Writer to Writer Issue 0, Spring 2019

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Writer to Writer a journal by writers, for writers Editors-in-Chief Jacob Stropes Antonia Vrana

Submissions Chair Lauren Weiss

Marketing Chair Aylin Gunal

Administrative Chair Caitlyn Zawideh

Art & Design Editor Brooks Eisenbise

Editors

Briana Johnson Mary Jo Kelly Henry Milek

Faculty Advisor Shelley Manis


Table of Contents 1 4 5 11 21 25 27 29 30 41

The Art of the Attempt

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The Final Word

Summer Before Senior Year More Than Kisses

Rebirth: A Hindu Funeral in Kathmandu Drivers Training Segment 3 it’s not me, it’s you

Old Memories of Young Girls Good Country Folk

Inexplicable Nationalism Bygone



The Art of the Attempt by Caitlyn Zawideh

Type “define essay” into a Google search bar and two definitions will appear. The first is pretty useless: “a short piece of writing on a particular subject.” While this is technically a correct statement, it is also correct to say the same thing about a short story or a poem or the contents of the Cosmopolitan Snapchat story, none which fall under the essay category. The second definition, although shorter, says much more: “an attempt or effort.” These few words are still lacking but express more of what an essay requires of its author—the challenge of untangling and sorting the synaptic mess that is human thought and somehow translating it into words that are coherent and meaningful. This is a task that will forever be attempted and never achieved. Great essayists have tried, will always try, and come very close, but never fully accomplish it. Short of acquiring telepathic superpowers, it is impossible to perfectly communicate something as fleeting and complicated as one’s own mind. The fallibility of written word is a reality we all must face. All we can do is try to put some impression of our thoughts on paper. That is the essay. That is the great and terrible attempt. When it comes to pinning down the content of your own mind and shaping it to your will, you have three tools at your disposal: content, purpose, and structure. These are essential to any piece of writing. What makes content, purpose, and structure specific to an essay is the idea that these must be used to convey an honest expression of thought. Actually, I would describe the essay as a whole with those same words: an honest expression of thought. There is not much else an essay must do in the way of tangible criteria to be considered an essay. It must be non-fiction; it must have content, purpose, and structure. It must speak a truth. Skilled essayists make a mastery of these tools look easy; then again, we only get to read the final product. We only ever read the last attempt. We don’t see the many revisions and rewrites that must have preceded

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it. Personally, I have come to embrace the sculpture metaphor when it comes to writing. The first step is always getting the clay on the table. I may have an idea in the back of my mind of what I want to write, but it’s not until I have the material on paper that I can do anything with it. The first attempt is always going to be rough, but that’s okay because the content is in there. In so much of my own work, I find my first draft very much a mushy, shapeless pile of clay sitting on the table. This is at first intimidating, but it can be shaped, chipped away in some places, and built up in others. If content is the clay, purpose and structure are how I manipulate it to take a meaningful form. Sometimes, getting the clay on the table isn’t the hard part. The process of reshaping, revising, and producing a second draft can be a painful one. You have to be willing to let go of the things you grew attached to in your first draft for the greater good of the finished piece. It can be a grueling process. Often, I find myself in front of my laptop, reading what I’ve already written over and over, and waiting for some new idea to strike. Often, I come up with nothing. None of the lightning bolt ideas that got me writing the thing in the first place, just nothing. When this happens, getting a second draft on paper is less like shaping clay more like pulling teeth. You can lose sight of your purpose, and then the content you had that were once so fond of starts to feel useless too and so do any new ideas that you come up with. The key to breaking this cycle is distance. Take a break for a few days, a week even, give it room to breathe. For me, reading my work again days or weeks later can be the perfect reset to send me in the right direction. As writers, this is all we can do: try and try and try again to turn the mental clutter into something meaningful, to capture the lightning bolt ideas in our skulls and put them on paper as accurately and truthfully as we can. It is a process, an evolution of thought, an effort. Not every method works for every writer. The same method that worked for one piece may not help me at all with another. All we can do is attempt—write and rewrite. It’s never going to be perfect. All we can do is take our thoughts, our synaptic mess—our experience, our knowledge, our own self—and attempt. Attempt to filter, to distill.

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To stare up at the cliffside and try to scale it, guessing where to place our steps so the rock doesn’t crumble beneath us. Trial and error in the pursuance of clarity and meaning set to paper and ink. That is an essay.

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Summer Before Senior Year by Aldo Pando Girard

There I am fucking around Just because I could Because I found out I was a little cute and/or fetishized, Or whatever can make two people lean in close and hear nothing But their own hungry breath There I am Hurling empties at the mess of lights interrupting the consuming night Not hitting the moon but still shattering on the pavement Getting shards stuck in whoever will listen to my unpracticed game And above every brittle exploding throat the back-crack, chest-rumble thunder from seeing you for the first time And that had me all fucked up Had me listening and wanting and wanting Maybe a new best friend or pair of ears or pair of arms to tangle into I still can’t love Can only marvel at the way your hair spins serenade in the rising sun How both hand and flesh bleed when taking out shards of glass How reckless, upon hearing thunder, A boy can waste his body in search of a second burst of fire Streaking hot and distant in the clouds

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More Than Kisses by Holly Honig

It’s a less than quiet Monday evening. The dogs are downstairs, breaching the peace with endless vigor. I am working at my desk in the room, sitting adjacent to Toni. She is working at the dining room table on our monthly budget. She has spent the last seventy minutes or so putting numbers into our spreadsheet which we will go over together when she is finished. It’s our monthly ritual. I am watching her from across the room. She runs her fingers through her hair, as she does when she’s deep in thought. Usually, I can count on him to look up from his computer when he’s working. But he’s deep into spreadsheets and finances, and I’m able to watch him, undetected for a few moments. He runs his hand over his head, landing on the soft spot at the back of his neck. He finally senses my eyes on him and looks up to match my gaze and say, “I love you.”

I’m trying to see my amazing, beautiful spouse in two genders, to be really present with the expanding notion of the gender of this person I love so fully. When Tony was born, the world gleefully proclaimed, “It’s a boy!” After turning forty, Tony came out to his family and friends as transgender—as never having felt comfortable with male-ness; as having always known he wasn’t a boy after all; as having what they call “gender dysphoria.” Coming to terms with gender dysphoria is indescribably difficult and isolating for most people, and it can be equally difficult for their partners. Tony has been on hormone replacement therapy over twelve months. In other words, shit is getting real. Tony’s body has been going through

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fantastic changes. The coding we are all taught and (for now) presentation, has the world mostly experiencing Tony as more male than female. But we move a little bit farther away from that each day. To honor Tony, to explore how I fit in Tony’s adventure, and as an experiment along our journey with the non-binary as a couple, I have been become purposefully and increasingly aware of my projection of the masculine and the feminine onto the individual I plan to spend my life with. I feel so much love for Tony, and I cannot imagine it being any different. But I also know through observation that it is common for partners of trans folks to consider the journey to be too much to handle. I think that maybe part of me sees this endeavor as a way to find proof and validation that things will be okay. If I can understand—really know —gender as an academic exercise, then there shouldn’t be any surprises. Right? And maybe if I can create positive associations around imagining Tony in any gender and be comfortable with it—embrace it even—then I will know I can trust our bond, our love, and ourselves to stay with each other in anything and all things, including a gender transition.

He and I are walking through the park. We try to use our Sunday afternoons for reconnecting. As we walk over a bridge that covers a small stream, he suggests we stop there for a moment. The sun is warm on our backs as we stand side by side. He leans in and kisses my forehead. We unwind our arms then continue on. Her kiss is familiar and tender. I am present to my feelings of devotion and abundance. Her hand is lightly resting on my hip and mine on hers. After we continue on, a stranger stops us to say, “We need more love in this world. You two are awesome.” We both say thank you and Toni laughs, slightly nervous about the public acknowledgment, and nods almost imperceptibly to express, “Let’s keep going.” Will we arouse awareness of our beautiful connection when others no longer see us as a recognizably hetero couple?

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Tony and I met as single adults on an online dating site. Tony’s photo was taken from across the room. He sat with his legs crossed, engaged in conversation with someone out of frame, with a cane lying on the floor next to his feet. His face was dressed with simple glasses, and the rest of his body was adorned in a corduroy jacket, fitted jeans, and pointytoed shoes, respectively. I wrote Tony a note to introduce myself. We corresponded a few times. Tony was funny, smart, and overall delightful throughout these relatively anonymous conversations. Tony says he fell head over heels reading my letters. He now quotes poet John Donne, “More than kisses, letters mingle souls.” Swoon. I wonder now how aware I was of the combination of male presentation and feminine expression at the time. Tony and I didn’t date right away and, instead, developed a rich and wonderful friendship. I learned that beneath the pointy-toed caramel leather shoes were purple-painted toes. I learned that he loved to drive fast cars and drink in the pages of women’s fashion magazines. We did a lot of activities together, and, through this, I learned that we share a desire to soak in as much of life as we can. While chilling on a picnic blanket together one afternoon, Tony wondered aloud, “Do you think you could ever be intimate with someone who is transgender?” I was dating someone else at the time, so I received the question as it was posed—as a friendly conversation exploring views on gender and sexuality. I recall that I felt like it was a fair and good question. I had never before considered the role of gender identity in who I was attracted to. Without much—any, really—pause for reflection along the way, I had only dated men. I had previously been married to a man for twenty-one years with whom I had three awesome kids. I turned Tony’s question over in my mind and could not recall ever having had an opportune moment to consider having a sexual relationship with a woman or a transwoman. It didn’t feel like a deal breaker. “I don’t know, honestly. I’ve never thought about it. I guess I would have to see.”

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Not long after this conversation, we decided to give dating a go. A year later, before falling asleep holding hands, we agreed we should spend our lives together. And at the end of the summer, we got married… twice. On August 28th an observer would have seen two brides in beautiful dresses in front of a Buddhist priest sharing their intentions and commitments to each other. On September 3rd, we repeated the process in bare feet and white linen standing by the lake behind our home, under the watchful eye of the 100-year-old willow tree we call Dorothy. So far, so good. So wonderful. Now that I look back, the fact that we married twice in the binary isn’t lost on me. Before we got married, I suggested to Tony that we go to his therapist together to make sure there wasn’t anything we should be doing, thinking, or acting on that we had missed or that we weren’t considering. We were still working through the possibility of a potential gender transition. We were in love, and Tony didn’t comprehend that love well enough yet to know that things wouldn’t immediately fall apart if he changed in some way, or, more accurately, in the altering of his gender expression. Inside the therapist’s office, seated on musty, teal-upholstered office furniture circa 1982, we determined together—the three of us— that there is no way to predict what will happen with any certainty. Yeah, things could fall apart. The therapist was very encouraging and supportive of our plans and felt we’d thoroughly considered everything needing considering. Her final words of therapeutic wisdom were “Just go have fun.” Phew. I could do that—that sounded easy. And really, what more could anyone do? I have the advantage of never experiencing Tony in the closet as long as I’ve known him. I realize this should exempt me from being able to judge others who have known Tony longer. I really have no place judging those that had to deal with that particular bomb which was dropped. But, to be honest, I still do. Some of Tony’s family members and friends have ostracized him from their lives. I feel pretty strongly that people who cannot allow space for others to be authentic just plainly suck at being good humans. But maybe being an intolerant asshole is their authentic self, so, I go back to thinking, “Who am I to judge?”

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Being defensive is never a way forward; it’s a way to hold firmly still. So, I try to be open to exploring it all. What if there is something to learn from those folks? What if I were to step back and come at it from their point of view? What if I were to suspend my judgment of them and try to elevate myself to see if there is a remote possibility they may see something that I do not? They may see something monumental that I am presently blind to—something I’ll maybe see later and realize, “Shit, I can’t handle this.” Intellectually, I get the words and the concepts. Female partners of men who come out as identifying transgender struggle with questions such as What will people think? What will this do to my career? If I stay, will this make me a lesbian? What’s this going to do to our finances? What does this all mean for me and my own identity? You are not who I thought you were, so what does that mean for the “us”? What about our kids and their friends and teachers? What about the man I love? What about all our happy memories together—were they happy? Someone these female partners love is changing or exploring their gender identity and expression. Someone they love was not experiencing life with them in a shared way; those experiences can feel betrayed and invalidated. Someone they are sexually attracted to is not the kind of object of their desire they thought their partner was. This is all so completely legitimate when I think about it intellectually. But we don’t live intellectually. Those questions are not my truth. Rather, my truth exists in the sloppy emotional spaces where I find it.

These mental and emotional exercises were difficult, but not in the way one might expect. I noticed that shifting wasn’t the hard part; the hard part was being so present with gender—the exactness of him and her no longer feels natural or easy. Him or her? It’s the “or” that I am challenged with. Tony is him/her/somewhere-in-between. And Tony is so much more than this entire conversation. At the end of the day, understanding how gender plays out for me

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and Toni isn’t what’s important. What’s important is my belief in what the stranger in the park said to us: We need more love in this world. What’s important is holding each other up despite what the world will surely bring. Tony is extraordinary. And so is my love for him. And so is my love for her. And so is my love for them. I wouldn’t have my happily ever after any other way.

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Rebirth: A Hindu Funeral in Kathmandu by Mingyu Shen

Before I studied abroad, I spent most of my life in the big modern city of Shanghai. As a Shanghainese, I enjoyed my life there, but I did not know too much about the outside world until the year of 2013, when I was 16 years old. I graduated from middle school that year. I was just chilling and anticipating my approaching high school life. One day my dad called me from Kathmandu, the capital city of Nepal. He was in the middle of a two-month motorcycle trip that would take him from Beijing to Tibet, which is close to Kathmandu. He invited me to join him in Nepal and spend some time traveling. After some surprise and hesitation, I accepted

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his invitation and started packing for my very first South Asia trip. Looking back to my memories when I first arrived in Nepal, I can’t help but laugh at myself then. Before leaving, I had done some “research” online—a cub traveler like me always liked to do some “extra” stuff to soothe the thrill deep down. Unlike those travelers who would like to buy a Lonely Planet—the “bible” of travel guides—and read through the whole book before leaving, my way to get a sense of the local people and their life was by reading the articles with zero credibility on various sketchy travel websites. I read warnings like “Don’t drink the water!” and about some diseases people got from the water there. Therefore when I arrived, the first thing I did was not exploring, nor observing the local life; rather, I cleaned everything around me. I cleaned the silverware that I was going to use, I cleaned the things that I was going to touch, I cleaned the bench that I was going to sit on. I looked around with fearful doubt. My dad just stood there with a smile on his face without saying anything.

The day I remembered the most from our trip was the day I spent at a temple named Pashupatinath. To be honest, on my way to Pashupatinath, I did not even feel excited about it because there were so many temples in Nepal and I thought it was just another tourist attraction. However, everything changed when I first walked to the temple ground. “Something is going on,” I thought. There were people standing on the bridge, by the river and in their balconies. It seemed like they were waiting for something. My curiosity kept me there, although I felt isolated among the locals because of the way I was dressed, the camera I held in my hand, and the huge sunglasses I wore on my face. I was so different from everyone. I waited and waited. Then, I saw a group of kids playing. I could feel their upbeat vibe, which was somewhat incongruous with the overall atmosphere there in the temple. They were curious about the pink Nikon camera in my hand. I guessed they wanted to play with it but were just

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too shy to ask. “What are they doing?” I pointed to the people who were busy with something by the river. “There will be a funeral.” the kids told me, with such a calm tone that I thought I had heard the sentence wrong. While I was still digesting the kids’ reply, the funeral started. The body of the deceased person was first cleaned in the holy water of Bagmati River before the cremation. However, in the same river, I could see people were also taking baths and washing clothes.

After the ceremonial washing, people began to burn the body by the bank of the holy river. The cremation lasted for around 2 hours. From my position on the bridge near to the ritual, I saw people gathered together watching the cremation. It was not the kind of funerals I had seen back in China which were filled with tears and sadness. Surprisingly, families and friends of the deceased person were calm and peaceful.

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When I zoomed closer to focus on the crowd with my camera, I noticed that there were no women or kids, not a single one. I looked across the river to the other band and saw women and children there washing clothes and playing—it seemed like they could not go to the other side. Why? Did the bridge also symbolize a separation of gender? I still don’t know. I soon became bored by staring at the fire and smoke; the fire’s smoke made my head ache. Led by the kids, I decided to take a walk to the other side of river.

I could see rows of mini shrines. In each shrine, there is a statue. Later I learned online that the statue was named Lingam-Yoni, which was worshipped by the locals. Lingam-Yoni is the ancient symbol of fertility; the union of the yoni and lingam represents the eternal process of creation and regeneration.

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I then realized that on each side of the river something different was happening. While cremation was taking place on one side, fertility was worshipped and celebrated on the other side. The bridge not only connected two sides of the river, but also linked life and death together— this gave me a feeling of rebirth. The night was falling, and the sky was dark. I then realized that I had spent a whole afternoon in this temple area. Soon after the cremation ended, people started another death rite, which is believed to welcome the soul of the dead person back home. People pressed the palms of their hands together during the rite. A guy first went down on one knee and then lit a ceremonial object he was holding. When the rite was finished, people started to dance with their traditional music. The kids were still around me. I danced with them, clapped with them, found the happiness that I have never had before.

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Earlier, I had asked the kids around me that why people here didn’t feel sad during a funeral. They told me that they believed that all the people that passed away would turn into butterflies and these butterflies would stay with their families forever; their souls would rest with the Hindu God. I was touched and surprised by the story and kids’ beautiful imaginations. At first, no matter if it had been before the trip or during the trip, I had been I full of fear, while people around me were not even afraid of death! Perhaps I wasn’t having such a hard time trying to understand this culture as I was trying to understand myself. Why couldn’t I just let go of my fears that I held so tightly to? Could I not also let my worries flow down to the holy river?

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Drivers Training Segment 3 by Antonia Vrana

I’ve never thought of myself as fragile. Especially between ages twelve and seventeen. After all, being a teenager is pretty much synonymous with having an innate and undeserved sense of invincibility. In the state of Michigan, you must complete two segments of driver’s training to receive a license, but there is a little-known segment 3 you complete on a more personal basis. I began segment 3 the same day I lost that teen-like feeling of invincibility. It was a chilly fall day and I was about to head to ballet rehearsal. What better way for a seventeen-year-old to spend a Saturday than listening to music from the 1800s in a room full of rich, bitchy girls while a cranky 70-year-old critiques your every move? Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love ballet, it’s just the crowd that is attracted to this particular art form has a way of twisting it into some hierarchical grab for power. It was the subconscious dread of returning to this environment that had me running late that morning. My car was a 2001 Mitsubishi Outlander, a sun-faded striped reddish color that inspired its affectionate nickname: Tiger. I hopped in the driver’s seat, throwing my duffel in the backseat and preparing for my half-hour drive to Lansing. Tiger was, in the most loving way, a rust bucket. Broken AC, a shot transmission, and countless dashboard switches that shorted at the touch. But it was my first car, and your first car undoubtedly has a spot in your heart. US 127 northbound was where I was headed, but the Price road on-ramp was as far as I got. It started like any other highway merging experience does. With acceleration. Only this time it didn’t end with a smooth glide onto the Interstate. As I continued accelerating halfway down the ramp, something happened. It could’ve been a popped tire. Could’ve been the wind that day. Could’ve been the fact that I had received my license

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three months prior and was still a novice at best. Regardless, I don’t remember much. Just flashes of moments. First flash: I’m veering toward on-coming traffic on the left side of the merge lane, taking down those little metal roadside markers as I go. Second Flash: I’m overcorrecting the other way, cranking the wheel to get away from the two-ton chunks of moving metal at my left. Third Flash: my car is too far over to the right now and as my wheels slip over the steep side of the merge lane an audible “NO” escapes my mouth. The next part is more of a blur. I’m turning over and over trying to make sense of what is happening. Everything was shattering and crunching and flying around and all I wanted was for it to stop. When my car finally came to stop the first thing I noticed was the windshield. It was shattered, and so was I. Shock is one of those things that a lot of people go through at one point or another, but nobody really tells you how it feels beforehand. Like migraines, heartburn, and muscle cramps, when you experience it for the first time you usually have no idea what’s happening. My last vivid memory was sitting there in the car yanking at the door trying to get it open, needing to escape the wreckage as much as I needed to breathe. Physically I was fine. I’d joke later about how I’d totaled a car and only chipped a nail. But the deeper damage began when the shock set in. I receded into myself as I escaped the car and into the arms of the people who were in the car behind me. I have no idea who they were or where they came from. I can’t even remember their faces, but they hugged me and called 911 as I stared in disbelief at Tiger. Everything else is a smudge of words and motion. “Did you see how many times she flipped? I counted four.” “I’d say it was five.” “Her tire is popped, maybe that was it?” “Were you texting?” “Who should we call for you?” “She must not have been watching the road.” I couldn’t respond to the questions and accusations, or to the police officer whose first response was to grab my phone from my hands and read my recent texts. When the EMT arrived they told me that even though I seemed to be okay, because it was a roll-over accident that had to take me in for cat scans and a host of other spine-related tests. I was still in shock and when I started shivering, the first responder in the ambulance gave me one of

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those metallic blankets. It didn’t help much because the cold was coming from under the blanket. It felt like fear itself had holed up in my stomach and was refrigerating me from the inside out. Fear of being in an ambulance. Fear the doctors might find something wrong. Fear of shattering and crunching and flying around because whether or not it is by your own volition, that is what an average day can turn into. At that moment, in the back of the ambulance, I feared ever being behind the wheel of a car again. They didn’t find a single thing wrong with me at the hospital. Apart from the chipped nail it was nothing short of a miracle. In fact, they got me in and out of the hospital in a couple hours. Just in time for me to come back to reality from my dazed shock and start grappling with what had happened. Tiger was wrecked beyond repair, but somehow the driver’s side received minimal damage. That was the general trend of reflection upon that accident. Somehow, I was okay. Somehow, no other cars were harmed. Somehow, somehow, somehow. Although everyone wanted me to recite what had happened, few asked how I was doing mentally. I don’t blame them. How could they know that passed my exterior I was like Tiger’s windshield: thoroughly fractured. Spidery cracks divided the once so sturdy youthful confidence. I could barely get myself into a car, much less get in the driver’s seat. What followed next is driver’s training segment 3: relearning how to drive after an accident causes you to loathe anything and everything about operating a motor vehicle. It’s a healing process unique to each who undergoes it. It was a three-step program in my case. Step 1: Get behind the wheel and drive a small distance. This happened for me the Friday night a week after my accident. It was a home football game and my mom couldn’t drive because she had work to do. To this day I don’t think she was really that busy, but she knew as well as I did that in order to fully recover I needed to start by regaining my independence. So I took a deep breath and forced myself to acknowledge that this was it. It was time to drive. I remember my hands shaking and my heartbeat pounding when I started the car. Pulling out of the driveway was nothing short of weird. Driving is very much a thing of trust. You trust your car to safely

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carry you or, worst case, protect you. Like Tiger had protected me. You trust other drivers to be aware and drive safely. Last, you trust yourself to react to the road and the hazards it presents. When you lose trust in yourself, you lose comfort in driving. It becomes foreign, awkward, and weird. Driving from my home to my high school that night reminded me that I could get from point A to point B safely and independently, and it was a large step in the reconstruction of trust in myself I desperately needed. Step 2: Drive on the highway. I conquered this stage almost a month after my accident. Before then I avoided the highway like the plague. Some days it would take me almost an hour to get to where I was going in Lansing because of the back road routes I would take. Though the fear was still deeply rooted, I decided on the day of a friend’s birthday party I would no longer let that fear eat away at my time. The loss of control I felt the day of my accident reverberated into many aspects of my life. I felt unreasonably powerless. That day when I decided to drive on the highway was a major turning point in this feeling. As I accelerated on the on-ramp I felt exhilarated and anxious, but strangely the fear had receded. Instead came a sense of belonging. The sense that I was secure and self assured in the driver’s seat. I have driven on the highway countless times since then, each time gaining a small amount of healthy confidence. Bit by bit I’ve rebuilt my feeling of control. Most importantly conquering the highway showed me I could heal.

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it’s not me, it’s you by Nicole Newman

you ask me why I am tired I answer because we are on a planet spinning and spinning X amount of miles per hour too large of a number to fit on the previous line you ask me why I am paranoid I answer because there is a ticking time bomb inside of my chest waiting to go off the ticking time bomb is juxtaposed with Valentine’s Day cards next to sentiments of love but I don’t think it’s romantic I think it’s torture you ask me why I am confused I answer more forcefully this time because how could you not be? I am not a pious individual

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therefore, for me there is no purpose you tell me to get better soon I tell you I am not sick I am not ill I do not need to get better you need to open your eyes

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Old Memories of Young Girls by Jena Vallina

A girl enters the coffee shop. She could be your girl. Sitting on a barstool, legs crossed just so, wearing the kind of skirt designed to draw your gaze. And gaze you do, and lose yourself willfully in the siren song of her coffee order. She speaks English in the oh-so-polished way of American sophisticates who have traveled the world and now see language as multicolored silk thread on the spinning wheel. Language is scratchy brown wool for you. But she is Spain in the summer, red flowers in her hair and nothing underneath her dress. If you had been as she had, had you seen what she must have seen in the green labyrinth of the Mediterranean, you could approach her. You could make her laugh, and her laugh would also be foreign; an elegant laugh to be sure, not girlish or wispy-white, but heavy like honey and black like steaming coffee. She could understand you. Thoughts are spiraling in your head, a constant wave of bullet-shaped words garbled together, and you struggle to find anything real within the rubbish. She would know what you are trying to say before you even speak. She would agree with you, tell you she sees you and believes you and knows you. She knows that this universe is overflowing with people blind to anything real but she has her eyes wide open. All this time she was only waiting for you to find her and remind her that we are born in the dark and must fight to find the light on our own. She could be your light. You could tuck her hair behind her ears, fingers brushing hot flesh. Electricity, an instantaneous connection; the kind they write about in the movies, and you never used to believe in love at first sight, but looking at her was like living only by candlelight and finally stepping into the sun. Baited anticipation, a flicker of tentative warmth and finally: light. Real and indescribable, all-consuming, and yours at last. She opens a book. Of course she reads. Poetry, maybe; she’s the kind of girl who appreciates beautiful things. She could love you. You

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could take her to dinner or perhaps for a walk, during the hour when the air is wet from rain and autumn is still a well-kept promise on the horizon. She would be wearing the red dress. Like flowers in Spain. And you could kiss her mouth, softly at first, just a tender imprint of your lips on her. But she’d deepen it, because she knows what she wants and she wants you. She could want you. She could be your savior. She stands up, takes the coffee into her hands, and you try to think of something poetic to say—make her stop, make her laugh, make her stay—but you are no poet and you remain mute. She turns around one last time. She sees you, but she does not know you. You are an old man. You are the candlestick burnt to a nub with nothing left to sustain a spark, and she is young and beautiful and burning bright. You still feel the heat lingering in the coffee shop, even after the door releases her into the wind. It unspools now; the bitter history of girls (in red dresses, kissing your mouth under the sallow moonlight, laughing in another language I love you, I loved you, why-ever did you leave?) burns on your tongue. She could break your heart.

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Marjorie Gaber Good Country Folk Watercolor

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Inexplicable Nationalism by Jacob Stropes

There is something powerful about 400,000 graves surrounding a grand, white marble circular structure, a long expanse of perfectly manicured grass, and the vast contrast of a beautifully constructed white marble tomb placed in the middle of Arlington Cemetery; all representative of those who died for me. The tomb... its presence drew me in, like a gravitational pull. A place full of people and meaning, yet entirely devoid of sound. A silence that is truly dead. There are personnel who guard this silence. They protect the rightfully somber atmosphere just as those whom the silence is for, protected us.

I’m spending time with my mom, dad, and brother. We’ve been fighting all trip, like any family, but just like any family, our fights are always internal and all it takes is one outsider to bring us all back together. Being the youngest, when we fight I typically lose. We’ll have differing opinions, we’ll disagree about seemingly pointless topics, but just like that unexplainable nationalism one feels in our nation’s capital, when an outsider tries to interfere, we get this feeling that enables us to set our differences aside and come together as a family. But, why? What is this feeling and why do we get it? I’ve often considered myself to be very family oriented. However, when it comes time to show it, I don’t come through as much as one would think. I don’t go home very often despite living 25 minutes away, and when I do go home, I’m consistently excited to come back to Ann Arbor. There’s nothing particularly wrong with home, there’s really nothing wrong with home at all, I just choose not to go; and that honestly makes me kind of disgusted with myself. How is it that I can be so flaky, but at the same

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time feel so strongly about my family. I know that if anything were to happen to any of them, I’d never forgive myself for not going home more often. That feeling of unification I mentioned earlier, it’ll never leave me. We’ll fight, as I’ve said, and I’m sure I’ll continue to lose most of the time, but those nagging thoughts about how I could be a better family member, even if it simply means showing my face more often, are the thoughts that make me realize that no matter who or what acts as the outside force, we’ll always come together stronger… as a single unit.

A few summers back, my family and I, an 18-year-old soon to be college student at the University of Michigan, visited Washington D.C. There wasn’t any specific reason for the trip; I think we as a family decided that we’d try to explore the world more or something, I don’t really know, something like that. Whatever the reason, I was happy to be there. It was my first time in the nation’s capital and the place had a cool feeling to it. For one thing, I have always enjoyed seeing pictures of the neoclassical architecture that makes up D.C. which made it especially exciting to see in person. Being in Washington D.C. gives one a sense of importance. you know you’re somewhere special, surrounded by people who impact the world on a daily basis. We spent our first few days exploring the different monuments, paying exorbitant amounts of money for mediocre food, the usual tourist adventure, you know? I would say my favorite part of the trip was going to a Washington Nationals game and exploring their stadium (as well as seeing my dad get hit in the balls by a foul ball). Then came the tomb I mentioned earlier. I would hope by now you have come to be disappointed in your understanding that I was not exploring some ancient tomb in some pyramid or secret passageway under Washington. I apologize for getting your hopes up, that would make for a much better story I’m sure. That disappointment, however, is exactly why I am writing today. This disappointment presumably stems from a greater appreciation for a theoretical long lost secret tomb than

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for the tomb I am addressing in Washington: The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It was sunny and hot the first day I visited the tomb. I’m not going to pretend to tell you what day of the week it was because I really don’t remember; but I do remember that it was sunny, and boy was it hot. I mean hot, like bare feet on blacktop in the middle of the summer when you were little, or sweating through your t-shirt three seconds after you walk outside. The “I don’t even want to go swimming” kind. Yeah… it was honestly that kind of hot, the unbearable kind. But we were in Washington D.C. for God’s sake! We had to continue exploring the area, sweaty or not. Who knows when we’d get a chance to come back here. So, off we went. More monuments, more expensive food, more of those lemonades you get at fairs that are super sugary (and delicious). Finally, my mom announced that it was time to go see the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier before it closed to visitors for the night. “The What of the What?” Embarrassingly enough… That was my response. Honestly. “The. Tomb. Of. The. Unknown. Soldier.” She replied. I really had never heard of it, so needless to say, I wasn’t all that thrilled about going to see another monument at the end of a long, hot, sweaty day. We walked across the city for what seemed like hours (probably closer to 15 minutes). Finally, we arrived at the tomb. I couldn’t understand why there was such a huge crowd, standing in silence, watching a soldier march back and forth. Admittedly, I was old enough and I should’ve understood the importance immediately, but I didn’t. I just didn’t get it. Back… turn, a few heel clicks… and forth. Back… turn, a few heel clicks… and forth. Back… turn, a few heel clicks… and forth. Back… turn, a few heel clicks… and forth. That’s all it was to me. A guy in military dress walking back and forth with a stone cold straight face and a gun over his shoulder. Finally, we left. “What the hell did we just spend the last 30 minutes doing?” I asked myself. I asked my mom, “Why did we just do that?”

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“They deserve to be appreciated and honored,” she responded. Still, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about, I just hoped we wouldn’t stand and stare at some guy marching ever again, so I dropped it. I didn’t give it another thought until a couple days later. Two days later, the last day of our trip, my mom and I went back. That’s when it really clicked. That day, instead of heat, it was raining. Pouring, I should say, the cats and dogs kind of thing. Think… stereotypical England, or Vietnam war movies, or anytime an English soccer game is on TV. That kind of rain. The kind where you can’t really see 20 feet in front of you. One of our typical internal family arguments ensued, and naturally, I lost. So, we went out anyways. This time, our sole destination was the tomb. At the very least, we thought rationally that day and took a taxi across town. There we were again, in the Arlington National Cemetery. To my genuine surprise, despite the deluge, there was still a massive crowd, at least a hundred. Standing in the pouring rain, watching a man march back and forth in front of the tomb. Again, it was: Back… turn, a few heel clicks… and forth. Back… turn, a few heel clicks… and forth. Back… turn, a few heel clicks… and forth. Back… turn, a few heel clicks… and forth. A few people next to my mom and I were talking pretty loudly relative to the overall tone and volume of the event. I could tell that was out of the ordinary but I didn’t pay them much attention because I didn’t really care, we were outside after all. “Watch this,” my mom said to me. “It is requested that everyone maintains a level of silence and respect!” Then, sure enough… Silence. I don’t know how she timed it so well, but the very next second the sentinel pivoted to his left and a voice erupted from deep within his stomach. That eruption of sound from the sentinel was like something I’ve never heard before. Like a vicious clap of thunder out of nowhere. The crowd was immediately silenced, even the rain drops seemed to pause their downfall for a second, and the individuals next to us were beyond embarrassed. The way he completely and utterly commanded the

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entire area was astonishing. A single man, only speaking when necessary, marching back and forth in front of us, was the center of attention and the commander of the crowd. That moment captivated me. It drew me in like a gravitational pull… and it hasn’t let me go since. After leaving Washington D.C., I felt a pulling desire to learn more about The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and those who defend it. The ones who march through extreme heat and blizzards. I became captivated by this feeling I experienced by the tomb. A feeling of pride, respect, and overwhelming gratefulness for a man I had never been within 20 feet of. Not only did I want to learn more about them, they deserve to be known and recognized for their unwavering service. So, I got home and I did some research. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is a monument dedicated to U.S. service members who have died in battle and have not had their remains identified. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, every week of the year, the tomb is guarded by soldiers of the United States Army. Since 1937, The Old Guard sentinels have marched back and forth in front of the tomb and consider it an even greater honor to guard the tomb in inclement weather. This is a group of people who understand not only what it means to sacrifice, but what it means for others to sacrifice for you. The monument contains Unknown Soldiers of World War I, World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War. The remains of these soldiers, whose identities are still a mystery, are buried in the monument to represent all of their fellow comrades who paid the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom, but could not be properly appreciated. There is an indescribably powerful inscription is on the west side of the monument. It’s one of those quotes where I start reading it and it seems like a normal headstone “Here lies ____” type of deal. But, when I got to the end, it really cut me deep. The end of the inscription ensures that we all understand that there are multiple human beings, just like you and I, buried in this tomb. The real kicker, however, is that there isn’t another human being alive who knows who those people are. When we truly grasp that the identity of a corpse is “Known but to God”, then we can

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fully grasp the power of the inscription, and the tomb as a whole. The inscription states: HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY AN AMERICAN SOLDIER KNOWN BUT TO GOD

“Known but to God.” Four words that are what really inspired me to write this paper. I consider myself to be relatively religious. I don’t go to church every Sunday, but I pray and I know that I wouldn’t be in any kind of position that I am in today (school, work, etc.) had it not been for someone watching over me. There’s not much we as a human race don’t know nowadays. So, for something or someone to be known only to God, that’s special. That’s something that’ll make you think. This tomb’s contents were once living, breathing, human beings. They had moms, dads, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters... but no matter how many relationships they had before going off to war. Not a single one knows that the corpse of their once healthy, happy, loved one lies inside this tomb. Not the corpse’s mom, its dad, its spouse, no one. No one but God. As selfish as it sounds after writing that… back to me. It brings me a great sense of disappointment that the monument does not receive more recognition and appreciation from Americans. The persistent safety and peace of mind that the men and women in uniform provide us as citizens is taken for granted by millions of people every day, and I am no exception. It’s extremely difficult to put oneself in the shoes of someone living in Syria, for example, where violence and war is a normal part of everyday life. Or in Iraq or Afghanistan, where explosions, death, and destruction are all around a person. Extremely difficult is an understatement, it’s damn near impossible. There is no substitution or simulation that can cause a person to understand what it is like to live somewhere in which the peace of mind we have from our safety in America is not present even in theory. That is why the monument is drastically underappreciated; it is the representation of our peace of mind, our safety and well-being. That same peace of mind that we take for granted.

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But why? “Why?” is the question I’m having such a hard time addressing, as an 18-year-old male, I had to register for the draft that year, so showing exactly why it is so important seems obvious, no? But, that reasoning doesn’t fill the void inside of me. Why do we take our safety and peace of mind for granted? It is our country’s most important resource. It attracts and incentivizes human capital from across the globe to come to America and continue to instill our country as a leader in productivity of all sorts from an exceptionally diverse citizenship. Our safety and peace of mind is also an absolute necessity. Without it, it’s very possible that none of us would even be alive. Maybe that’s the answer to “Why?” Is it possible that what we as a citizenship take as given are our most obvious and necessary advantages? Are these advantages so right in front of our eyes that we cannot see them anymore? I cannot answer these questions. I’m not even sure that I want these questions to be answered, they aren’t really questions that are meant to be answered. They’re meant to be pondered. Tossed around in our heads like laundry in a clothes dryer until we can find some sort of unique explanation for our own situation. This load of laundry takes time, I’m twenty-one-years-old and an explanation has yet to be reached. It’ll take months for it to click if you’re lucky; but for most of us, like myself, it’ll take years. These questions can be understood as we age and inevitably experience change, loss, and sacrifice. Just like the perspectives of those in war-torn countries, it is impossible to understand the perspectives of those who protect our country without being in their shoes first hand. The closest thing we can get is to grow and experience change and sacrifice, and even then, it will more than likely still not be enough. Finally, we arrive at the perspective of those that we physically will never be able to understand. That of those who paid the ultimate sacrifice, the individuals represented by the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. That is why the tomb is such an important and underappreciated aspect of Washington D.C. and our country as a whole. It represents everything that we as citizens cannot understand. The tomb consistently reminds us of the danger, the passion, and the sacrifice, displayed by those

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who are prepared to give everything they have to make our lives more comfortable and to keep us safe. All of which are taken for granted by those of us who don’t relate; not because we don’t want to, or we’re selfish, but because we can’t relate. We have never, and probably will never watch a close friend who we have fought in combat with, die in front of us. We won’t see our close friends dive on top of grenades and lose limbs and scream in agonizing pain while we sit there unable to provide any meaningful assistance. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier exists not only for soldiers, it exists for us. The tomb exists not only because we want it to, it exists because we need it to. We already take for granted our freedom and safety, The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier exists to keep our visions of freedom and peace of mind in perspective and to remind us all that our freedom is not free. Both of my grandpas fought for the United States in the Korean War. Neither of them died in battle but I know that they both experienced loss and hardship, the likes of which I will never understand. It was that realization, coupled with my in-person experience with the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, that brought about a newfound appreciation for the opportunities and rights afforded to me as an American. It is these same opportunities that would cause me to be remiss to not share this message of what I learned and what should be taken from something as powerful as the tomb. I would like to believe as well that my grandpas are also the reason why my mom took such extra effort and care to ensure that I was impacted by the days spent visiting the tomb, especially those in the inclement weather. I don’t have a relative’s gruesome war story. Nor do I have a disgusting rendition of a grandpa who was spit on by American citizens when he returned from the Vietnam war. What I have is this nagging sensation that I’m just lucky to be alive. I was born on November 12, 1996, in the United States of America. I can count at least five separate occasions throughout the course of history that could have caused the United States of America to be non-existent. I could be living in the United States of Nazi Germany, or the United States of Southern Slavery, or the United States of Communist Russia, but I

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don’t. And why is that? Because there are certain people who prevented that, certain people who died preventing that. Certain people who came together as one stronger, singular American unit. They felt an inexplicable feeling of nationalism, such a strong feeling of family and country, that they were willing to die for it. That inexplicable feeling, what it is, where it comes from, who can have it… that is what that great white sarcophagus taught me. I am much more appreciative of those visits now than I was then. The worst thing I could be is unappreciative of the rights granted to me through the immense sacrifice of others. It is truly an opportunity, not a God-given right, to wake up every day in a country where one does not have to worry about constant military conflict in their own backyards. However, in order to fully honor these rights and those who’ve earned them for us, we have so much to do. We all, myself included, have been in a lockdown drill. I do not have enough fingers on my body to count the number of school shootings in the first three months of 2018. So, not only have we been blessed with the opportunity to live in a relatively safer part of the world, we have another opportunity. This opportunity, one that cannot be taken for granted, is one that involves work on our part, all of our parts, we must seize it and utilize it to its full potential on every occasion, to honor those who have given us our rights. We must push towards the ideal of total peace of mind and safety in our cities, our schools, our workplaces, etc. Towards a country where high school football coaches don’t feel the need to use their body as a human shield for their students and players, because if that is the country we live in, what the hell is the point of losing soldiers? We are wasting everything that they are sacrificing to give us. It’s funny actually, in some sick and twisted way. While every bigot doesn’t fit this mold and vice versa, the stereotypical bigot in America is white, wearing a “Make America Great Again” hat, carrying a gun, and even driving a truck with a support our troops sticker on the back because to them, our troops are killing foreigners and that’s a good thing. Those same people are leading Neo-Nazi rallies and committing hate crimes against every race that isn’t white. It’s disgusting to see that kind

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of behavior and attitude. It’s not only illegal and morally wrong, it’s disrespectful to those who have made sacrifices for us. It’s like spitting on the tomb itself, showing an absolute disregard for those who have died. Those whose families aren’t certain if their loved ones’ remains are somewhere in a field in Vietnam, or buried under a marble tomb in Washington D.C. It is on us as a citizenry to honor their memory and their sacrifice. To create a better world for generations beyond our own. A world where the word “Neo-Nazi” is used only in textbooks, and hate crimes are just a thing of the past. It’s not going to happen this decade, maybe not even the next. But, in order to properly satisfy that longing desire of national pride, we must be the ones who honor these men and women the way they deserve to be honored. So, my next question again, is “why?” Why is this feeling strong enough to make entire sports arenas stand and scream for veterans who were willing to die for their country, but so weak in others that countless veterans are left homeless with substandard medical care. Why are their veterans who, when trying to work their way back into the society they protected, can’t get the help they need to graduate from higher education? The tomb, and those who protect it, presents us all with a choice. Better yet, an obligation. To take the opportunity of freedom and security, and to use it to make our country, and our world a better place. We can make a conscious effort to be grateful, and the best way to show that to our servicemen and women is to make the most of our freedoms. To work towards spreading these freedoms and bettering their status for everyone within this country of ours. Black Americans, Asian-Americans, Mexican and Middle Eastern immigrants, the LGTBQ community, veterans, women, hell, every child under the sun who can no longer go to school without being afraid of being peppered with bullets; we have an obligation to all of them to channel the feeling of nationalism that I get when I think about how lucky I am to be alive and utilize my freedoms to better this country for each and every person who lives in it. It shouldn’t take a large white marble sarcophagus in our nation’s capital for us to understand what it means to sacrifice. For me, as well as I’m sure for many of you, this is being read with a small voice in the back

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of our heads saying, “This is all well and good, but it doesn’t really apply to me. I’m appreciative, I support our troops.” I urge us all to consider it deeper. To take time out of every single day, even if it’s just a minute or two, to reflect on how blessed and privileged we are as a citizenship to have the freedoms and securities that we enjoy daily. I want to make one thing clear as I wrap this up. This essay is not a call to arms; I’m not trying to guilt you into joining the service, or to become someone who directly protects our country. While that would be an exceptional response, it isn’t what I’m asking you to do. Think of this essay as a call to reflection, a call to appreciate, and a call to recognize those who The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and those who protect it, represent and all that they provide us with. Think about Russell Ardito, Martin Arlin, Nelson Borden, Robert Brown, Glenn Cota, Donn Dolson, Douglas Fox, James Goble, Melvin Guy, Clifford Hare, Donald Kenfield, Ralph Majewski, Charles Minier, Francis Norman, Peter Paris, Hugh Proctor, Cecil Rawlings, James Roddy, Leroy Roe, Harold Strobel, Robert Train, Richard Walch, and Erwin Zimmer. All candidates for as to who is in the tomb. Well, them and the roughly 78,977 other American soldiers who went missing in action… just in World War II. Those sentinels, they march day and night, through the blistering heat, and the numbing snow. Think of them too, the next time we find ourselves taking for granted the privilege it is to live in a nation as secure as the one we have. A nation that, despite its fights and petty bullshit, always comes together stronger as a single unit, to protect its individuals. This country doesn’t always deserve to be protected. Hell, much of the time we can’t even protect us from ourselves. We’re a country full of murderers, rapists, racists, sexists, general bigots, runaway fathers, shitty moms and dads, and general pieces of shit. But, we’re also a country of cancer survivors, doctors, lawyers, “#1 Dad” trophy recipients, school moms, perfect husbands, loving wives, soldiers, sacrificers, winners, leaders, and caregivers. I hope to find that we all come to reflect, acknowledging that while our country isn’t perfect, there is a lot more light here than there is darkness. Whether internally or externally, I hope that this reflection occurs even if this reflection, except to ourselves, is “KNOWN BUT TO GOD.”

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Bygone

by Lauren Weiss When the ghosts of the Past Condense to vapor Escape from your throat In wheezes Until Your lungs Have totally Deflated This is when The silk layer of reality (Lighter this go ‘round) Will settle On your shoulders And you will move outwards In the tree rings towards Freedom.

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The Final Word writers writing about writing

Marjorie Gaber, creator of Good Country Folk

“I love writing because I love to tell stories, and I love making illustrations because you can imply whole stories in a single image. Here is an illustration for the short story ‘Good Country People’ by Flannery O’Connor I made for my illustration class last Fall. When you look at it, what kind of story do you see? Who is this wolf in sheep’s clothing? Who really believes him? Who wants to believe him?”

Aldo Pando Girard, author of “Summer Before Senior Year”

“I write in order to process my experiences, and the ways that I relate to the word. I expand questions, moments, and emotions into poems in order to better understand myself in public, understanding that not filtering myself is radical and political.”

Holly Honig, author of “More Than Kisses”

“I wrote this piece for an English class (ENG425). I wrote it to honor my partner and my love for them—a love letter of a kind. It grew into an exploration of my sense of self and my own identity as well.”

Nicole Newman, author of “it’s not me, it’s you”

“I am writing about how I believe mental illness is a social construct. This message is very important to me, and I choose to portray this idea through my writing.”

Mingyu Shen, author of “Rebirth”

“My essay captures a Hindu funeral in Kathmandu, Nepal.”

Jacob Stropes, author of “Inexplicable Nationalism”

“This is very old, I honestly don’t remember my process.”

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Jena Vallina, author of “Old Memories of Young Girls”

“My story ‘Old Memories of Young Girls’ was largely rooted in what I believe is a misogynistic trope deeply embedded into popular culture: the female form as a fantasy. Women, from Helen of Troy to Joan of Arc, have frequently been placed on pedestals and even more frequently knocked down when they reveal their humanness (i.e. shattering the fantasy projected by a typically male viewer). I intended to deconstruct this trope by embracing it, but through a critical rather than celebratory lens. One of my biggest inspirations was the film (500) Days of Summer, which I felt accomplished the same goal but with the manic pixie dream girl trope. As a woman, I think it is interesting to imagine things from perspectives I might never be able to have. Personally, I think that is the purpose of writing: to see what you might never be able to see, if you did not write about it.”

Antonia Vrana, author of “Drivers Training Segment 3”

“My senior year of high school I was in a pretty wild car accident. Physically I was alright, but pretty shook from the incident for a long time. I wrote this piece about a year and a half after the accident, and it was my way of coping and continuing the healing process as well as regaining my confidence as a driver. A lot of my writing is a means for me to deal with life events, and that is very much what this piece is for me.”

Lauren Weiss, author of “Bygone”

“I wrote the poetry piece in the Notes application on my phone while on a hike near the Finger Lakes in NY.”

Caitlyn Zawideh, author of “The Art of the Attempt”

“I wrote this essay in response to the prompt ‘What is an essay?’ at the end of my English 325 course. The class really reshaped the way I think of essay writing as something artistic and expressive rather than a purely academic form.”

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