Issue 4

the

Lance

8701 Pacific St. Omaha, NE 68114 Volume 60 Issue 4

December 11, 2015

For years we’ve shared your stories,

Now it’s OUR TURN

It’s the first thing you learn in kindergarten: teamwork.

All your teachers focus on taking turns. You’ve been in countless group projects and Mrs. Someone writes words like “share” and “care” on the board. We’re really just a bunch of kindergartners, practicing our social skills. You got a turn, and now we do.

But it’s more than that. You should care that we get to tell our own stories.

Some could argue that it’s “American” that everyone gets a voice, but even if you don’t care about fairness and our rights, this affects you.

You may look at us in the hallway and think, “Wow, do they even go to our school?” Yes, we do. You’ve seen us — well, hopefully you’ve seen us — at our best and at our worst. Happy, sad, angry, in detention on a Thursday, but you don’t know why we’re there or we feel this way.

Don’t you think it’s important to know about the people you are trusting to tell your story? To be able to trust the people reporting the stories in our community?

The general consensus about media today is simple.

It’s one word.

Bad. You’re not going to hear someone say, “You know, I think that CNN covered that story from all angles” or “Fox News is unbiased.”

No. More likely than not, you’ll overhear complaints.

You’ll hear people groan about how the media doesn’t do a good enough job, how they didn’t cover all angles, how the angle they covered was wrong.

It’s important today to receive information from a

news source you trust, from the people who you can rely on. It’s necessary to know who is covering the information as well as knowing the information itself.

So let us tell you about ourselves. And we won’t sugarcoat it.

We’re not perfect, despite common belief. And you get to see it, first hand: our flaws and our strengths.

Journalists are people too, no matter what your Uncle John says.

Care about the people who tell your story, because you want someone who understands what it’s like to be alive and to make mistakes. Find someone who understands that those two things are the same.

This issue is to give you that chance, to show you that we are made of more than just a name in a byline.

Plus, it’s kind of nice to talk about ourselves for once.

It’s a nice break from the rule ingrained in every Westside media student that roams these halls: don’t cover your own publication. Even if someone has a clear story, if they are in journalism, they are generally off limits in the name of “publication integrity.”

So we are taking back the night, stealing the show. It’s our turn to tell our stories, so sit back, get comfortable and flip through the pages of our not-so-typical newspaper.

Our job is to tell the stories of others in the best, most accurate way possible. It is our job to care that everyone gets a voice. But, we can’t tell your story without telling our own. So listen up and read along. We’re about to tell you a story... *stories may contain vulgar language or deal with mature themes

2

The first of the lasts

Senior realizes the little time she has left in high school

JACE WIESELER

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

I stared down at my hardly white Asics volleyball shoes.

There were small holes starting to form on the back of each of my shoes showing years of wear and tear. My laces tied in two perfect loops.

I untied them for the last time.

I looked at my two ankle braces. I was thankful for every game that they prevented me from further injury to my already messed up ankles.

I unlaced them for the last time.

My hands rested upon my two black kneepads, extremely faded and barely padded anymore. Although they were there, they didn’t prevent the bruises and the scars I would forever have from forming.

I wrestled them off for the last time.

I stared down at the number six on the front of my jersey.

That number representing the time I spent playing for the name on the back of the jersey.

I pulled it off for the last time.

And there I was, no longer a volleyball player. There I was.

Just Jace.

My coach stood before us, congratulating us on our season and wishing all of us seniors the best as we go off on our own next year. I could vaguely hear her, for all I could think about was how something that has been apart of my life for so many years is done.

That’s when it hit me, this is the beginning of the end.

Three months into my senior year, it’s the first of my lasts.

At the beginning of my senior year, I was so ready to go anywhere in the country for college. I was ready for graduation and moving on with the rest of my life.

But after growing up with this same group of people for the past 13 years, I quickly realized that saying goodbye to my graduating class wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought it was going to be.

I’ve gone to Westside schools for my entire education and the only time I’ve ever had to make a new friend without knowing someone else was in kindergarten. Going to college next year will be just like that, except my shy four-year-old self had a mom to hang on while she tried to drop me off at school and a family to come home to after a bad day at school. My shy 17 year-old self will only have the knowledge I’ve gained the passed 13 years to guide myself into the start of the next chapter of my life.

I thought I had a strong grasp at what my life was going to look like three months ago when all I could think was, “Only nine more months until graduation,” and my life plan was all laid out. Go to a college far from here, make new friends, get an amazing job that pays a lot and start the perfect life. But now, making decisions for myself about where I’m going to spend

the next four years of my life, and maybe even the rest of my life, isn’t as easy as I had envisioned it would be.

During every high school event, I watch my fellow classmates, and even myself, create bonds with their peers. I watch people, who normally wouldn’t be friends, talk and laugh with each other at sporting events. I watched seniors from every friend group join in on games together at the senior sleepover. I watch seniors be inclusive of each other; getting to know people they didn’t get the chance to meet the past three years of high school. We all have a bond because we are all experiencing the same feeling; denial.

Denial that our realities are going to change in less than a year.

Denial that who we once called a friend is someone you might not talk to until you come home for break. Denial that no matter how hard you try to avoid it, we all have to grow up sometime.

Denial that all of the things that brought us together as a school will only be a distant memory.

Beating Prep won’t be something our class unites over anymore.

Listening to the homeroom grade check song what seems like every week won’t be relevant anymore.

Trying to shove through the dreaded landing during passing period will be a thing of the past.

I watched bonds and relationships be created before my eyes, and created some of my own, realizing that the same relationships formed will fade away just as fast.

Each event and “last” has the effect on me that leaves me with a void that won’t be filled again until college. My high school memories helped shape me into the person I am today, and realizing that they’re coming to a close, I’m slowly losing parts of myself and moments of my life so I can find myself again in a few months.

The emptiness was there after my last football game. The emptiness was there after what could’ve been my last Thanksgiving at home. The emptiness was there when I realized, yes, thank God this is my last time taking finals in high school, but yes, this is my last time taking finals in high school. And the emptiness will be there when I sit amongst the class I’ve grown up with for 13 years and throw my cap into the air.

My time here in high school is quickly drawing to a close, so now I want to thank every person I’ve been fortunate enough to form a relationship with over the course of my time at Westside.

I will never forget any of the memories that I’ve made.

It’s like a window closing, a chapter ending, you can always look back but you will never be back in high school. Maybe, that’s a good thing, but in this moment now, I have less than nine months to figure out my life before I’m dropped off at college with a, “good luck, see ya later.”

“I watched bonds and relationships be created before my eyes... realizing that the same relationships formed will fade away just as fast.”

3

WHAT PURINA HAS TO DO WITH DEPRESSION

Senior describes what not to do when dealing with stress I waited a long time to clean the cat food off my wall.

Nearly six months actually.

It took about three hours, a box of Q-tips and a roll of paper towels to remove completely. A gift from my deceased cat, who, in her old age, couldn’t quite keep all the wet food in the bowl. The good news was that it was in the corner, so even if I decided to invite people over for a change, you couldn’t tell it was there just by walking into the room.

It was kind of liberating to finally clean, getting rid of the last evidence that I even had a cat at all. I don’t know why it took me so long; it wasn’t exactly helping my bedroom’s feng shui. Maybe because I just didn’t have the time, with school and work and family. In all likelihood, it was probably because I had too much time on my hands.

All I wanted to do was lay on the floor, stare at the ceiling and think.

At that time, I was having this problem with doing anything. And it wasn’t necessarily because of the cat, although the fact it was my dog that killed her wasn’t exactly reassuring. It was a compilation of the things. The bullying. The funerals.

I was getting tired of the deadlines and endings. All the last times were just compounding, weighing me down a little more every time.

Last days of the school year, the day before my birthday, the hour before midnight, December 21, 2012 — the supposed “end of the world.”

From June to September of my junior year, I slept no more than five hours a night because I developed an intense fear of the dark, and an equally strong desire not to share that with anyone.

And the positives hurt equally as much. Because I was doing well in school. I had a job and a car and a family. To be sad with these things, it was the epitome of privilege, it made me ungrateful. Whenever I had to play those stupid “get to know you” games at school, and somebody had to describe me, they would use words like, “nice,” “exuberant” and “fearless.” Like they couldn’t see me at all.

I talked to a lady. She made me talk about my feelings.

Called the world “a river with twists and turns that I must learn to enjoy the ride down.” So I found a different lady.

The people at the doctor’s, they told me, “There are meds for that.” So I took some, but the nightmares didn’t go away. I went up a dose. Then two doses. I stopped eating, learned which meals I could skip and which I needed to eat to convince everyone I was okay. Smaller portions helped. Also, it helped that I burned nearly 1000 calories a day at soccer practice.

Sometimes I skipped my meds. On accident. I forgot to

get out of bed and physically care enough to spend calories on brain power. Sometimes I was afraid they gave me the wrong pills, because I’d seen that on a TV show once.

The not eating made the list of things I was afraid of longer. Car accidents. Closets. Radiation from the microwave. The guy from The Seven who everyone thought was dead, but actually wasn’t. I could never cut myself, I’m too afraid of knives, but if things got too out of control, I would grip one hand so tightly that little crescents of blood would show up on my palm. I hope that was enough of a sign for someone to notice me. For someone to tell me that I needed to get help. Literally anyone.

I waited a long time.

Then I shut down. I didn’t feel anything anymore.

Here’s the thing. No one notices. No one ever will. Other people can’t tell, they don’t look, they have their own crap going on and they aren’t going to save you.

Cliché, I know.

So all those speeches and red flags the doctors teach us, they’re worthless. Because someone with depression looks the exact same on the outside. If you have depression, you’re invisible. You’re just like everybody else, and just because you started paying attention to bad things, doesn’t mean others do. Because it’s eating at you from the inside, and you better buck up and deal with it, or you’re going to die.

You don’t live with depression. You deal or you’re dying. And you’re dying anyways, all the time, every second regardless. It’s going to eat you up, it’s like radiation and everything seems harmless but it’s quarantine, it’s Hiroshima, it’s leaking all over you. It’s a mirror that tells you your face is too round, your eyes have dark circles. (Been sleeping?) No you haven’t, because you’ve been dreaming. Isn’t that fun? (To dream of dying and suffocation and things that scream in the dead of the night?) Sometimes you scream at night. The silent kind. You have to have air to scream.

Depression is a fight. It’s passivity that will kill you. You sit too long in one spot and you see the world going round without you and you wonder if it would still turn if you weren’t there.

Nobody sees you. Even though you want them so bad.

The problem’s so big, we need an action movie scene to ever get out of this one.

But I don’t. I didn’t. Because I noticed myself. And I may be dying, but it isn’t because of me. You can’t leave me behind because it’s not up to you.

“Depression is a fight. It’s passivity that will kill you.

You sit too long in one spot and...you wonder if [the world] would still turn if you weren’t there.

NA TA W A R D EDITOR-IN-CHIEF I take care of myself.

I come from a country with the highest suicide rate in the world. Lithuania, look it up. I’m just the second-generation daughter of a family who half were killed in a genocide by Stalin. This did not escape me.

At the end of it all, on one of those scales at the airport, I was 120 pounds holding my suitcase. I stepped off and looked at my hands, but I couldn’t tell any difference. How could anyone else?

Standing there, minutes away from a three-hour flight to Utah, I developed an intense fear of something else, stronger than dark corners, knives and rapists put together. I was afraid of being alone. Alone in a house in twenty years. Alone in a casket next month, barely weighing more than a couple bags of dog food.

So I went to the Subway outlet by my terminal and bought a thing of fruit. Later that day, I wouldn’t sleep a single minute on the plane, even as my family was sleeping around me. But it wasn’t because I was afraid. It was because, from the plane window, everything out there seemed so small, and I didn’t want to miss out on seeing a single second of it.

4

FAKE PERFECT LITTLE LIFE

Student lets go of the inevitable, stops pleasing

CELENA SHEPHERD

MANAGING EDITOR

Door locked. Lights off. The only illumination was my dim computer screen, playing soft music. I turned the red-lined bathtub nob all the way to the left: HOT, in frustration.

Being the source of someone’s happiness is gratifying. Seeing people smile because of me is so unexplainably satisfying. This is pretty universal; making others feel good causes you to feel good.

I stood before my bathtub waiting for it to fill as high as possible without spilling over the edges. I need this, I thought. Time to myself just to think and relax. I dipped my foot into the water to test its temperature. “Ouch!” Yeah I’m not a bada**, no matter how much I thought bathing in scolding water would make me one.

Sometimes the smiles that make me feel so complete, just stop. No warning. No explanation. Sometimes a close friend gets bored with me. Sometimes someone who was so engulfed with me becomes indifferent.

It’s confusing. Things happen and people change. I was so content with my life, and that’s why when the smiles, friends and people I loved stopped caring, it was unexpected. I was so used to my routine. I finally felt like I had balanced my life out when the ground I stood on for support cracked, and I fell in.

Reluctantly, I let the cold water run to ease the heat. After finally achieving the perfect temperature, I submerged into the hot water. My feet began to feel numb. The tingling, which usually drove me crazy, didn’t bother me. Perhaps I was just as numb as my pruned feet.

Reflecting back, I guess I should start this story a little earlier.

There were signs, I just ignored them. Too far gone in denial, I was focused on maintaining my image of the perfect life. I had good grades, great friends, family who loved me and I went to church every Sunday. Or at least this is what I wanted everybody to think.

White puffy bubbles popped up sporadically. The sweet scent of them made me sick. The bathtub was still extremely hot and I felt like I was being cooked alive. Eventually the bubbles covering me washed away, clinging to the white bathtub walls I was lying in, leaving me completely exposed. I felt just as vulnerable as I did exposed. I was found out. Everyone knew the truth and I didn’t like it.

The pillars stabilizing my life fell. They fell without my permission. There was nothing I could do. And when one pillar falls, the others come down with it. What I had worked so hard

to build, accurate or not, the image I had of my world collapsed.

The people, things I had were gone. Without my consent or any warning my fake perfect little life came crashing down and I was left to pick up the pieces.

The tension in my body finally relaxed and I slipped under the water. I held my breath and peered up to see the waves moving back and forth. The heat felt good on my raw eyes. Beneath the surface I saw little pristine bubbles dancing to the top of the clear liquid. Just as unexpected as a butterfly bursting from it’s cocoon, my lungs emptied. I knew my life source was gone.

My head sank lower, and I felt my body being pushed down, as if someone had stepped on me, stripping away my natural buoyancy.

It wasn’t just one event that caused me to feel so hopeless. Everything overwhelmed me. I was at a point where I lost complete faith in humanity. The pure injustice that happens in our society depressed the hell out of me. A good person getting screwed over is common; with a shrug of the shoulders, and after a little time, no one cares.

I wondered what life would look like if I never resurfaced from this hot murky water. A world without Celena.

I became so caught up with trying to please the people that I cared about.

I based my happiness on the happiness of others.

I thought of my family and friends. I thought of the people who I have love for. All of their faces memorized in my brain. I was curious whose lives might be improved through my disappearance as I laid beneath the water.

When I felt people slipping away, I thought I could bring them back. I just have to try harder, I concluded. But the truth is sometimes no matter how much effort I put forth, people are going to slip away. The relieving and scary fact is that some things are out of my control, some things are just inevitable.

I don’t really know why, but I emerged from the water. No angelic voice spoke to me, no one saved me. I just couldn’t go through with it.

My bathroom was flooded in darkness because the sun had set, so its light couldn’t shine through the blinds anymore. The water splashed as I stood up cold and alone. Drip. Drip. Drip.

I felt the shiny droplets slipping from my body into the liquid looming below, just like certain people close to me slipped away.

Lesson learned. I let the droplets fall and fall. I don’t need anyone who wishes to leave. Goodbye. Good riddance.

“The pillars stabilizing my life fell. They fell without my permission...And when one pillar falls, the others come down with it.”

5

No Regrets

Senior looks for perspective and focus To live in the moment is a common idea. I believe it’s important to fully appreciate the experiences in your life. However, I don’t always live out this belief. Instead of enjoying the series of “last times” as they happened, I was looking to next year and the future. I’m one foot out the door. As exciting as the prospect of college and the future is, I don’t like how little attention I’ve paid to the events in my life right now.

This came to full realization during a football game this year. The familiar crisp autumn air and sounds of football surrounded me, yet my mind was in another place. I was excited to go down to Lincoln and see the Husker game the following day, so much so I could barely focus on the game I was attending. I should have been enjoying the limited time I had left watching the Warriors play.

As I looked around the stands I noticed all of my peers excited and enjoying the atmosphere. It was then I realized that I was missing out on something. These games were fleeting and would soon be done for me. An immense confusion set in for the rest of the game.

The example of football was only a sample situation of the problem I was experiencing. Whether it was sports or academics, I wasn’t living in the moment.

Don’t get me wrong, looking forward to the future and having goals is a great thing. Striving to be better should always be the first priority. For me, I wasn’t balanced enough.

I was so concerned about the future I was losing the present.

Following that moment, a change was necessary. I began to focus on not only social things but also my education. The change in focus helped my attitude, the desire for the future never left I was just able to finally enjoy the now. I was surprised at how such small changes made such a big impact.

Throughout the fall I learned a valuable lesson. Life comes in steps. You have to go through each stage of your life before you get to the next one. No matter what, the future wasn’t going to come any sooner so I might as well be enjoying now.

From that realization, I changed my ways and my focus. If the year was going to happen I might as well enjoy it.

Since the game I made some changes to how I look at life and my attitude towards it. I’ve learned to value any experience I still have at this school. Having increased self-awareness has helped as well, keeping me focused and happy on the present.

Hopefully, by this time next fall as I start the new chapter of my life in college I can live it that moment, with no regrets that I failed to live in this one.

JA C K C O H E N

MANAGING EDITOR

“Life comes in steps.

You have to go through each stage of your life before you get to the next one.”

6

LITTLE MISS GOODY-TWO-SHOES

Girl discovers striving for perfection is overrated, pointless

In second grade, I got in trouble. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but it meant everything to me.

My teacher was talking to an educational assistant in the back of the classroom. I was eavesdropping and overheard my teacher tell the assistant to follow her.

That’s when I made the mistake.

Upon the words “follow me,” several other classmates disobeyed the previous instructions to sit down and started to rise from their seats. I noticed them get up and decided to get up too. When my teacher heard the unmistakable sound of chairs moving, she turned around.

“Sit down!” She ordered.

My heart swelled up when the teacher started yelling at the class. Her voice rose as she became filled with anger, and she started to accuse people by pointing at them.

When her index finger rose in the air and pointed in my direction, I froze. I did something wrong; I was disobedient.

I rose from my desk and walked towards my teacher.

She demanded everyone who didn’t follow her instructions give her a “dollar,” which was something she used as a part of a punishment/rewards system in her classroom.

“Libby,” she said. “I didn’t see you stand up. I pointed to the girl next to you.”

I nodded my head. She may not have seen me, but I was guilty, and the guilt consumed me. It had a funny way of doing that.

It might seem crazy that an act like standing up when I wasn’t supposed to could make me feel so bad, but it did.

For the rest of the day, I thought about it. I tried to distract myself with different activities, but my mind kept dragging me back to the incident. I felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. I told myself it was just a stupid mistake and nobody was perfect. However, the guilt was screaming in my head telling me I did something wrong, telling me I wasn’t good enough.

My stomach twisted.

I hated feeling this way. Other kids around me got in trouble all the time and they didn’t seem to feel a thing. I told myself that as I got older, I would probably grow out of this fear of getting in trouble.

It never went away.

Throughout elementary school, I avoided trouble at all costs and always strived for perfection. I was the teacher’s pet in my class each year, and I looked for ways I could be an even greater kid. I served as a member of student council for four years, and even dressed up as our school mascot for assemblies. Teachers, parents and classmates always called me smart and thought I was “a good kid.” I left elementary school feeling like I was destined for greatness.

Middle school tore me apart.

My years in elementary school didn’t prepare me for the bitter loneliness I felt in middle school. I struggled to feel comfortable in my own skin and felt friendless. I suppose this is the stereotypical middle school experience, but I was changed by it.

My main goal in middle school was to impress people just like I did in elementary school. I look back and realize how this became an obsession of some sort. In middle

school, I focused on trying to succeed in every aspect of my life. I kept any bad or anxiety-causing part of my life a secret and hid it from everyone. I thought this would prove to people around me that I was capable, that I was worth something.

So, I did it all, or at least attempted to. Most of the time, I tried to impress people through good grades. I was heavily involved in the Excellence in Youth Program at the middle school and worked hard to pass my classes with flying colors. My mentality was that my grades proved how smart I was. So, good grades showed I was smart. If I was smart, I was a capable, worthy human being.

By the time I was 14, my confidence was built on other people’s thoughts. I lived for the moments when people called me “a rock star” or “fantastic” or even “perfect.”

People praised me for how well I was doing in my classes or activities, and I loved hearing what they had to say. They gave great compliments, but I took them all too seriously.

I was soon a freshman in high school and kept the attitude up. I took as many honors classes as I could and finished the year with straight A’s. My high school expectations for myself were met, and I was pretty content with my academic life.

But then came sophomore year. I stretched myself way too thin and wanted to take three AP classes at the same time. I ended up dropping a class, (which was somewhat scary, but I knew it was for the best). But then I got a B. My first B ever, which broke my streak of A’s. I told myself it was okay. I’d make up for it next year.

Then I became a junior and realized I couldn’t make up the B I got. My grades made me want to scream. I felt anxious.

In elementary school, I assumed I would succeed in high school and do well in college and then live happily ever after. Life would be easy like some sort of fairy tale.

“Succeeding in high school” is hard — harder than I ever thought. When I was little, I told myself “I’m Libby Seline. I can do anything.” However, reality has hit me in the face, and I’ve realized it’s physically and mentally impossible to do everything. As much as I want to say that I’m perfect, the truth is that I’m far from it.

So I write this article as your typically confused teen trying to figure out my life. I’ve developed an unhealthy attitude that causes me to distance myself and stop caring. I don’t like to think about the future because it makes me want to puke, and I stress out when someone gives me advice. I’ve shut down.

I don’t like that I’ve stopped caring about certain things, though. To me, it means that I’m not exactly happy about who I am or who I am becoming. However, it’s forcing me to take a step back and figure out my identity and what makes me happy. I’m figuring out what’s important.

So, I realized I shouldn’t give a sh** about being little miss perfect anymore. I’m even swearing now. Elementary-school-me would be so surprised that I’ve started to cuss, but it’s so liberating. It’s like breaking out of cage of your own emotions. It’s like telling yourself that you don’t have to live up to these overly high standards, and by telling yourself that, the shackles chaining your mind break.

L I B BY S E L I N E

MANAGING EDITOR I’m starting to realize that I don’t have to be perfect, because striving for perfection is tearing me apart.

I’ve been blessed with people in my life who have seen through my charade, and have helped me see that I’m more than my grades or my activities. I’ve begun to trust people more, and I feel freer to share information I once kept to myself. I’ve realized I can’t always handle life on my own; I can’t be this perfect person I’ve always wanted to be. I’m lucky to have people in my life who have lifted me up on their shoulders and helped me build self-esteem.

There’s still a part of me that thinks a number can determine my worth. For instance, I cried when I saw my ACT score, which I didn’t think was high enough. I broke down in my mother’s car because my grades weren’t good enough.

I’ve cried myself to sleep because of stress and anxiety.

It’s taken me 17 years, but I’m finally realizing something: Intelligence should never be, “How smart are you?” but more like, “How are you smart?” Sometimes I feel less like a human and more like a robot. I’ve lost touch with what makes me unique because I’m more obsessed with managing the details of my life. Intelligence has become a matter of grades and less a matter of what I’m good at.

Slowly, but surely, I’m learning to find a new appreciation for myself. An appreciation that isn’t number- or gradebased or even based on other people’s thoughts. I shouldn’t aim to be perfect because perfection is impossible. Striving to be perfect is like beating yourself up for standing up when you weren’t supposed to: devastating and pointless.

7

keeping the flame alive

Freshman realizes importance of living in the moment

I don’t think I had ever been more uncomfortable.

The skin on my legs was practically raw from how much I had been scratching them, the muscles encasing my shoulders felt harder than rocks and the dirt underneath my fingernails had been caked there for a week. The muscular, reserved boy in front of me was sobbing uncontrollably, and yet, there I was, grinning like an idiot in one of the happiest places I have ever been.

Camp Foster. For the few of us who have been lucky enough to spend even one week up at the Okoboji sleepaway camp, the simple memories that are made there really do last a lifetime. Carb-loading at every meal and obnoxiously laughing, yelling and singing campfire songs are just small things that add to the overall joy and happiness that has kept me, along with countless others, coming back for the past six years.

Every Friday night, the seniors who have spent their final week at Foster receive a candle that is lit with the “Foster flame” and sit on the ground around the campfire. The rest of us sit on logs, listening to the heartfelt speech that is given to them by the camp director, Josh Carr, usually about their time at Foster and where they will go with the rest of their life.

When I was younger, I didn’t think much of this Friday night ritual, but I can vividly remember gluing my eyes to all of the seniors who were scrambling to embrace one another, tears streaming like waterfalls down their faces, and not truly understanding what the fuss was all about – until last summer.

As always, after what felt like less than a day, I found myself solemnly entering the campfire for the last time that summer.

We smiled and laughed and sang some silly songs, and then, like every year before, it was time for the seniors to come get their candle and sit around the campfire.

There were only a few seniors that week, and just one boy. Through the rows of younger campers on logs in front of me, I could precisely make out his illuminated face, stained with tears.

I remembered him from group activities earlier that week. With an extremely tan complexion, dark hair, muscular arms and an award winning smile, the other girls in my cabin thought that Ashton was a sight for sore eyes.

As for me, I hadn’t really talked to him much, and remembered thinking that he seemed like the stereotypical “tough” guy – someone who didn’t get messed around with, and definitely didn’t get emotional.

And yet, there he was, bawling his eyes out. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone, much less the average teenage boy, cry that hard in my life.

As I had gotten older, I began to understand why the seniors were so upset and felt the way that they did, but it was right then, in that moment, that it hit me. In less than three years, I would be right up there where Ashton was now, about to leave the entirety of my childhood behind.

Those three years were going to be gone before I knew it. I thought back to three years in my past, and I was shocked by how fast my life had seemed to pass by. Three years in the past felt like yesterday, so I could only begin

to imagine how quickly time would elapse before the next three years came around.

That epiphany hit me like a brick wall in the face. Of course, the thought had crossed my mind many times before, but it was right then when the magnitude of it really came over me. Everything that I was hearing, seeing and sensing in that moment left my brain completely. All I could think about was the fact that I no longer wanted to be an adult, and I had reached the thought that I had heard from hundreds of different people, but never thought I would hear in my own head: I don’t want to grow up.

Before I knew it, campfire was ending. As I reached out to grab the warm hand of the boy sitting next to me so that we could all sing “By ol’ Foster,” the camp’s goodnight song, another equally frightening thought crossed my mind. This boy, even though we were literally as close as possible in that moment, might never come that close again. Come those three years, and I might not see him for the rest of my life.

All of this was a lot to take in. My head was going a mile a minute and I was having a hard time keeping up. After all of the post-campfire tears and hugs were finished, I made it back to my cabin and had time to think.

I remember telling myself, “This is it.”

No, this is not it, not yet. This is only the reminder that the countdown is coming to an end. Part of me wanted to ask, who says there needs to be a countdown? Why can’t I have the heart and mind of a child forever?

But I knew it was too good to be true. The “time to grow up” is just around the corner, and I am beyond terrified. People tell me a lot, “What do you have to worry about? You’ve got it all figured out – you’ll be fine!” But they couldn’t be farther from the truth. Sometimes I act like it, but I honestly have no idea what I am going to do with my life in the future, much less what I am doing with it right now.

That’s pretty damn frightening considering those three, lone, remaining years that I have to work out some of the most important decisions of my life, and that everything I do within these three years will ultimately affect the entirety of my future.

That’s why I’ve decided to stop trying to figure it all out.

I want these next three years to be focused not on test scores and college applications and my future occupation, but instead still being as much of a kid while I can. Yes, it’s important to still make wise decisions and plan to an extent, but I want to spend time doing what truly makes me happy, right now. Not what will matter when I get my paycheck in twenty years, but what makes me appreciate my life and love the people who I am spending it with.

I only have so much longer before I never see 95 percent of the people in this school again, so why not make memories with them while I still have a chance?

Yes, my time to replace Ashton will come, and come quickly. I know that I will be proud of the decisions I have made and the memories I have created, but I’m not worried about where I will be after my final campfire, or whose hand I will be holding, because I know one thing is for certain.

I will become what I deserve.

M A D I GA N B R O D S K Y PHOTO EDITOR

8

Heading for home

Junior struggles with fear of unknown future

Last summer, I stood with legs weak on the baseball field.

Matt Waldron, the best player in the state, was crying in my arms.

The same kid that was on scholarship to Nebraska.

The same kid that threw a no-hitter in the spring state championship game, completing the three-peat.

The same person whose name filled the record board that hung in the sports hallway, was soaking my red KB jersey with his tears. I was so emotional myself I couldn’t even begin to grasp what was happening.

I looked up at the other dugout, and watched as players from Creighton Prep, hugged each other as well, but for the exact opposite reason, they had just won.

It was the harshest way to see a summer season come to a close, and by watching the seniors; you’d have thought their entire world was ending too. The sadness that flooded their eyes made me feel emotional as well. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first, I mean, sure I was sad, but it didn’t feel the same, and I knew it wasn’t the same as what they were feeling. Then, like a car smashing into a wall, it hit me. Fear. Not sorrow, or anguish, but fear gripped me like a boa takes hold of its prey.

I was afraid, not of the moment, but instead it was the future that was so utterly terrifying. More specifically, not knowing what my future holds.

My life had relied on not being able to wait for the next moment, the next great thing to happen. But there, in that moment, I realized there was nothing I feared more. How will my life turn out? Will I be successful? Will I make enough money?

Will I be happy? Things no soon-to-be junior in high school should be thinking about were suddenly filling my brain, and I couldn’t push them out. That was the worst part though.

Knowing I still had two more years left before my tears would be like of theirs. There is a ticking clock and there is nothing I can do about it. The fear that was being held down and suppressed deep inside was brought to the forefront.

I tell people all the time how excited I am about moving on with my life, going to college, starting a family, buying a house, but the truth is, all of those things are only reminders of how scared I am.

Little kids are sometimes afraid of the monster under the bed, big furry creatures with claws who growl. I’m afraid of monsters too, but mine exist in the form of graduation caps.

It has taken me a long time to come to terms with this fear. I let it take hold of me, but looking back on that dark summer night, I realize I can’t do that anymore. I can’t let it consume me and keep me from enjoying the time I do have left. Ever since I have been trying to live every moment like it

MITC H F R A N C I S PHOTO EDITOR

was my last, and maybe more importantly, I’ve learned to accept that fact one day I will take off my cleats for the last time, walk down the halls one last time, laugh with my friends one last time, and that’s okay.

It’s okay because sometimes you just have to live in the moment. I don’t want to look back and regret not living my life to the fullest everyday. I know exactly what I WANT to be, I’m just afraid of letting myself down.

Orson Wells once said, “If you want a happy ending, that of course depends on where you stop your story” and I don’t plan on stopping my story any time soon. So when that time comes, when I do have to move on and walk away from Westside, I know I won’t be ready, I don’t think anyone ever truly is, but I refuse to let the fear hold me back. So when I’m standing on the field, spilling tears into the uniform of a teammate, I’ll know it’s going to be okay, and that things are going to work out. They have to.

“I’m afraid of monsters too, but mine exist in the form of graduation caps.”

9

Deathly afraid of death Girl discovers new fear through grandparent’s death I first met Bruce when my grandmother brought him to my house. I was a toddler and watching TV with my sister.

Because of my young age, I didn’t realize the importance of meeting new family and my eyes stayed glued to the screen.

Bruce started talking to my sister and stepped in my view and I yelled at him to get out of the way.

Bruce is my grandmother’s second husband, making him my step-grandfather. I have vivid memories of their wedding such as walking over a bridge as the flower girl. When I was 9 years old, I nervously flew to Los Angeles by myself to stay with them for a few days. We were close because they were family, but as I grew older, I didn’t talk to either of them often.

On February 3, 2012, my mom walked into my room and sat on my bed to wake me up. This was different from her usual switching on the lights and yelling at me to get up, so I knew something was wrong. Bruce died in the hospital early that morning. I sat there in shock before it hit. I tried to go to school that day but didn’t even make it to my first class before I ended up crying and went home for the day.

I was upset for the week leading up to the funeral, crying when I thought about it too much. Up until the funeral itself, I didn’t get that I would never see him again. This was my first real understanding of the concept of death, and I didn’t like it.

After this day, I became paranoid. I worried about anything that could possibly take my life or my friends’ and family’s lives away. When I’m at home alone at night, I worry about murderers and robbers circling my house and I stay away from my windows. I hear one footstep and I tense up.

Not only am I afraid of all the possible ways I could die but I’m afraid of what happens after death. It’s hard to imagine everything just ending and you cease to exist.

Yet there is no proof of any other ending. The fact that you could just end your thinking without any warning, frankly, scares me.

This whole notion of death made me think about it constantly. I decided that since I might die at any moment, I want to die happy. I don’t want to be forced into going somewhere or doing something just because someone else wants me to. I am doing what I wish and if that is being at home in bed on a Saturday night, that’s my choice.

I had two choices when I was faced with this fear: I could be a shut-in or I could decide my own fate. I decided that

CASEY A R R I T T

DESIGN EDITOR since a shut-in isn’t a viable option, I would just decide what I wanted to do and not worry about anyone else.

Most days, what I want to do and what people want me to do match up. But on the days it doesn’t, it’s hard because you don’t want to disappoint people. Every time this happens I remind myself that I should always do something that makes me happy, not miserable.

Others will get upset sometimes because it’s not what they want, but I understand that they will get over it because life is short and you don’t have time to worry.

You should always do what you want because in the end nothing else matters.

“I had two choices when I was faced with this fear: I could be a shut-in or I could decide my own fate”

10

Dear Christopher

Senior learns to cope with death of cousin

S A R AH H E R M A N N COPY EDITOR

Dear Christopher, You’re here, cousin Christopher. I barely see you because you live all the way down in Texas with your wife and three children, but you always make sure to come visit during the holidays. It’s Christmas time, and we are all gathered at our grandma and grandpa’s house, which is a family tradition of ours.

Ever since I was little, I have always known you as the “clown” of the family. You always found a way to make me laugh whenever you came to visit. You used to play little pranks on us, such as giving us our presents in different boxes to make my sister and I think we got a box of spaghetti for our birthday.

Even though we rarely saw you because of your far distance, you always made sure that we had the best time together when we did.

There has never been a time where I haven’t smiled or laughed while you were in my presence. You are, and always will be, the number one family member I can count on to turn a bad day right-side up.

It is now January 2014.

My mom walks into my room with a worried expression on her face.

What did I do this time?

Did I forget to bring my dirty laundry down? Is it about that bad grade I got on that geometry test yesterday?

“I have to tell you something important,” my mother said, as she proceeded to sit down on the edge of my bed. I stared at her in silence, giving her unspoken permission to continue.

“Christopher has stage four colon cancer.” I froze in shock. My heart started beating rapidly. She proceeded to tell me that you were checked into the hospital on Christmas complaining of having pain that morning, and the doctors found the cancer that has been growing over the past year.

She then left me alone to process this seemingly impossible information. How could this be? You were just fine last month, how did this escalate so quickly? Why does this have to happen to you, of all people?

Dear Christopher, It’s Feb. 12, 2014: a little over a month since I’ve gotten the news. I’ve been thinking about you all day at school today, wondering how you are doing and what you have been up to.

My mom told me that you have been doing fun things these past couple of days to get your mind off of things, such as holding a pop-drinking contest in your hospital room. You were always one to keep things positive in stressful situations.

I just arrived at home, and saw that my mom’s car is in the driveway. What is she doing home so early? She should be at work for another 2 hours, what’s going on? I walked in the door to see my mom

standing in the middle of the living room, old and new tears staining her face. It was at that point in time when I knew.

Tears began to run down my face. Why did you have to leave so soon? Why didn’t the doctors find your cancer earlier? How are our family gatherings ever going to be the same without you here giving us endless laughter and joy? Why did it have to be you?

Dear Christopher, It is now Feb. 15, 2014: the date of your funeral. As I am walking down the aisle of the chapel with our family, I am faced with dozens of people that love you. The church is completely full; not a single chair is left empty. For the first time in a while, I crack a smile, knowing that you impacted so many people in your short life.

The service has started with an upbeat and happy song, just the way you would have wanted it. I look over to see your wife and three small children, laughing and clapping along to the music. I wipe away the single tear left on my face because you wouldn’t have wanted me to cry.

The rest of the service was filled with fond memories and cheerful music; you wouldn’t’ have wanted it any other way. My family and I are now walking through the aisle, preparing to leave your celebration of life. I turn and look back at you one last time, and I see you being surrounded full of people that love you.

The pastor was standing at the door to the lobby, with a basket of tiny bottles full of mustard seeds sitting in front of him. He explained to us earlier that these will be given to us, to remind us of how you planted a seed of happiness and love wherever you went.

Dear Christopher, It is now December of 2015. Every year on the anniversary of your death, our family and friends dedicate the day to doing random acts of kindness in your honor. It helps keep me reminded of how your kindness helped others, and how a little bit goes a long way.

I still keep the little bottle full of mustard seeds in my room. Whenever I am feeling down or a little worthless, it always reminds me of the people you impacted in your life and of the people I will impact in mine. You may not be here with me physically, but, every time I look at the mustard seeds, I am reminded you will always be with me regardless.

“I walked in the door to see my mom standing in the middle of the living room, old and new tears staining her face. It was at that point in time when I knew.”

11

FEAR OF FAILING

Senior shares her fears in school, life, future

Sitting in my seventh grade classroom with a pencil in hand, I begin to write my story. Mrs. Walters walks around the classroom to make sure everyone is doing what they are supposed to, but then she stops at my desk. I glance up from my paper and she smiles at me.

“Keep writing, Elise. Write what you feel.” I nod and continue on with my paper.

“Write what you feel.” Huh, I thought to myself. Maybe I can just write freely and express myself through writing.

That comment from her sparked my love of journalism and writing. I was the little girl with big dreams and no fears until now.

But then reality hit me in the freshman year of high school.

I was afraid I wouldn’t get into an amazing college and become a journalist with my current grade in math. I thought that I would never become a reporter or writer for any publication.

I thought I wouldn’t be able to move to New York. All of these fears would race through my mind whenever I saw a hard problem I couldn’t solve.

Being torn down by my failures has impacted the way I act.

I put on a mask at school. I try to be positive. I try to be happy in public, but that mask is starting to fade. I went from being positive about a lot of things to second guessing myself on my hopes and dreams.

I don’t even check my grades anymore because that letter grade in math scares me so much. It stares me down like a lion waiting to pounce on its prey. I shouldn’t let the grade effect me but it does.

Whenever I fail to do a task, I feel so bad about myself. Like I can’t do anything. Like I can’t grasp onto a situation and pull myself up.

For example, math is now my burden that I need to take control of. A worksheet. A problem. A number. They all freak me out to the point of me crying about not understanding something. Failing is my worst fear.

Being a “people pleaser” doesn’t help either. I want to be the best and I want to please, but that doesn’t happen in reality. It’s not all rainbows and unicorns. It’s dark. It’s cold. It’s a void that we can’t get out.

Now I understand that my life shouldn’t be encompassed with the fear of failing. I don’t want to walk around with my head down and a melancholy look across my face. I want to be strong. I want to be positive. I want to feel happy all the time,

EL IS E T U C K E R NEWS EDITOR

but I know that it won’t happen.

I know that failing doesn’t always feel great especially when it’s in school or on a team, but we just need to deal with it. Failures build us up into better people.

Nobody is perfect. If we were all perfect, then the world would be boring.

Now when I think of that moment when I was in Mrs. Walters’ class I think I will write what I feel. I will get through this. I will not pass a problem aside anymore. I need to push on and keep moving in my life. I need to remember to never let the fear of striking out keep me from playing the game.

“Failures build us up into better people. Nobody is perfect. If we were all perfect, then the world would be boring. ”

12

LITTLE BOXES

Student recounts struggles with mental disorders

Everything is in a glass box.

I cannot touch it nor can I see it in its full glory. There is no key to unlock the box, yet everyone else can get inside the boxes.

They can pick up things and touch them, smell them and cherish them. I feel an overwhelming urge to open the box. I have to or I will die, but I can’t so why should I try?

School has always been easy. I got straight A’s without even batting an eye. Studying was rare and usually just to make sure I had everything down in about 15 minutes. Yet on a cold November night my freshman year, I found myself in my room at three in the morning attempting to write a paper I had been working on for over five hours.

My brightly lit room became a prison. The painted infinity sign on my wall came to represent the fact that I had been stuck there forever. The thing was, however long I tried to work on it, the more I looked up, the less I actually wrote. The three-page paper was only one sentence long, and I knew I didn’t like the sentence anyways.

I did something I had never done before: I panicked. My breathing increased. Tears started streaming down my face. Before I could figure out what was happening I started sobbing and screaming, “STOP” as if there was a different person than myself behind my reaction.

The scary part is I panicked because I wanted to write the paper. I had all the information. I had it broken down into key points and supporting details. I had the perfect idea for the introduction but nothing was on the page. The computer was right in front of me; why couldn’t I just type?

I had no motivation to.

I got up from my bed and started pacing around my basement to calm down. I turned up my music and tried everything. I played heavy rap, classical music, pop music, soft rock, heavy metal, went back in time all the way to the 50’s and I still couldn’t breathe. I was drowning in my own mind.

I was scared that I was going to pass out or injure myself by not breathing correctly. No one was awake to help me. I shouldn’t bother anyone with my problems, which just seemed to be laziness on my part. But the thing is my paper was in a box. I could see it; I could prepare it, but I couldn’t touch it. I couldn’t experience it, so I couldn’t write it. Nothing came to me because I felt nothing. I panicked because I wanted to.

That was when I accepted that I needed help from someone. That was when I realized that anxiety and depression are not just foreign words other people have to deal with. They slipped into my life and to this day they have not left.

I started reaching out to people soon after this incident. At first I was afraid of judgment and little understanding, but as time goes on, I grow. The boxes are still hard to open sometimes, but at least now I can reach out to someone with a key.

AL EXAND ER B E R G I N OPINION EDITOR

“I was scared that I was going to pass out or injure myself by not breathing correctly.”

13

kale queen

Junior describes challenges of vegetarianism

I grab the bag with my head down, afraid that making eye contact will reveal my guilt to the Twisted Fork employee. He will know my secret. I sign the receipt and tell them to keep the customer copy. Get rid of all of the evidence. I swiftly walk to my car and put on my sunglasses, masking my identity. I pull into the nearest empty lot and park, making sure to turn my car lights off, hoping the tint of my windows hasn’t faded.

I pull the items out of the to-go bag, and unwrap the burger; holding it in front of me, regarding its beauty. I know the almost burnt outside will reveal a beautiful raw pink inside – cooked to perfection as always. The sweet seared onions falling off the edge, wanting escape from the overcrowded patty.

After a few moments of admiration; after saliva has filled my mouth to the brink, with nowhere left to go; after I can’t hold off for another second . . . I take a bite.

If I were to reenact this stunt now, I would spit out the bite in disgust. Cutting meat out of my life was not the easiest thing for me in the beginning of my drastic diet change, when this sneaky incident happened. Nearly two years later, I find it difficult to swallow even a forkful of anything that once had a heartbeat.

When someone notices my meatless platter or that I have to turn my head when a hamburger is being chewed close by, their curiosity is usually peaked. The initial response to my claim of vegetarianism is always the same word: “why?” Of course, this question is loaded; if I respond the truth, they just think I am attacking them, or worse — attempting to lure them over to the dark side.

There are two reasons that I became a vegetarian. The first is because of factory farming. Americans love a bargain, so naturally the food industry has maximized profit and lowered cost by throwing away their concerns for the animals’ well being.

Most of the chicken you find at the grocery store has never seen daylight, or eaten a proper meal. The knowledge of this brings something more to the table than whether it “tastes too good to give up.”

Even though becoming a vegetarian was hard, taking meat out of my diet was easier than living with the burden of blood on my hands.

The other reason I changed my diet is to benefit my health. I know a lot of people deny that meat is bad for you, and maybe I just follow too many vegans on YouTube, but the evidence seems pretty solid to me. My research has convinced me that humans were never supposed to eat meat, and that it is hard to digest. And don’t try to tell me my diet is unhealthy because it lacks protein; I get more than my fair share of that from vegetables. The only vital nutrient that I am really missing out on in my rabbit food diet

BEL LA R A D L E R

FEATURE EDITOR is B12, which is sold in pill form – convenient!

My explanation to their question “why?” often results in the same self-assuring sentence: “I could never do that, I love meat too much,” followed by a chuckle that lingers in the air.

I wonder whether they realize how unoriginal it is or if they truly believe they are being funny. If I had a dollar for every time I heard that exact sentence well . . . just imagine how many carrots I could buy!

In the end it’s not about anyone’s reactions or whether there is evidence I will live 10 years longer. For me, knowing that I am saving just a few furry lives is enough to keep me going. I don’t think I will ever be a meat eater again.

Taking blood out of your diet changes your taste buds after a while. Now even the smell of it will provoke a gag. Imagining the juicy burger that I once so desperately indulged in makes me feel like I will retch.

“The knowledge of this brings something more to the table than whether it ‘tastes too good to give up.”

14

BEGINNINGS OF BUSINESS

Junior begins thinking about his future The anticipation towards my first DECA event was something I had never experienced before.

My excitement clouded the fact that I had never participated in anything like this. I wasn’t too familiar with talking to adults especially when wearing business attire and trying to convince them about a topic I myself had just learned about 15 minutes prior.

After an intimidating presentation, I left the room criticizing myself over everything that just happened. Eye contact, tone, ideas, and clarity… everything was being questioned and replayed in my head. I talked to others about how their presentations were, and by the sounds of it, most of theirs went pretty well. The other participants talked themselves up while I could only find the negatives. I was being a perfectionist. I sat around for hours wondering how my partner, Tyler Clark and I did. I couldn’t think about anything else besides what was being replayed in my mind.

Finally, it was time to announce the top eight for each category. Tyler and I sat down in Burke’s uncomfortable auditorium seats and waited until our category was announced.

I knew this was everything I had worried about for the last couple hours. The announcer began listing the names but mine was yet to be called with two spots left. Finally with the last pick, he spoke the words I had wanted to hear.

“Castleman and Clark,” the announcer said.

At that point, euphoria shot through my body as Tyler and I walked from the top of Burke’s auditorium seats to the center of the stage.

Once on the stage, the lights were shining down on us, top eight competitors, so bright that I couldn’t see anything in the crowd. I was handed a certificate and I revealed a small smile to the crowd. Once all of the top eight competitors were handed their certificate, it was time to announce the top three. Third and second place were announced, and yet again, Tyler and I were yet to be called upon. We both knew that the next names the announcer was going to call would dictate our thoughts on how good we really were at these competitions. The announcer finally moved the microphone near his mouth.

“And in first place, in the category of Sports and Entertainment, from Westside, Clark and Castleman,” the announcer said.

Tyler and I politely took our medals and put them around our necks and quietly walked off stage. Soon after, the competition ended and we were all asked to clear out

CONNOR C A S T L E M A N SPORTS EDITOR

from the auditorium.

Afterwards Tyler and I celebrated while leaving Burke high school. We were just as happy about winning first place, as we were happy about the fact that we had found something we both enjoy and believe we could both consistently preform well in.

After the competition I turned my focus towards a whole new idea for future success and realized my future can be dramatically different than what I had in mind months prior. This also showed me that new interests could shine through in my life at any time so its better to go through something with a positive attitude because you never know; it could be your future.

“‘And in first place, in the category of Sports and Entertainment, from Westside, Clark and Castleman.’”

15

A ghost Story

Elementary schooler’s desire to impress people backfires

One of the first things I ever remember taking interest in were ghosts. Maybe it’s because I was allowed to watch one too many ghost movies as a child, or maybe it’s because I grew up with friends who all obsessively shared ghost stories. Either way, by the time I was in elementary school, I was obsessed with ghosts and the idea that there could be paranormal activity around me.

During the school day, my friends and I would try to scare each other with our “ghost stories.”

Basically, we all pretended to have had paranormal experiences for the sake of looking cool in front of each other. I got so much joy out of telling a ghost story and watching all the color drain out of my friend’s faces. Whether it was by saying that there were ghosts outside our window or things mysteriously flying off the walls, each story got more extravagant.

We all believed that every story we told each other was true, even though it’s likely that none of them were.

One n i g h t , months after the stories slowly stopped, I went to stay the night at a friend’s house. This friend had been the main one to tell ghost stories and freak everyone out. Most of their experiences had happened in that very house.

At around midnight, after spending hours listening to music, browsing the Internet and giving each other makeovers, I settled down to close my eyes and go to sleep. This is when I remembered her telling a story of seeing a ghost in the mirror above her bed. My heart sunk to the floor. Why did I always have to be reminded of things I’m scared of right when I went to bed?

I could see the mirror out of the corner of my eye. It almost felt like it was taunting me. Telling me to just look at the mirror, just stare into it and see if there was a ghost down the hallway.

At this point, I couldn’t even take the thought of seeing an actual ghost so I quietly got up and ran to the door to shut it. You can’t see the ghost in the hallway if the bedroom door is shut after all.

This soothed me for about twenty minutes and I slowly began to drift off into a slumber. That was until I heard a faint creak coming from the door.

It was quiet enough that you could only really hear it if you were paying attention, but at that point I

was terrified so I was listening to everything.

I didn’t dare look at the door. The door creaked more and more until I looked and it was slightly cracked open. There was nothing there – no woman in a long white dress, no creepy little ghost boy.

The darkness by the door was almost more unnerving than it was had something actually been there.

The rest of the night was spent overthinking every sound I heard and trying to stop myself from bursting into tears. Normal sounds you would hear in an old house had suddenly turned into footsteps of a ghost, unsettled spirits whispering to each other, entities slowly creeping closer and closer to where I was. I didn’t look at the door in front of us and definitely didn’t look at the mirror in her room.

This led me no choice but to shut my eyes and just wait until the night was over. To this day, I have images of shadows moving in dark corners that the room burned into my brain. Yeah, they were probably just reflections of things outside, but I was scared so it was definitely a scary ghost.

Not by accident, I didn’t sleepover there for years afterwards. And it wasn’t until recently that we confessed to each other that we were making things up in order to freak each other out.

I had become so consumed by these ghost stories and pretending that we were all being haunted that I was tricked into thinking my friend’s house was filled with spirits.

It’s incredible how vivid that night still is and how terrified her house will always make me, despite almost everything, including the door creaking open, being explained. Fear had tricked my brain into escalating every small movement and noise into a paranormal experience that I thought was definitely going to kill me.

The next time you want to make up a story to impress people, think twice about how you’ll be affected by it. Whether it’s being caught in a lie or somehow tricking yourself into thinking that there’s a ghost in the house, making up stories to impress people will always backfire on you. Especially when the thing you’re making up stories about also happens to be the thing you’re the most scared of.

“Fear had tricked my brain into escalating every small movement and noise into a paranormal experience.”

KA Y L A KY L E A&E EDITOR

16

Divorce does not mean loss of faith

Sophomore realizes significance of religion after divorce I was watching TV with my sister during winter break when I found out. It was just after New Year’s Day, and two days before her eleventh birthday. I had just wrapped up my Bar Mitzvah in November. As my thirteen-year-old self, I was still recovering from this stressful part of my life, Hanukkah, and New Year’s. My parents walked into the den. They brought news: they were getting divorced.

“Great,” I thought. “Amazing. This is the news I just love hearing.”

I started to cry. I never cry. To date, I still think it’s strange I don’t cry; not at funerals, not when most bad news is delivered, not when I’m somewhat sad. If I start to cry, I am physically hurt.

Of course, I noticed many signs leading up to this news, but I never expected it coming, especially right after a time of joy for our family. Not only joy, but also it was a celebration.

Were my parents buttering me up to hear this news?

In November, I had my Bar Mitzvah ceremony, a worship service in which the Jewish community recognizes a thirteen-year-old Jewish child’s adulthood. Usually, the new “adult” leads part of the service, reads from the Bible in Hebrew and teaches about it, and it is usually followed by a festive meal and/or celebration.

I’d like to say my Bar Mitzvah was good. I was intrigued by what I was doing for the service. I loved learning about Judaism and then teaching it. I also thought the attendance that morning in services was outstanding. At the time, my congregation’s sanctuary sat 300 people. On the morning of my ceremony, the sanctuary was standing room only. Not to mention, the chef who catered the lunch was great, and the desserts, made by all the great Jewish mothers and grandmothers, were even better. In the evening, I had my celebration at the Old Mattress Factory, including numerous decorations, a photo booth, and a DJ hired from out of town. The party, which I’d like to think had many attendees who I called “friends.”

The Bar Mitzvah was so great. I felt better spiritually and had lots of fun. When I heard about the divorce, and how my parents tried to keep their sanity this time, I thought that my large Bar Mitz-

vah celebration was supposed to be some sort of condolence to the issue. I had every right to think this way.

There was an obvious dissonance between my parents, from the arguing to the snappy attitudes, so on and so forth. However, I thought somehow the divorce was my fault. They would bicker around me and then say they weren’t trying to “put me in the middle” of everything, while that was exactly what was happening.

At first, I sided with my dad. I think it was because he was the only other male in the house, and I had learned about my taste in music from him. I had also turned to music as a comfort. As I learned the causes of the divorce, which I learned very one-sidedly, I started to understand how my dad wasn’t right for mom, and how he was becoming a stranger to the world.

Now, many times in these cases, a child such as myself would not turn to organized religion as an answer, rather many would say that God wouldn’t do this to a person, and renounce their religion.

I, on the other hand, think that God put me on Earth for a reason, and was trying to teach me a lesson by splitting apart my parents. As a proud Jew for life with a strong belief system, I turned to it for answers. I became heavily involved in my synagogue and two of the Jewish youth groups in town. I continued working as an assistant teacher in the synagogue and worked more hours, just to get away from the issue.

One of the great things about Judaism is that I have the right to question God and all aspects of my own religion. I went to the synagogue and did such. I talked to the rabbis. I tried to keep calm, but I was also trying to get away from my own parents. While working at the synagogue twice a week and staying for two hours of classes afterwards, it was nice to stay away from my parents and connect with something I love.

There are still effects of this period I feel today.

I still feel somewhat unhappy about the divorce, even though I know the causes. I still am extremely active at my synagogue and in Jewish life in Omaha. Overall, I believe I have learned many lessons from the divorce, some of which I am still learning today.

“I thought my large Bar Mitzvah celebration was supposed to be some sort of condolence to the issue.”

BE N JA MI N B R O D K E Y STAFF WRITER

17

Look, a Boy Scout!

Boy Scouts of America and why it’s okay to laugh at them

“So, did you go to the place at 7:30 last night?” A young man said to me. I knew what he was talking about, and it wasn’t a drug deal.

The place is Lutheran Church of the Master, more specifically the basement. That’s where we hold our Boy Scout meetings.

I realize it seems silly, but in an effort to prevent teasing, we don’t talk about scouts at school, and when we do, it isn’t by name.

That’s just how we refer to Boy Scouts. Despite the common assumptions, being a Boy Scout does not make us gay, being a Boy Scout does not make us homophobic, and being a Boy Scout does not decrease our likelihoods of getting a date.

Okay, maybe the last part is a bit of a stretch. In my opinion, if a girl won’t date me because I’m a Boy Scout, that would be as silly as dumping me for being too short (which has actually happened).

Being a member of Boy Scouts is a very good thing. We are willing to take the bullying and stereotypes, because we gain experiences to last a lifetime. We learn skills that a large portion of our population no longer has. Skills which can’t be learned from a Youtube video.

When walking around the halls of school, we don’t see our fellow scouts in Boy Scout uniforms. What we do see a lot of are students with their faces in their phones. It seems like they would die if they went a day without their phones. We go through the whole campout cut off from technology. Not only do we survive these periods of time, we learn from them, too.

One of the biggest skills we learn is teamwork. Without our brethren scouts, we do not eat, we do not sleep and we don’t stay warm or happy. When there are 15 people working together, it is a lot easier to get everything done, and get it done on time. Even if you have hundreds of followers on Instagram, it doesn’t help you clean the dishes. Fifty likes on Facebook do not fill your belly with food. Most importantly, I have never seen a retweet help start a fire in the rain.

Speaking of fires, very few people can start one. Even fewer people can start a fire without a lighter, or without matches, or in the rain. I’m not saying that all of us can do it, but most of us can. Can you say the same? A fancy phone wouldn’t help you, it wouldn’t even burn. It isn’t just starting fires, but all manner of wilderness skills, including whittling, shelter building and outdoor cooking.

The most important part of all, the biggest impact on our lives, is just being outside. Spending time in the forest, surrounded by the trees is incredibly relaxing. Watching the sun rise over the snowy plains is beautiful. We live in an age where kids would rather sit inside in front of a TV than go outside. When we have to go to school all day then sit at home doing homework late into the night, Boy Scouts is a relaxing break. Now that we know how wonderful camping and nature can be, we Boy Scouts will continue to keep it in our lives after we graduate.

ROB ER T G A B E L STAFF WRITER

“I had fun at the place,” he said.

“Me too,” I replied remembering the dodge ball game we won at the meeting. I know that Boy Scouts is not as popular as basketball or as glamorous as being the quarterback for the football team. That is okay, we don’t mind. We don’t mind the stereotypes and harassment. Teamwork and the other skills we learn will stay with us for the rest of our lives. Not just those skills, but the connection we gain with nature lasts too.

There is nothing like it in the world. Despite the insults and teasing, those benefits keep most Boy Scouts in the program. Also, Eagle Scout looks great on a college resume.

“I knew what he was talking about, and it wasn’t a drug deal.”

18

death, An Attempt At Understanding Observations on death and related topics from a senior The other day I was sorting through a box of papers and things from my days in junior high. Based on the drawings found within most of my school work I guess I’d forgotten how obsessed I used to be with death.

When you’re young you don’t really understand the concept of death, which is logical because you don’t really understand the concept of life either. Even though your parents and grandparents try to tell you about how precious life is, it’s pretty difficult for it to sink in, as almost all of these people don’t seem to be having a particularly good time anymore.

There are countless theories about what death is really like. I’ve heard most of them, but for some reason the only ones I actually believe are those told by sleazy rock stars that overdosed, were dead for a few minutes, and then were revived. Usually the experience goes as followed. They see a light, have a trippy out of body experience, which is then followed by nothingness.

I’ve always kind of been paranoid that when lying on my death bed that I would be haunted by a quote I heard a few years ago in a motivational video on YouTube. “If you don’t make the most of your life, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself,” when the time comes though I plan to comfort myself with the saying, “We are all here on earth to fart around, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” While we’re on the topic of quotes, I don’t know which expression I like better: “that which does not kill you makes you stronger” or “that which does not kill you didn’t finish the job.”

I don’t know if I’m all that afraid of death, but I’ve made it a point to try not to die stupidly, because if there is an afterlife, it’d be kind of a drag to spend the rest of eternity feeling like kind of a dumba**.

If you are familiar with the experience of being close to death (for instance I’ve experienced things like almost getting T-boned by a semi in an icy intersection, or almost being hit by a train, or undergoing some intense turbulence during a flight over the Atlantic ocean in the middle of winter), you may also be familiar with attempting to make deals with whichever supernatural power you may believe in, and vowing to be a better human being if you so happen to get out of it. I hope you also know the ecstatic feeling of being let off the hook, but as many of us know, the vow you made to be a better person really starts to wear off after a while.

If you consider death to be something of a motiva-

tional factor, it’s interesting to think about how just a few generations ago, during the time of the Cold War, the fear of nuclear annihilation was so immense and immediate, it kind of makes sense how much that may have liberated people to do whatever they wanted while they were alive. Though the repercussions of those lifestyles are equally as interesting as there was no nuclear war. A lot of these people went about heavy drug and alcohol use, and having many sexual partners. My guess is most of those people have either burned out or died in the process. I would also go as far to assume that most those who are still alive today probably wish they would have settled down, got a stable job, and started a family like the rest of their lame friends. I can’t help but in some way relate this to how I’m living my life currently. None of us know when we are gonna die and if I knew today was my last day would definitely do it differently than I would if I knew I had 20 more years to go?

I don’t know if this sounds dumb or not, but if I was dying, I wouldn’t be too concerned that I didn’t earn enough money, status or power, but I would be annoyed that I didn’t spend more time in my room listening to Jimi Hendrix.

Although cemeteries are generally regarded as kind of a depressing place to hang out, I always thought they gave me some sense of perspective. When you start thinking that for the time every dead person there was alive all of these people were at the center of their own universe. Like most of us, they all had various wants and ambitions and maybe even believed they had all the time in the world. Now when I’ve spent my morning worrying about how many likes my tweet was going to get, therein lies the perspective.

A couple of months ago, I was visiting the grave of a relative I only sort of knew. It was then that I realized that I didn’t really know how to honor the dead.

As I was standing there contemplating, two kids and their dog came tearing through the cemetery looking at all the headstones. Both of them eventually stopped to look at a grave and their conversation went as followed.

One boy said, “I wonder what this guy was like?” the other responded with “I don’t know” and then the first boy said “oh cool” and then went on about their business. It dawned on me then that they were probably doing a better job of it than I was. So I left without doing anything.

“I don’t know if I’m all that afraid of death”

COLE HOPKINS STAFF WRITER

Another more cynical way to view death is that it kind of equates everyone. So if you find yourself feeling a little unconfident in a certain situation just remember everyone there will die some day and so will you, and therefore you have nothing to be scared of. Part of me cringes at the thought of knowing I could have tried something new or cultivated a new relationship with someone in my life but then never did. I also think that hiding in a shell will eventually start to suck way more than the temporary discomfort I would feel if I tried something new and it just didn’t work out. In all honesty though, the other part of me knows that saying this really doesn’t mean much. This is because I know when I’m presented with a situation to give something a shot, I’ll probably just stay in my shell and not do anything about it.

Well the previous paragraph was supposed to be the end of this story, but my editors thought I needed to “add more” so I’ll leave you today with these quotes to live by. Firstly “Maybe the journey isn’t so much about becoming anything. Maybe it’s about unbecoming everything that isn’t really you, so you can be who you were meant to be in the first place.” And in the wise words of Rod Kimble, “Life is short, stunt it.”

19

Under pressure

Sophomore deals with misplaced anxiety

I am a high-strung person. I’m going to be brutally honest here, I get worried over pretty much everything. Why? What is there to worry about? I don’t know. Half of the time, there’s not even a reason to be as stressed as I am. My internal constant state, despite my facade of good ole’ procrastinating jokester Emma, is on the verge of panic. It’s who I am. And it’s because I have anxiety.

Anxiety is not your usual “Oh no! That test is today, crap! Better cram during open mods” type of stress. Anxiety is being worn down by things you’ve done and misplaced worries. All. Day. It’s unforeseen sleepless hours as you stare at the ceiling while listening to Seal’s Kiss from a Rose at 3 a.m. as you think about mistakes and missed opportunities and try to go to sleep again. It’s procrastinating, knowing it’s only going to make your life worse, but because you’re so scared of failure at this point it’s easier not to try right now. This is my life. It’s not great, but it’s mine.

I’m not sure when it got this bad, but I think I have an idea.

It was my personal demon, and its name was the CAPT (Connecticut Academic Performance Test). Back in the day, little second grade me and a classroom of other kids went through weeks of prep for the test that would define our school’s funding for the year. “Eat a good breakfast!”

They said. “Don’t lose track of time!” They cheerily reassured. No pressure, right? No pressure.

Just precious cash and teaching jobs on the line.

From there, they placed us in big rooms together, and sat us down to bubble in answer after answer. Various two-part topic tests. Almost three hours each. One short lunch break, no recess.

For two weeks. As you can imagine, it didn’t take long for most of us to crack. I think that was the most sleepless I had ever been in my life. I was a bag of nerves that anything could set off. Missed a homework problem? Here comes the waterworks I wasn’t supposed to show when my test bubbles were a confused web.

But it’s not just about the academics. That’s just the consistent catalyst of my tense cauldron of worries. The other big part is the self judge-

ment. I constantly analyze everything I do, everything I say. Was that joke I just told a faux pas?

Did I say the right things in that conversation?

Do my friends really like me? What if they’re just acting nice to keep me around as a joke, a thing they can laugh at behind my back? What if nobody really likes me at all? All just misguided guesses, but still seeming so real and terrible in my mind. It doesn’t even have to be current. It could be the middle of the afternoon and suddenly BAM! Guess it’s my regularly scheduled time to bemoan the stupid things I did as a kid.

And, consequently, I just wanted to curl up under a rock.

Although I can’t curl up under a rock. That’s not how it works. No, as much as I’d like to, I have to manage it traditionally.

By managing it, I don’t mean the Instagramgirl method of “Lmao just drink some tea!! Pet a cat!”

Those might help for stress, I suppose, but things like that will do little to nothing for me in the long run. I bury it inside. I think too much. I chew my nails down to nothing and tease my hair and swear like a sailor when things go wrong. I text my friends for reassurance that they don’t despise my guts. I look at calm photos and listen to rain or some echoey violin music, anything that works. I know it isn’t healthy, and I’d ask for meds if I wasn’t afraid of the stigma that came with them, but it’s better than sobbing uncontrollably all over the desk if you get a low test grade, knowing the repercussions that will occur later.

But at this point, I’m used to being invalidated. Half of you reading this probably won’t believe me, say I’m over-exaggerating, tell me to grow a pair and handle it like the rest of you. Or you can go the other route, asking me if it’s really not just stress, asking if it would be easier if I just did better in school. I’m used to it. All I know is that this is not your usual school-sitcom level of stress. If I had to deal with all the sh** Troy does in High School Musical, having to choose between two passionate hobbies, being shunned by his former friends, etc. I’m pretty sure I’d just

“Being excellently well-tuned to situations exchange for your sanity. I’ve heard worse.”

EM M A K O R E N G E L STAFF WRITER

pass out on the ground, not passionately sing a duet or a basketball-based team chant.

People say that anxiety is an evolutionary tactic, a means of keeping on edge, and that people with it tend to be more aware of their conditions and surroundings. I can’t say that’s all true, (basically anything behind me doesn’t exist; old people with shopping carts can sneak up on me like ninjas) but it definitely makes me more likely to triple check my luggage for my hairbrush and keep track of my grades. It’s a curse being excellently well-tuned to situations and alert in exchange for your sanity. But, I’ve heard of worse.

It’s not healthy, pretty or fun. But it’s a part of me, kind of like being a werewolf or maybe Spiderman. A really uptight, less fun version of Spiderman. That’s me. And I accept it.

20

BURNED AWAY

Sophomore finds herself after tragedy I was given the challenge to find my defining moment. I started thinking. “I don’t have any defining moments, I’m a high schooler, I have four friends at the most at one given time and my life is filled with drama. How could I have a defining moment?” Then I started thinking of all the good and bad things that ever happened to me and it clicked. I finally knew what my defining moment was.

To really understand my defining moment we have to go back to Jan. 27, 2011. That was the day I lost everything to a single speck of fire. At four a.m. I woke up to my brother screaming above me. Getting up, I realized that my house was on fire. I couldn’t see very far and there was smoke down to my ankles. I was coughing so bad I thought I couldn’t breathe.

Everyone made it out alright, but I lost my three wellloved dogs. I thought that I also lost my two cats, but a week later my dad gave me the news my cats were still alive. The fire changed me; I had nothing. Everything I once owned was lost, and I knew that my life would never be the same.

After that day I found it hard to talk to anyone who wasn’t my family. I became quiet until I started my seventh grade year.

Four days after the house fire I walked back into the black, damp house. The walls looked like they were coming out at me. I hated walking through the hallways. The rest of the house was worse. Pots and pans were melted and our photos were reduced to ashes. It made me realize that I literally had nothing. It was probably the worst time in my life.

I was lucky, though. I had my dad to help me get through everything. I was only and I somehow blamed myself for the fire. My dad had to explain what really happened that night.

A short fuse for a light was enough to throw my life into chaos.

Two months after I knew the truth about the fire I started to notice my family getting over the house fire. My sister went back to volleyball and my brother went back to messing around outside. I finally broke and told my friend TJ, the one person I trusted at the time. I can still remember his shocked face and him telling me that it was okay.

I felt a lot better after talking to him, I felt like I could also move on. So I did and along with TJ’s help I became a happier version of me. A version that didn’t care that everything got taken from her when she was young. They made me realize that I didn’t have to be unhappy all the time.

NICOLE P E T E R S E N STAFF WRITER

By the end of the year TJ would become one of my best friends. I am now a louder, more confident version of myself.

I have changed since the house fire. I no longer let people push me around. I don’t let myself take the bad comments people give to me because I know I’m better than that.

Over the course of writing this article I found out that I don’t have just one defining moment. I understand that my life is made up of all of my defining moments each one as important as the last. I’m glad I had the chance to write this article it gave me time to think about me and who I was. I found a new better me after the old one was burned away.

“The fire changed me; I had nothing.

Everything I once owned was lost.”

21

Call of the Wild

Sophomore finds power from road trip west

Every day, I feel like I am assaulted by people. I’m constantly in communication with almost everyone I’ve met. A small tremor on my desk is enough to tell me something inconsequential has happened, which is great, because without thinking, I will open my phone and waste my time. That buzz is all it takes, because I need to fill all the gaps in my daily action with useless information. The world is so connected that we don’t know what it feels like to be alone.

Really, loneliness isn’t bad. It’s great. A moment shouldn’t be empty as long as you have the capacity to enjoy it. Being constantly entertained for seconds at a time makes a society of boring people.

For me, the truest feeling of pure joy comes from getting away. I love to be as far from the things that don’t matter so I can learn what does matter.

This summer I took a spur of the moment road trip with my dad with no clear destination. We drove west through nine states in a car for 90 hours total, over a distance of 3705 miles. We stopped wherever seemed interesting, stayed wherever it stayed interesting, and camped when we couldn’t find a bed.

One night, it was 30 degrees in Yellowstone, the next it was 110 degrees in Bend, Oregon.

Instead of people I saw 300 foot trees, instead of texts I saw that familiar dotted line down the middle of the road.

The only voices I heard were occasionally those of my dad, or of DJ Joziah on Sirius XMU, shaking up a similar rotation of the same 30 songs.

Despite what you may think, the loneliest road does have great service, but I rarely used it. Our nation excels at offering solitude if you care to look for it. In Nevada, this was no exception.

Conveniently it was here my dad and I inevitably got tired of talking, just in time for a 400 mile straight road.

Here, the road looked to be the only trace of humanity. Nothing moved. I had no sense of depth, motion, or time.

It was difficult to know whether time was standing still or flying by. Alone with my thoughts, I realized what silence is.

S i l e n c e wasn’t being stuck without my phone, or being alone, or even the absence of voice. Silence brought on a whole knew meaning.

I was appreciating a moment, knowing that I might not be on this road again for a long time, if ever. I’m sure ev-

JIM S CHU E NE MA N STAFF WRITER

eryone is capable, but we don’t always let ourselves enjoy and acknowledge the situation. Everything happens just once.

I’m no expert on solitude or inner peace. I saw nothing wrong with spending every moment of the day in communication, and for the most part still don’t, but if the only break you get from people is sleep, you must escape.

Growing up, I’ve enjoyed a static environment. I still spend time with many of the same people as I did when I was 6, and I can perpetually rely on their contact. I developed a sense of home that was hard to break. Cutting off these ties, even for only a week, was enough to teach me there really is a whole world out there.

“I was appreciating a moment, knowing that I might not be on this road again for a long time, if ever.”

22

CHANGE IS GOOD?

Junior finds change is necessary through baseball

STEVEN SIMON STAFF WRITER

Two of us fell behind the rest of the group and slipped back into the dugout to grab the cooler full of Gatorade. As everyone else eagerly huddled in the outfield, we crept up behind Coach Lundin and gave him the Gatorade shower of a lifetime. Seeing his shocked face reminded each of us of all the years we played together. There were feelings of nostalgia in all of us; the team, coaches, and the field we’d grown up on would truly be missed. As the sun fell that July night the fact that we would never play together again started to set in.

Many people love the idea of change and something new or unfamiliar in their lives. Frankly, I’m the exact opposite. I’m a traditionalist and change doesn’t sit well with me and at the end of an era in my life and at the end of my baseball career, this was more apparent than ever.

I remember driving down to the baseball fields five minutes from my house when I was around six years old. When I arrived to each game, I’d hop out of the van with my jersey and pants two sizes too big, and a baseball bag the size of me. I’d hobble to the dugout, put my glove on and run out onto the field with the rest of my elementary school friends.

After every game we’d meet in the outfield to hear from our coaches and then race to the concession stand to get a snack and mess around before our parents corralled us to take us back home.

Year after year, my friends and I would play together and spend our summers together. We always loved to win and compete but we didn’t play on any select team only WWAA, a rec league, we just wanted to have a good time and get outside. Of course we got older and busier and started to play other sports, but we never failed to come back to the game we had learned to love each summer.

The tradition stretched from kindergarten to the beginning of freshman year. When high school began, the group engaged in different activities, sports and clubs and time dwindled. Around a third of us tried out for high school baseball and made the team.

The knowledge we gained was valuable and we all

surely improved our baseball skills, but to me, it just wasn’t the same. It was still the game I loved but it was totally different and it didn’t feel right playing in a new place, with a new coach and without my former team of nine years.

Also, the attitude shifted from enjoyment to extreme competition, which minimized the ability to appreciate baseball. I realized this when practices and games became more stressful than fun and criticisms came at the smallest of mistakes. My freshman year almost everyone on the team was unfamiliar with each other, but along the way we got to know our teammates and either enjoy or at least tolerate their presence.

We won most games that spring and summer and when we were winning, attitudes were positive, people worked hard and we all got along.

At one point in our season full of successes we played Omaha Central, typically a team we could handle with ease, in early June. We started the game off sloppy with a multitude of mistakes and we fell behind a considerable amount on the scoreboard. Not used to being down, tempers flared, teammates were arguing, calling each other out, and even more physical and mental errors were made.

The game spiraled way out of reach due to the conflict. An issue like this would’ve never happened on my former team. Why spend countless hours playing a sport if you can’t enjoy it?

I played both seasons, spring and summer, my freshman year, but after the spring season sophomore year, I decided it was time to throw in the towel on baseball. The decision wasn’t easy by any means, but after lots of thought, it was clear that baseball wasn’t the sport for me anymore due to the changes between my prior baseball experience and baseball in high school. I dreaded going a summer without baseball. It felt like a part of my childhood was gone, and in some ways it was. I don’t regret the decision but I do still miss baseball.

I don’t like change, and even though it is widely said that change is good. A more fitting word, in my opinion is necessary. Deep down I’ll always recognize baseball as my first true love, but without the bonds of friendship and the relaxed summertime feel I had to let it go.

“I’m a traditionalist and change doesn’t sit well with me and at the end...of my baseball career, this was more apparent than ever.”

23

Finding new ways to look at death

Student looks at family member’s death in new light I was nervous in front of all my family and a whole lot of people I had never met. There I stood holding back tears as I spoke the eulogy. I hated speaking in front of large crowds, but I felt like my grandpa would have wanted me to do it. I told old stories and explained my grandpa Dave’s life.

My grandpa and I had a special relationship. We always enjoyed spending time together and watching Cubs games. My grandpa recently passed away in March of 2014. I remember waking up that morning at five a.m. and I had a weird feeling of premonition. I went back to sleep until six and when I woke up, my mom was gone. I’d known something was wrong but I didn’t know what it was. Later that day at school, I was being very persistent as I texted my mom. I knew my grandpa was very ill and he didn’t have much time left and I had assumed something happened. I was asking her what was going on and how he was doing. She picked me up early and told me what happened and I broke down as I walked to her car.

I looked up to him, he was always very strong and was a great role model to me and my brothers. His passing was the first time that I went through something like that, I had never lost a loved one until then.

After his passing, I built a fear of death because I never wanted to experience that again. I realized death is a natural thing and it happens to everybody in life. I hated thinking about this, and losing my grandpa only made it worse. About a month after his passing I began to better understand death.

Normally, when a person loses somebody they are close to, the mourning process takes a while. I think rather than being upset about what happened, be happy about that persons life and all the great things they have done. Although I was still sad about what had happened, I began looking at his death from a different angle. My grandpa helped me become harder working and always made me laugh. Thinking about the positives of somebody’s life helps you cope with it.

My grandpa hated being in the hospital, not because he wanted to be home. He didn’t like that he was only being kept alive by medicines and cords in his body. I was upset when he began hospice care, which is for the very sick. Hospice care does not provide medicines, or hook you up to cords and people often pass away during this. Most people would rather go peacefully, rather than be living very ill and weak, with no chance of recovery.

I think my grandpas passing made me stronger as an individual. I learned that you always need to see the positive of things, no matter how bad it may seem at the time. Although that can be difficult, it will make you feel happier about what happened.

I am just happy to know that my grandpa passed easy and peacefully in his sleep.

NOLA N T RA CY STAFF WRITER

“After his passing I built a fear of death because I never wanted to experience that again.”

24

Gettin’ Shooty

Student caught in the middle of bar fight, makes it out alive

After a short 16 years on this planet, I have deduced one thing and that’s that white people are crazy. Especially old white people. My dad is an old white person so I’ve seen the craziness first hand through reckless driving, broken bones and minor explosions. My dad has been taking me bar hopping with him since I was in my mom’s womb, probably. My favorite bar to go to has got to be the Poop Deck Bar and Grille.

The bartenders are all nice and they give me free sodas and tell me I’m strong for dealing with my dad for so many years. I don’t think anyone under the age of 45 hangs out there except for me.

It was 7 p.m. on a Monday and I had been there maybe 20 minutes when the whole thing went down. I grabbed a couple quarters and went up to the candy machine to get some peanut M&Ms. “Nice sweater,” some kid yelled from the corner of the bar behind the pool table. He was young, maybe early 20s, but built like a rock. This guy had to have been six foot something and 300-or-so lbs. I laughed and smiled awkwardly. We were wearing the exact same Nebraska sweater.

I headed back to my seat near the opposite end of the bar. Well this big guy, who I’m going to call B, was with three friends. They were all built in the same football player stance. The same stereotypical tall and muscular.

The group of guys were causing commotion at the end of the bar, voices growing louder from the oddball crew.

B and his friends were asking Barb, a familiar patron, if she was trying to fight. Barb is like 60 years old she’s not trying to fight anyone, she has life alert probably. All Barb had done was asked one of B’s friends to move because he was in her seat and now he was towering over her all up in her face.

Alex, the bartender, stepped in and asked the boys to calm down and it only escalated. The old people at the bar started throwing in their two cents and telling them to leave her alone. One of the old bikers, who we call Dirt, started getting a little lippy. Dirt still thinks he’s tough and can beat someone up even though he’s 80 and has Parkinson’s. He managed to infuriate B and his group of giants by using some less than appropriate words.

The ugly one of the four young guys walked up to Dirt screaming at him to start swinging. Dirt stood up out of his chair, hunch in his back and leather jacket hanging off of his brittle old man frame. He was not about to back down to a fight.

“No one is fighting anyone, sit down,” Alex intervened.

“Fight me! Fight me, old man,” He continued to yell at Dirt, whom I repeat is 80 and has Parkinson’s. I don’t know what was with it with these young guys and trying to fight old disabled people. I sat just a few feet from the action, the whole bar drifting towards where I sat to watch it go down. I started getting worried. I don’t like fighting. Kandi, a girl who was sitting near by, got up and placed herself between the two. B’s minion called her a couple slurs and then started swinging. No one in the bar could believe their eyes, that this kid was punching a middle-aged woman. It took a few minutes for anyone

to register it.

“You have three seconds to get out of my bar,” Alex warned but Barb was quicker to act than Alex was. She ran up behind the guy holding a glass. She had to jump up to reach his head, slamming the glass down on him. It was as fast as lightening, I swear. One of the other friends charged at Dirt, picking him up and throwing him across the table sending glasses and drinks flying.

The odds in the fight were uneven, these four kids against 15 elderly people. The patrons were so sure they could overthrow these punks. Everyone started rallying up. I wish I could say I was tough about it, but I wasn’t. As soon as Dirt went flying over that table less than a foot away, I was out of my chair and heading for the other end of the bar. Alex looked at me briefly and I literally just mouthed the word “nope” to him and kept walking for the other end of the bar.

B and his crew all jumped on top of Dirt and started swinging on him. One of them picked him up again and threw him against another table, cracking his head open. The old people in the bar were up and out of their seat. Climbing on top of the four kids, swinging on them and throwing glasses but the boys didn’t let up. My dad joined in on the riot. He was attempting to yank the kids off of Dirt before he was seriously injured or dead.

“You’re gonna kill him,” a woman screamed but the fighting didn’t stop. I was trying to hold myself together and act not scared, but truthfully, I wanted to cry. I was being faced with the possibility of experiencing death up close and personal. This was not something I wanted to do on a Monday night. I was doing well at acting not scared for a while until finally the boys were pulled off of Dirt. I caught my first glimpse of a very passed-out Dirt, bleeding from several places on his face.

“I’m coming for you next,” B yelled, pointing his finger right at Kandi. She flipped him off and they continued to swing and battle, pushing the crew to the front door. The fighting was now back in my vicinity and my anxiety increased. I was just hoping not to accidentally get hit. Three of the big dudes were still within a few feet of the front door, trying to take out as many old people as they could before they had to go when I noticed B duck out for a moment.

He reappeared in the doorway only seconds later, pulling a Glock from his hoodie. I had never seen a gun in real life before so it didn’t register until that first shot rang out.

It was a loud pop that made me jump from my skin. My fight or flight mode turned on as my anxiety rose up in me.

At that point in time, I couldn’t see anything except the back door. I didn’t care if the bullet hit anyone, I didn’t care about my dad, this bar or Barb. I was sprinting as fast as my little legs could carry me right for that back door.

In my head that was always the plan, if you’re in the building with a shooter, get out of the building. But again, with my adrenaline and anxiety, I managed to collapse right as I reached the door. The fear-fueled adrenaline was so great it felt like I had dropped some serious acid.

I laid half limp on the ground, panicking so hard I couldn’t figure out how to move my legs. I yanked on the doorknob but couldn’t get it open. I cried and my whole body shook violently. Another shot rang out behind me and

A PR I L V A N U N E N STAFF WRITER

someone screamed, which made me scream. In the midst of the chaos, like a beautiful angel sent down from heaven, the other bartender, Mat, showed up in the hallway.

“Mat, I’m paralyzed I can’t move my legs,” I yelled at him.

He was yelling back at me and calling me a crazy white (insert derogative term here) with his gross matted man bun and braided facial hair. He picked me up in his arms like I was infant Jesus and he was Mary. But he carried me back out in to the chaos and threw me down on the dirty bar floor behind the counter telling me to stay down. Of course I’m going to stay down this guy brought a Glock to the party. I peeked around the edge of the bar. B had the gun pointed directly in Kandi’s face.

“You really want to fight?” Kandi yelled and she powered up like the hulk or something. She was turning green I think, and she did the only thing that made sense in her mind at the time. This crazy old woman picked up a table.

She straight up was holding it over her head before flinging it full force at B. The table slammed in to his face with some kind of monster truck force. It knocked him off his feet. His friends picked him up and they all ditched, high tailing it out of the bar.

It was only seconds later that the cops showed up but they never caught the kids. After waking up Dirt and determining that no one was shot, all these crazy old white people sat back down at the bar. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

“I got them good,” Dirt laughed and everyone clinked their glasses and ordered more rounds, talking as if nothing had happened. I swear on my life, I am never going back to that bar again.