his every word. There was just something about him that rubbed me the wrong way.

If I thought after our second encounter my tussle with the Jack Sparrow wannabe was finished, I was horribly mistaken. He had infiltrated the youth leadership. Week after week, this man appeared before me and I was forced to swallow the reality that I had to work with this man. Appearance-wise he was harmless enough, always smiling and laughing with people, energy that put all of the twelve-year-olds in the room to shame, but I didn’t trust that man as far as I could throw him, and well, I couldn’t throw him.

The dame I was cohabitating with at the time was utterly gaga for the man. She would try to steal all his attention, coax him into romantic night drives and beach trips. From my observations, he seemed oblivious to her advances. But she was not one to be left in the corner. As her flirting grew stronger, so too, it appeared did his defense against her. In his final retaliation, he gave her an affirmation letter addressing her as not only his “Sister in Christ” but thanked her for being a “homie”. All hope for her pursuit seemed to be lost, and I thought that perhaps the case of Johnny “Alex” Depp would be a cold case. That was until the morning he delivered me coffee and a letter of my own. Only this letter was not written on a random sheet of notebook paper, but a card he had held onto for a special time.

While his words themselves raised no need for alarm, it was the lack of relational and “homie”-al words that began to 142

refuel my hunch., and the game was, yet again, afoot.

The date was the thirteenth of February, the year of the Pig. The dame in my room had been avoiding me all day.

Those moments when our paths did cross, she ignored my existence. Deep inside my gut, I knew it had happened. This was confirmed by her later that day. Johnny “Alex” Depp had feelings for me, and they were all my fault--according to her, that is.

That night I had to have a chat with him. “It couldn’t happen,” I’d say, “I couldn’t do that to her.” and I wouldn’t want to. He understood, of course. He was just happy to be my friend, even if that was all we ever were. What a load of bologna. I wasn’t sad, I couldn’t be. I still had my suspicions about this man, but I figured now that the secret was out and dealt with, I could officially close the case. However, I just couldn’t seem to halt my investigation.

Midnight adventures clothed in the deceit of working in the library, copious amounts of coffee consumed in impromptu rendezvous, denial ever-enveloping me.

It was one year and one day since I first took up the case of Johnny Depp, seven months since I had thought I closed the case. The time was 10:37 p.m. I sat on a picnic table at Back Bay, Costa Mesa. He stood in front of me, waiting for me to start the conversation.

I reviewed all of my findings, trying to conclude how we got to this point. Had I gone so undercover that I neglected my investigation? I met his gaze. His hair was short now, his face clean-shaven save for the slight stubble, his glasses still the same hipster frames. As I traced back the last year, following my suspicion from the beginning, I realized that I had been right all along.

This man was as guilty as they come. And my heart was his victim.

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The Drive

Jackie Gutierrez 144

Feel

Kira Joybird I grew up numb to my own body I ignored its beats and drums The breathing lungs’ hum Were silenced to me How it moved its arms in water Kicking legs to move even faster Twirling in circles to just get dizzier I was blinded cause it was easier Healing now, finding my connection I discover a love. I never had intention The parts of me that make me function But my heart I feel the most The weight of the pain finally lifted It can actually see beyond affliction It can, finally When I see you, I can’t control it It makes my chest contract around it I feel every part of my heavy beating heart Wanna free it?

Dedicated to RX

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Skรณgafoss in August Gabby Valladares

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Baptism

Elijah Lemna

The first time I was baptized, I was only seven years old. My mother and I had just moved to Southern California from the Midwest, and we tried out a church that her sister attended called “The Crossing.” My mother fell in love with it during her first Sunday service. Being seven years old, I didn’t really understand the full weight of finding a good church or anything of the like; I didn’t know what a healthy spiritual life was supposed to look like, I just thought the place was fun. In my little Sunday school session, we played games, sang songs, and once the message was over, we got to goof off again until our parents came to pick us up. We became regular attendees immediately.

After about two months of Sunday mornings at “The Crossing,” the church began a miniseries on baptism and what it meant exactly. I was told it’s what someone who truly believes in God does. In a way, it “solidifies” or “confirms” your faith in Jesus Christ. It sounded like the next step for where I was spiritually as a seven-year-old. I believed all of what I was taught in Sunday school; I never really questioned any stories or miracles or teachings from the Holy Bible. I thought of myself as a Christian. At the end of the miniseries, the church announced they were going to do a mass baptism at “Pirate’s Cove” in Newport Beach. When they told me they were going to perform these baptisms in the ocean, I immediately asked where the sign-up sheet was; I loved swimming and Jesus. Baptism sounded fun. I decided I wanted to do it.

Before we actually got baptized—and as a part of the miniseries—we had to take a “class” on what to expect and what we were supposed to do during the whole experience. I

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remember my mom walking me to the youth building or, “Kid Zone” as it was called, and dropping me off upstairs with some people I hadn’t met yet. These people were a part of the middle school program, and I was still a part of the elementary school program downstairs. I walked inside to the far end of the room and could tell instantly that I was the youngest person there, but not the only kid. I don’t know why, but this made me a little nervous; my heartbeat picked up, and of course, I started sweating. I always sweat when I get nervous and then that makes me embarrassed. But I sat on the brightly colored, oddly patterned couch anyway. There were only about seven people in the “class,” so we all went around and introduced ourselves to begin. When it got to be my turn, I said my name and everyone said they were happy to meet me. No one was unwelcoming and everyone was friendly, shaking my hand, saying hello; they made me feel like I truly belonged there.

After our introductions, the teacher jumped right in and began going over some of the points about baptism that the rest of the church had already been taught. I remember thinking to myself, “I already know this stuff, why is she repeating it?” But I figured it was important and if the other people somehow missed this information, this would be their last chance before they passed the “point of no return.” Though the other people in the “class” had to listen to her, I felt as though I didn’t have to, so I tuned out and looked around the unfamiliar room. It was long and narrow like a large canoe, holding the six to eight people who were learning about what to do once inside the water. The walls were painted bright colors and the carpet was dark grey. There were two couches, including the one I was sitting on, a couple of beanbag chairs spread throughout, and one television on the opposite end of the room. I remember there being a Foosball table.

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Once I absorbed enough of the room, I looked at the group that had gathered in it. We were sitting in a circle with everyone sitting on beanbags or on the other couch; I had sat on the empty couch because I didn’t know anyone, but I was starting to think I didn’t have to do this. When I turned my attention back to the teacher, she was explaining that the pastor who would be baptizing us was going to ask us two questions: Do you repent of your sins and acknowledge your need of a savior, and have you put your faith in Jesus as your Lord and Savior. We were supposed to answer both questions with a simple “yes.” I was thankful for that because if little sevenyear-old me was supposed to answer these big questions in front of the entire church, I probably would have reconsidered my faith. Then she said that after those questions, the pastor would tell me that my old self was dead and was buried with Christ under the water. That was the part I never truly understood, even though the church had an entire miniseries on baptism. I couldn’t wrap my young mind around the “old me” dying and a “new me” coming up from the waters, cleansed.

I thought I was a fine person at seven; I hadn’t done anything outrageously wrong. Maybe I stole a cookie without my mom knowing, but that was the extent of it. Just like that, the class had ended. My mom appeared in the doorway and I ran to her and gave her a tight hug as we turned around and walked away from the classroom.

When the day of my baptism arrived later that week, I couldn’t contain myself. In the car on the way, my mom, my aunt and her daughter, and my grandmother told me they were proud of me and happy that I could publicly declare my faith in God and my belief in the religion, whatever that was supposed to mean; I was mostly excited to play at the beach with my church friends. We arrived at the beach and were

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greeted by what seemed to be hundreds of people, but not all were by the water. Surprised, I asked my mom why there were so many people and how many of them were getting baptized.

She told me she didn’t know exactly how many would be baptized today; however, she did tell me why there were so many people here watching the others get baptized. She reiterated that getting baptized is a big deal and that lots of the people there were just watching someone they know get baptized.

This whole time I knew that my family—the ones in the car— would be getting in the water with me and getting baptized themselves. I figured that that’s what every family was doing.

But of course, I was wrong.

While my mom and I were having that conversation, we kept walking towards the crowd and eventually slipped into it, mingling with other Christians, new and old. I was meeting my mother’s friends and their kids, looking for my own friends— without any luck—and maneuvering through the thick throng.

This, I was good at given my size and speed. Suddenly, a loud voice spoke into a megaphone, and it crashed into everyone’s ears. It said it was time to begin and that they were starting alphabetically. My last name is Lemna, so I would be at least twelfth.

When our family name was called, we made our way to the front of the crowd of happy faces. Once we were through the human thicket, I saw a group of people already in the blue water. They had shirts on. I left mine on the sand, where we claimed a small site for our belongings. We kept walking and the wet sand started clinging to our feet, rising and falling with each step we took towards the crystal blue tide. Once the very same tide struck the arches of our feet, I almost lept back in defense. It was absolutely frigid, so cold, in fact, that I initially thought I stepped on something spikey. Needless to say, 150

I hesitated in submersing myself any further. Keep walking, I thought. The water was now at my knees and it made them weak. Keep walking. All I could think, while I drenched myself, was the rest of my body wasn’t going to be happy about this. Keep walking. It’s now at my waist; I’m halfway there. The worst part was over, and then we stopped walking.

We stood there in Adam’s Ale—which I’m sure he would’ve liked to drink, being that it was ice cold—and were escorted to the pastor and his assistant. They told all of us to stand as close together as we possibly could and hold hands because they knew it was cold; after all, they had to be in there for everybody. They had to be frozen solid, I thought. They came on either side of our group and the pastor put his hand on my back. They asked us the first expected question and my family returned with a resounding “yes.” Then the second.

“Yes.” His two questions felt like an entire interview. After we publicly confessed our love and devotion to Jesus Christ, the pastor said, "Because of your repentance of sin and faith in Jesus, today we acknowledge your old self is buried with Christ and you have been raised to new life in Jesus! Therefore, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and of the Holy Spirit!" Before he finished his sentence, he was already dipping me under the permafrost. The rest of us followed. For that split second, I was underwater, and I got a brain-freeze. I could feel the water move past all my hair and make contact with my scalp. I had the urge to open my eyes because of the shock, but I had to resist. He pulled me up and I pulled my mother up, and then, as quickly as we were down, we were standing back up. I didn’t feel different.

A few years go by, and I’m now in eighth grade. I’m now twice as old as I once was. I’ve had to do some real growing up since I was seven—obviously. My last year of middle school 151

was a hard one for both my family and me, but I feel as though we came out all right. I still attended The Crossing’s student ministries, CSM, for short. In fact, I relied on CSM at this time; the friends I made here have stuck with me to this day and the leaders I met became very influential in my life. My decision to get baptized a second time was a conclusion I had come to by no easy means, yet it was spontaneous, it was freeing. Things were finally calming down after a season of complete chaos.

That season started with my mom and step-dad, Brian, picking me up from school one day. That wasn’t normal; typically, my grandma would pick me up. The pleasant surprise quickly shifted to bad news and sad feelings. It was mostly Brian who explained to me that my mother was laid. She cries at most everything, but when something truly devastating like this happens, she can hardly keep herself together. That event set off an entire chain reaction. With my mom not bringing home any money—at least that’s what it looked like to me— Brian tried having an affair, but my mother found out and they immediately got a divorce. When that happened, since Brian was now the only person able to pay rent, it forced us out of our big, new home with nowhere to go. My mom, my grandma, and I tried sleeping in the car or a motel as much as we could, but before long, my best friend asked his mother if we could live in their upstairs bedroom while we got back on our feet.

He was such a blessing.

During this season of confusion and frustration, CSM had a series on fully committing yourself to Christ. The youth pastor, Sean, told us that the series would end with a group baptism—ironic, I know. I wasn’t planning on getting baptized because I knew I already had been, but in the midst of the uncertainty, I wanted some stability. I felt as though God had been testing me with the rapid succession of unfortunate 152

events, ensuring that I truly relied on Him. I’ll be honest; it was a tough lesson to learn. It made me doubt my faith. It made me rethink my first baptism. I kept asking myself why God would allow for these things to happen if I already pledged my life to Him when I was seven. Why? Throwing me into the crucible was for my own good, but I didn’t know that until I came out refined. But at the time, I didn’t think I wanted to get baptized a second time. But when the series ended and all of us were walking outside to watch everyone get baptized, I heard the calling.

It was a split-second decision, a lot different from my last experience. Instead of following the crowd outside to the viewing area, I joined with the group getting ready to get in the water. They all had bathing suits and T-shirts ready to go and I had the clothes on my back. I didn’t have anything to change into; I didn’t even have a towel. When someone noticed this, they gave me an extra towel they had happened to bring. They looked me up and down and offered me a bathing suit as well.

I thanked him immensely and made my way to a place I could change. I didn’t notice it then, but I think God was providing me with everything I needed in that moment to follow him. If it was a bathing suit and a towel that stopped me from God, He wasn’t going to allow that to happen. Once I was ready, I hopped in line and waited anxiously. With each named called and with every hoot and holler from the crowd, my heart picked up speed. It was night; the water was pitch black with glints of white on top of each little wave caused by the commotion of every “water-burial.” But this was not a sad burial. The cheers reminded me of something I was told during my first “class” on baptism. I was told all of heaven rejoices in celebration if even one person were to be baptized, so tonight we must be causing heaven a weeklong festival.

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Inching closer and closer to the black water, it was finally my turn. I took my first step down the watery stairs expecting to be stung with the familiar, icy bite, but this time was different; the water was warm. It was so welcoming I couldn’t help myself but wade in all the way, treating the water as a blanket. I was taken by the arm and gently held in place, while Sean asked the same questions I was asked seven years ago. I answered them with the same answers as before, but this time the words felt different as they escaped my mouth. I wasn’t answering to Sean and his questions; I was answering to God and His call for me to fully follow him. I closed my eyes while Sean was talking to me. He didn’t question that. After the two questions, Sean began saying the closing line in baptism and dunked me under. It was like I was putting that blanket over my head; I felt safe, like I belonged here in the presence of God and His people. I rose to the crowd, made up of my close friends, already roaring. Their happy screams and clapping filled my ears and I couldn’t even hear the water dripping and splashing all around me. I turned around to look where I was just submerged, half expecting to see my old body floating in the water. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there.

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Gritos

Eliza Beth I run in the face of disaster After the fire was set Ash and smoke still dance in the air And the road que nos daba tanta fe y esperanza

... that gave us so much faith and hope Now has doomed us and is more dangerous than ever The debris takes place of the people The roofs are smashed on the street The houses are missing la familia

‌ the family The toys and bottles are on the ground And belongings and futures are shattered I run in the face of disaster After pain struck me Oigo los llantos I hear the cries I can feel each stabbing my soul Oigo los gritos de vidas destrozadas I hear the cries of lives destroyed Their eyes holding grief It’s seared in my head, in my heart Their cries echo

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Their wounds, moveless Their fear se hizo realidad ...became reality I run in the face of disaster Of the ruins of beauty that used to be Recuerdo la esperanza I remember the hope La vida que hicieron aquí The life that they made here Dreaming of a better life for their families Lloran por sus vidas They cry for their lives For la familia being torn apart … the family Their homes, their safe haven Donde celebraron sus triunfos, y tiene memoria Where they celebrated triumphs and had memories Is shattered by the unlawful truth, kept silent to stay I run in the face of disaster Not being able to choose otherwise I’m at the edge of this tragedy I’ve slipped the fate of my people Pero los gritos de sus ninos se queda conmigo But the cries of their children stays with me Their nation turned on them Their family torn from them 156

The sorrow in me Is nothing compared to them La gente que no pudo escapar The people who couldn’t escape I turn back to look at the ruins disaster left After running for so long I feel only ruins are left The borders become a prison The children are ripped from all they knew And the parents are thrown to the other side The slamming doors rip out hearts Los gritos para mama no se puede parar The cries for mom can’t be stopped Their cries are mine My people in distress Y nada que se puede hacer pero vigilar And nothing can be done but to watch I look at the ruins disaster left But this time I look at the victims Viven en mi They live in me They are my blood and soul Despite my nationality, son mi gente … they are my people Their pride is mine 157

Su dolor llega a ser mio Their pain becomes mine The prison that surrounds them Has become the cage que me detiene ‌ that keeps me We can’t do a thing but watch from within I look at the ruins disaster left Y lloro por mi gente And I cry for my people

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June

Jess Van Winkle

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SYNECDOCHE TEAM

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Ashley Collins Editor-in-Chief

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