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Perceptions

Lily Lustig
September 23, 2022

Prologue: Blur I am a pair of slender, purple-rimmed spectacles. I make for simple mornings and effortless evenings. I offer color and clues. I am a sight and I am sight itself. (More literally, here in 2011, I am a 10-year-old girl with glasses and the author of this piece. But the first part is more important.) March 8, 2021: The Appointment (Part 2) (Gold Aviators) In the words of Les Misérables, “The time is now / The day is here.” My new optometrist has just returned to this bleak, grey-cloaked examination room. Dr. Joseph Isik defies everything that I’ve come to expect of an eye specialist: he can hold a conversation, trusts my judgment, and has the dimensions and radiance of a fluorescent lamp. He has revealed that I have a nevus on my left eye. He has gone so far as to compliment my irises, despite seeing dozens of them each day. (“They’re just hazel,” I mean to say, but his praise has transfixed me.) “Alrighty, the moment of truth,” he sings. Opening his palms like the magician he surely is, Isik reveals two teeny plastic cartons. I have spent months pining for their contents. I have spent a decade fearing them.. Do I fare well with any entities or substances coming even remotely close to my eyes? No. No. In fact, I react quite poorly in such situations. But it’s decided. I have committed to joining the mainstream. No more clouded vision. In order to turn a new leaf, I must cast aside my anxieties and embrace the subtle art of jabbing my fingers into my eye sockets. Passing me my first lens, Isik gives a brief demonstration of the task at hand. Appears easy enough. Perhaps, the doctor ponders, we can begin with a simple exercise: touching my index finger to my naked cornea. Sounds somewhat doable. I give it a shot. I nearly throw up. My squeamishness, it would seem, has not faded away as gracefully as I had hoped. But before I can apologize for being so shamefully sensitive, Isik has begun prying open my lids in an attempt to insert the contacts himself. It is a Clockwork Orange waking nightmare; it is the sincerest act of care. And though I lightly squeal and squirm, I certainly handle myself better this time around. Blinking profusely, I come to, glance around the room, and realize that I can see. September 16, 2014: Practice (Part 1) (Black Ray-Bans) They noticed that I was pretty good with my feet, so they made me field hockey goalie for the season. The whole thing reeks of desperation: their star keeper’s in high school now, whereas two years ago, after completing 21 shuttles of the PACER test (out of, like, 150), I started hacking like the victim of chronic asbestos exposure. I’m no athlete, and they know it. But they need a goalie on their roster. I’ve signed my name, and – to be honest – I’m more than a little jazzed to be part of a team. Today’s our first practice and here in the claustrophobic girls’ locker room, I’ve donned all the fetid, chunky, garish orange gear. (There are pads, quite literally, everywhere.) Only one component remains: the brain barrier herself, my helmet. And here she comes! She’s jet black, she’s heavier than a newborn baby, she carries the aroma of a dead squirrel. Oh, she’s just grand. Coronate me, coach! And as the crown descends upon my head, I wish my former self well, knowing that a new epoch has begun. Goodbye, horribly-cliché-13-year-old sob story, and hello – “You’ll need to take off your glasses.” Cue panic. “Oh. Um. But then I won’t be able to … see.” Nice one. “You have contacts, don’t you?” I do not. “I do not.” “Well for God’s sake, kid, how did you think this was gonna go?” Ahem, you came to me, remember? And if you don’t let me play, you’re screwed, lady. “I’m so, so, so, so, so sorry! I promise I can make it work! Can we loosen this? I’ll just cram the glasses underneath. See?” Breathing labored and frames askew, I have sealed my fate for the next two months. “Look, as long as your vision’s intact, you can do whatever you want.” Alright, I’ll take it. But just know that I will never, under any circumstances, get contacts. March 9, 2021: Practice (Part 2) Day 2 with contacts. Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Yesterday, you wore them for five minutes, and you neither put them in nor took them out yourself. Today, you have yet to attempt insertion. Because you’re absolutely mortified by the prospect of it. But that’s why you’ve set aside 30 whole minutes before class! You cannot possibly take half an hour to do that which a normal person does in 10 seconds!! That would be downright ludacris!!! Crack open the first case. Scrub your hands until they sparkle. Now dry them until they burn. Place the lens on the very tip of your index finger. Look in the mirror but for the love of God, do not look yourself in the eye. Align your missile with your target. Ignore the faint ringing in your ears that suggests you’re losing consciousness. Ignore the faint taps of your housemate at the door – yes, you’ve overtaken the one shared bathroom, but dammit, she can wait. Allow your soul to leave your body. Aim. Fire. AND BAM! You’ve failed in the most pathetic fashion imaginable. Not only did your manic blinking block the contact from your cornea – it has also caused the lens to drop directly down the drain. And somehow, your unscathed eye still stings like an alcohol-dabbed wound. It’s fine. You have dozens more. Repeat the process. Repeat the process. Repeat the process and praise every otherworldly being for preserving this lens, no matter how averse it is to suctioning to your face. Repeat the process and WAIT, something’s happening here, blink blink blink, the contact’s not on your finger anymore, and now there’s a new kind of stinging, as if your eye has developed a tumorous growth, and you want nothing more than to expel this foreign object from your person but you fight the urge to perform the “Out, vile jelly!” scene from King Lear and would you look at that! Praise be! You’ve done it! Equipped with 20/15 vision, you have officially defied all odds. Revel in this moment for as long as it takes to regain your sense of awareness. Now use this mediocre eyesight to check the time, and thank yourself again for factoring in that healthy half-hour cushion. Squint. Let the clock come into focus. Class started 6 minutes ago. May 24, 2018: The Appointment (Part 1) (Tortoise Frames) In the words of Les Misérables, “The time is now / The day is here.” I’ve mustered up the courage to tell my optomotrist – Martin Newman, whose patients praise him online as “an older, relatively obese man who has absolutely no personality” – that I want contacts. I suppose “want” is an overstatement. But I’m ready for my big reveal, my Velma moment; the time when everyone who’s seen my face almost every day for the past 7 years will finally, truly, see my face. Newman’s making sure that my prescription hasn’t changed. The alarming proximity of our faces is made even more distressing by his severe breaths. They’re more a thunder than a wheeze; they resound straight through to my retinas. As he rolls away on his miniscule, one-moment-from-imploding-under-his-intense-and-highly-concentrated-weight stool, I make my own shuddering exhalation. Here goes nothing. “Dr. Newman, I was wondering if I might be able to get contacts today.” The word “contact” precludes him – in every possible irony – from meeting my gaze. “…Do you think that would be possible?” And suddenly two bratwursts (later recognized as Newman’s fingers) are tugging at my eyelids, while two more squeeze a chartreuse fluid into my now-gaping sockets. I go berserk. “EEEEEEEEEEERRRRGHGGGGGGGGGRGGGGGGGGRGGGGGGGGGHHHH,” squawks the incapacitated girl to her merciless assailant, flailing slightly and causing the liquid to fall like tainted, toxic tears. “If you cannot handle that, young lady, you cannot handle contacts.” Ah, how swell. I suppose now’s as fitting a time as ever to hit rock bottom. March 13, 2021: Driving Lesson This is My Year. I relinquished my “minor” status two years ago, but Today I am an Adult. Because I have Contacts. And before long, I’m going to get my Driver’s License. And right now, I’m Driving, training for my Road Test, while wearing – you guessed it – the Contacts that I put into my Eyes this morning with Relative Ease. Life is going So Well. So Well! Am I…the Best Driver Ever? The Most Independent Person? Whocaresthatmydadislegallyobligatedtobeinthepassengerseatrightnow? I have Matured. Kind of funky that my head is … Pounding right now. That the street sign a few feet away is … Illegible. That, upon closer consideration, my distance vision has … Gone Completely to Shit. Okay. It’s Totally Fine. Maybe if I just rub my eyes a little … here at this red light … Rubrubrubrubrubrub. Fuck. It appears that my Left Lens. Which is decidedly the wrong prescription. Has dislodged itself from my cornea. And found a home under the gas pedal. I Abhor Contacts. March 29, 2020: Fog (Part 2) (Blue Translucent Frames) To step outside is to be blinded. To take one breath is to envelope yourself in a weighty, pervasive cloud. To live through a pandemic is to become your most melodramatic diarist. What I mean is that glasses and KN95s do a great job of prohibiting each other from carrying out their basic functions. Even more simply: mask + glasses = major condensation. And yes, I’ll take foggy vision over risk of infection any day. And yes, this minor inconvenience is even more insignificant in the context of a global health crisis. And yes, there’s an easy fix to this minute hindrance. I’ve been rethinking my vendetta against contacts. November 15, 2018: Fog (Part 1) (Blue Translucent Frames) A passage from the first book of The Aeneid, translated today in class: “Venus surrounds the walking men [Aeneas and his friend Achates] with a dark cloud, and the goddess enveloped them with a great cloak of fog, so that no one was able to discern them, nor to touch them, nor to construct a delay, nor to ask the causes of their coming.” “Discern” is a potent word, states my Latin instructor. It means to see someone for who they truly are. It goes beyond mere sight. I would like to be seen. December 8, 2021: In My Eyes A planet drifts within each pool of milk. Their crusts are a stormy cerulean, their mantle a soft chartreuse. Their outer core is a rusty brown, their inner core an impossible black hole. I couldn’t distinguish such subtleties before; perhaps I hadn’t even tried. But no longer must I gaze through window panes, with their smudges and cobwebs and – figurative – bird droppings. Never have I observed life with such ease. Staring at a mirror, into my own pupils, I can discern a faint reflection. She’s hardly abstracted. She’s distant, yet she couldn’t be closer. I think she looks rather lovely. Epilogue: Blur It’s terribly odd to be recognized. Does my current image not differ from the one that exists within your memory? Have I not, in turn, transcended perception? In this choice, did I seek conspicuousness or invisibility? And what does it mean if I see differently and see myself differently and yet am (seen) just the same? Defining yourself by a flimsy pair of frames is a mistake. Electing to abandon those frames is psychotic. It leaves you with no choice but to build from scratch – to redesign and reconstruct your entire person. It’s the self-inflicted identity crisis that you thought you could hold off for at least a few more years. But what, then, does it mean to find comfort in this current state? And balance, knowing that you have not completely cast aside that other way of life and may switch between your two modes whenever you see fit? At my bedside, the gold aviators sit neatly in their case. Oh, please. With each metaphor, you dig yourself deeper into the world’s most shallow abyss. Sure, you switched to contacts at age 20. But when were you planning to tell them that you still can’t ride a bike?

Sliding Doors

Srikar Dudipala
September 23, 2022

In 1994 my father was 27 years old and late to Mumbai International Airport. It was probably the worst possible time for him to be late for a flight. You see, my father had always dreamed of coming to America after getting his Ph.D. in chemistry. But after six years at a small university in central India, he hadn’t gotten a single post-doctoral offer from the states. He had, however, received a single offer from The University of Tokyo. It wasn’t America, but the pay was good, and it was a new and exciting locale that my father wanted to explore. The plane he was now running to catch was his ticket there. I remember every vivid detail of his harried journey through the airport after listening to him recount it countless times as he tucked me in for the night as a child. The stress-induced check-in as the gate assistants seemed to purposely move as slowly as possible. Gratefully getting through security without a hitch. Running to the gate with shoes and belt still in hand as they announced that the final boarding call for BOM to HND was now underway. And then, the call. The call that changed his life forever, and consequently, changed mine. In the middle of sprinting down the terminal, my father’s phone rang. An incredibly old, yet sturdy and reliable Nokia. The call was from Mark Davis, director of the Chemistry Department at Case Western Reserve University, offering my father a postdoc job. Right then, right there, my father ripped up his plane ticket. Two months later, it was BOM to JFK instead. And so, instead of growing up in a high-rise in the urban sprawl of metropolitan Tokyo, attending an international school and eating monjayaki and unaju on the weekends, I grew up in a white-picket fence suburban neighborhood outside of Cleveland, getting myself shoved into lockers in middle school like any other socially awkward pre-teen in America that went to public school. I think about that every single damn day. Life is full of sliding-door moments. Sometimes, you are able to squeeze through right before the chance is lost. Others slam shut right in front of your face and all that is left to do is wonder what could have been. They might re-open twenty years down the road. Or click—the lock slips shut, and before you realize it, the seemingly inconsequential moment that could have defined you as a person has forever passed. Some aspects of life seem to have more sliding-door moments than others. Like love. Love is a 15-foot glass door separating the kitchen from the backyard patio and I am the squishy-faced French bulldog running into it at full steam every 15 minutes, expecting it to one day disappear so that I can explore the outside world beyond. Fifteen years ago, I had a kindergarten crush on Ayana, my only friend in the ESL program. She had the roundest glasses I had ever seen in my life and sharp black hair that framed her face in a pixie cut. On the last day of kindergarten, she kissed me on the cheek and said that we were going to get married. We didn’t get married. One month into summer vacation her family moved away and I never saw her again. To Tokyo of all places. In an alternate universe, there’s a first grade Srikar living in Japan who met her and fell in love. Six years ago, I wanted to ask Lauren, the cute girl with wavy blonde hair in my English class, out to Homecoming. But tenth grade me, being terrified at the very thought of talking to girls, made a quick pit stop to the bathroom before walking over to her locker with flowers and a poster in hand. What followed next was honestly, something out of a romantic movie. As I rounded the corner, I caught sight of Mason, another classmate in our English class, posing with Lauren as she held flowers loosely in her left hand while her friends took pictures. He had asked her to Homecoming thirty seconds before I had arrived. If my bladder had just cooperated for once, I wouldn’t have been there standing like a dummy in the hallway, mouth agape. I went back to my locker, stuffed the flowers and poster inside, and went to class as if my poor teenage heart hadn’t just been snuffed out like a candle. Years later, I grabbed coffee with Lauren, now married, and asked her if she would have said yes back then. She gave a light laugh. “Of course. I thought you were cute.” And so, instead of dancing the night away with her, I spend Homecoming 2015 night at home playing Mario Kart for three hours. Three years ago, I had a crush on my best friend. After an entire semester and a half of working up the nerve, I finally decided to ask her out on a date. I knew she loved live music, and so I was planning on taking her to the Indie Rock Live festival in Pawtucket. I had it all planned out. And then, on what should have been a beautiful April weekend, a storm rained out the entire east coast and forced the festival, and my plans to ask her, to be delayed by a week. A week in which another friend decided to ask her out instead. She’s still my best friend, but every single time it rains I think about how that one storm changed my entire college experience. April showers bring May flowers, but they also bring a lifetime of wondering if you just missed the chance to be with your soulmate. At least I ended up selling the tickets for a nice profit on Facebook Marketplace. If the last six years have revealed anything, it’s that I need to be more punctual. This past summer in New York City I was on the 2,3-line traveling uptown back home after work. In that tightly packed, unbearably humid train, I locked eyes with the girl sitting across from me. She was about my age, carrying a tote bag from The Strand, and had the brightest green eyes that I had ever seen. Even though her mask obscured her face, I could tell she was smiling. I offered a small one behind my mask in turn. We stayed like that, eyes locked, offering hidden smiles to each other for 5 more stops. Should I ask her what her name is? Maybe see if she wants to grab coffee? Is she actually looking at me or is she one of those people who sleeps with their eyes open? At 79th street she stood, appeared to hesitate, and then quickly spun and hopped off the train just as it was about to leave. Sometimes, the sliding doors are literal ones. Most people lie awake at night thinking about the big things. Where do we go after we die? What is this all for? What is happiness anyways? And why the hell am I working seventy hours a week as an investment banker in New York City? Not me. It’s the little things that get to me. Because, in life, it’s the little things that are inherently important. Behind every major decision are hundreds and thousands of inconsequential moments that create the foundation for your life. What if I got on this train rather than that one? What if I walked to work using a different route than the usual? What if I ended up attending that club meeting instead of skipping it? All of these questions eat away at me as I wonder if I just missed out on something small that could have been responsible for something big. That’s why I always try to live life as if every single moment, no matter how incidental, could be the moment that changes my life. For those of you who don’t live life that way, well, I have no other advice for you. Other than to never refuse a call in an airport.

How to Succeed at Lying Without Really Trying

Srikar Dudipala
September 16, 2022

I don’t ever really mean to lie. I promise. Okay, so maybe that was a lie in itself. But I definitely know that it’s wrong to lie. Why do people lie sometimes anyway? You know the lies I’m talking about. Not the ones that have a very specific, almost desperate purpose, like denying cheating on a test or hiding the fact that you just stole half of your cousin’s Halloween candy even though she’s only six years old and you are 22 and can definitely just buy your own damn chocolate. No, I’m talking about the lies that leak out of you in low-stress environments, the lies that happen for no clear reason at all, the lies that are entirely unnecessary and yet still keep happening for some strange, godforsaken reason. My mother, as most mothers do, instilled the importance of honesty in me from a tender age. Although perhaps not always in a tender way. And yet, whenever I do happen to slip into falsehoods, I never really think of it as lying. Rather, becoming. I am an author simply telling a story, and those listening simply don’t realize that they’ve picked up a fantasy novel rather than a memoir. The first time I lied and became someone else it was—and I swear this is the truth— entirely an accident. It was my first day as a camp counselor for Flying Horse Farms, a summer camp dedicated towards serving children with cancer. I was admittedly quite nervous. Despite my passion for serving these kids, I couldn’t help but feel stage-fright at the thought of being their mentor for the entire week. What if I’m not cool enough for them? On the first day of camp one of the campers waddled over to me with chubby cheeks and grubby hands: the entire toddler package. As he looked up at me with wide eyes, he immediately proceeded with the rapid-fire interrogation only 5-year-olds and professional CIA operatives have mastered. “What’s your name? Are you a grown-up? My mommy and daddy are grown-ups too, do you know them? How old are you? Is this week going to be fun? I always have a lot of fun playing baseball, do you know what baseball is? Do you pee your pants at night too?” Befuddled, I pointedly ignored the last question and instead decided to focus on the first. Should be easy enough, right? And yet, I panicked. I didn’t want to be Srikar in front of these kids. What if Srikar wasn’t fun enough? “Stanley,” I blurted, without thinking. Wait. Stanley? That’s not my name. Too late. The kid had already waddled off. And so, for the rest of the week I was Stanley “Almost a grown-up” Duncan, camp counselor of the Red Unit. And Stanley was a damn good camp counselor. Stanley got ice cream for all of the kids and jumped in the deep end with a huge CANNONBALL!! to the glee of his campers. None of the kids ever batted an eye when the other counselors called me by my real name; they were too engrossed in this one persona that I had become. Usually when I become someone else, it’s never in a high-stakes situation. Where’s the fun in lying when there are actual consequences for your actions? It always works best at massive parties filled with drunk faces I’ll never see again, or whenever I happen to interact with a stranger on the street. Quick, casual moments when I’m too lazy to really be myself. Who knew that constructing a fake identity was less work than presenting your real one? There’s something unburdening about not having to work about being your true self. Becoming just slips out of me without thought, much like responding with “thanks, you too” after the McDonalds drive-thru worker tells you to enjoy your meal. One moment your brain takes over in autopilot as you are unsure of how to deal with a perfectly not-stressful scenario, the next you are left to wonder why the fuck did I just say that? The first and most important step of becoming is to come up with a name. Not just a name per se, but also an identity, a persona, a backstory, a set of morals that defines you. All in just a few seconds. The moment you are approached by someone new at a party or you are waiting in line for a cup of coffee and a stranger wants to chat, you must be fully in character from the first syllable that leaves your lips. I’m Lee. Went to Georgetown. Family is from Greenwich, Connecticut. Old money, the kind where I went to brunch since I was five years old and host dinner parties that aren’t actually about the food. So you got to give off a real preppy, almost snobby kind of vibe, like someone just stuck a smelly fish under your nose. No, that won’t do, the clothes I’m wearing right now aren’t nearly nice enough. Fine. I’m Lee. UCLA graduate (my beard is grown out far enough to look 23), played volleyball in high school, golden boy of the family. It’s important to nail the Cali vibes, a kind of relaxed, casual fit like you live on the beach and you have a 4.0 GPA without even studying. Supreme confidence. That’s our persona. We can work from there. Becoming is like breathing. If you think about it too much, you start getting in your own head and wondering how you even do it in the first place. You have to feel your way through it purely by instinct, and tailor who you have to become as the conversation continues. My two favorite places to become someone else are Uber car rides and barbershops. Short-lived interactions, relatively inconsequential, yet incredibly fun because no one loves to learn more about you in a quicker amount of time than drivers or hairstylists. It’s their speedy questioning that really allows you to become an expert in crafting entire life anecdotes from the unexpected. Once on a 5 AM Uber ride to the TF Green airport, I had a driver with an incessant chattiness level that was inappropriate for the absurdly early hour. Over the course of the twenty-minute ride I became a burgeoning stand-up comedian who was off to New York to run a couple gigs for the weekend. I can’t tell jokes for shit, but the driver didn’t seem to notice. It’s always a problem when you have to meet someone multiple times after becoming someone else. As I said, lying’s only fun when there aren’t any consequences. To this day, I have to remember that at my local barbershop back in Akron, I’m Jay who goes to Ohio State when it’s Denise working, but Fabio who has his own online start-up if it’s Eric cutting my hair. When I first started becoming, I would run into problems with so many co-existing versions of myself. Not anymore. The trick to remember is that you aren’t yourself—Jay is Jay and Fabio is Fabio, and neither of them are Srikar. Now, even when I make an identity mistake, I just seamlessly chalk it up to an entirely new persona. Lately I’ve been wondering why I take part in this mostly harmless, yet somewhat morally compromising pastime. Again, I swear, I don’t really try to. It started like how I imagine most people start lying: to protect myself. Growing up with an incredibly shy personality made it hard to reach out to new people and put my personality out there, so I didn’t. I simply put out someone else’s personality instead. Whenever I became Stanley, or Lee, or Jay, I felt as if there was an extra blanket of protection between me and the harsh blizzard of the real world seeking to delve into and expose my every flaw while leaving me frozen in the cold. Over time, I began to gradually inject more and more of my own being into each persona, until one day, I didn’t have to become anymore. To be frank, I’m not sure if I actually stopped, or if all of my personas simply merged into myself. Nevertheless, I attribute my little lying escapades as the reason why I, as my real self, have become much more comfortable with talking to others and engaging in social environments. I no longer have to become. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I still don’t want to. Nowadays, I don’t feel the need to protect myself or to hide. I choose to become someone else to escape from myself for a little bit, to pass the time when I’m bored, or just because I want to have some fun. After spending so much time with my own personality in a single burnt-caramel skin, it’s nice to be able to be someone new from time to time. It’s a chance to explore all the people that I could have been in life but chose not to, and live in a multitude of alternate realities, even if only for a few moments. The last step of becoming is learning how to stop and return to yourself. How to keep what happens to Stanley Duncan isolated in Stanley’s life, and not Srikar’s. When I was younger, I made the mistake of letting my identities bleed all over my life, staining the whole thing red. I told the whole class in fifth grade that I was born in Pittsburgh to explain the fact that I loved the Steelers. In reality, I’ve always lived in Akron, Ohio. I kept up the charade all the way through freshman year in college, to the point that some of my closest friends to this day believe that I’m a Pennsylvania native. I started genuinely forgetting where the falsehoods were in my personal life. Where do I end and another version of me begin? Is something still a lie if everyone in the world believes in it? After enough time, you start to believe it too. I think those are the best lies of all. And who knows, maybe this whole piece was a lie and I’ve never actually become anyone else at all. If so, don’t be mad. I promise I didn’t mean to.

A Shooting at Dartmouth

Sam Hawkins
September 16, 2022

“We are haunted by the what-ifs.” Note: Names have been changed to protect identities. “When are you pulling up?” His forced-deep voice crackled through my cell speakerphone as he crunched into another potato chip. “I get off work Friday at 3:00. What is it, a two-hour drive for normal people?” I opened my crusted eyes to the blurry morning light and threw my blanket back over my head. “I’ll be there by 3:30.” “Wait, for real?” “Nah, bro. I have better things to do. Gotta sit in my room alone and watch YouTube.” Bruce choked. “You absolute loser. Yo, Brendan’s actually planning on coming Friday. So if you’re done being an asshole, you should actually come up. Think Steve could come too?” Steve’s house sits in one of those quaint Massachusetts neighborhoods where the taxes cost more than the homes themselves. I pulled into his driveway, narrowly avoiding the tall stone walls framing the pavement. I watched him open his home’s front door from on top of a hill. He lugged two bags over two broad shoulders. He flicked black hair from his face, keeping dark eyes on me as he slowly sauntered up to my vehicle. He stopped right before the car, looking me deep in my eyes and smirking. He paused. “Did you get fatter?” I scoffed. “Did you hit puberty yet?” His smirk became a smile. “Not yet,” he replied. “Some day though.” He threw his bags into the open trunk. Burrito juice snuck down my forearms as I raised my voice to battle down the pandemonium of early-night college drunks. “So, Bruce.” I devoured a wrapped chunk of beans, chicken, and rice. “I heard you joined a frat?” My strained vocal chords weakly combatted blaring mariachi music. “Not yet, buddy.” He wiped beans on the sleeve of his gray V-neck. “I’ll be rushing in the Spring.” “Ah. How fun.” I thought back to high-school Bruce in dorky plaid shorts and bright-colored Under Armor tees. “So you think you’re cool now?” “You do realize 70% of Dartmouth kids are in frats? If I don’t join a frat, I won’t have any friends at all.” He picked his burrito up an inch, opened his mouth, and threw the food back down. “You know Sam, I’m curious how things are going for you with girls recently. Bet you’re getting too many to count over there on that gap year, working at Bertucci’s and playing that cello.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, and how’s your ex doing?” I choked on a throatful of hot sauce, pausing for a slow drink of water. “I appreciate your concern, Bruce,” I said, “but you have bigger things to worry about. Looks like the freshman fifteen is not just a joke; consider switching to light beer, champ.” Steve laughed and Bruce chuckled. Brendan was still quiet on his side of the table. “Brendan, how has your freshman year been so far?” Steve licked dripping cheese off his fingers. “Oh it’s been good,” Brendan replied. “You have a good crew and everything?” “Yeah. It’s good.” Brendan ripped a chunk out of his chimichanga. “Cool. That’s good.” Steve paused for a moment, then returned to his feast. Bruce reached into his closet and dug out two hats, Mario- and Luigi-themed. “We’re not getting anywhere on Halloweekend without costumes, boys.” While Steve and I argued vehemently over which one of us was Mario, Bruce threw on a construction helmet, and Brendan wore his favorite Brady jersey. In a miniscule, darkly-lit, ugly-poster-adorned, dirty-clothes-littered dorm room, we traded jokes, jabs, and drinks. The air reeked of spilled beer and unwashed clothing and our eardrums burst with screamed lyrics of Mo Bamba. The pelting rain leaked into my shirt and covered me with a coat of wet cold, but we warmed the night with laughter. Steve and I jokingly commiserated about the solitude of gap year life, and Bruce and Brendan traded freshman stories. Bruce’s friends guided us left, onto a side street. Bruce walked ahead of Steve and me, and Brendan walked behind us. “So Bruce, are you going for that brunette girl?” I asked. “Not just going for – it’s gonna happen, Sam.” “Quite the confidence there, big man,” Brendan laughed. I could hear Bruce’s friends laughing ahead of us. One girl turned and smiled back at us. “You think I have a shot?” Steve asked. “No chance,” I answered. My reality shattered only because my senses were relaxed. My ears cracked first when the BANG rang out. “What was –” “Ah, FUCK.” Brendan exclaimed. Brendan’s body crumpled to the pavement, his hand clutching his stomach. My ears rang and my head rushed with blood. The white-trim windows of the blue house across the street were dark and wet. I saw no one there but at the end of the street I watched a man grab a girl’s hand and run with her. Brendan lay crumpled, groaning in the dark rain, curled in the fetal position, alone with his hand on his stomach. Naïve bravery and survivalist cowardice harshly debated one another in time-slowed, primal self-dialogue as I considered whether to help him. I saw Steve dive for cover out of my periphery and I figured he knew better. I dove too. We waited. Brendan lay alone, crumpled, wet, and groaning on the cold pavement. Steve and I flattened ourselves on the dirt floor. After a few moments, Steve started towards Brendan. I followed. Rain pelted my eyes. “What do you think that was?” “It almost sounded like kickback from a car,” Steve answered. Dark rain pulled his black hair over suddenly sober eyes. “There was a car?” “What, you didn’t see it?” “You see that red leaf on his back?” We approached Brendan. I knelt down. “Brendan, you okay?” Brendan groaned, his body curled fetal, his side to the cold pavement, his face staring down into the muddy sidewalk. “I’m fine, I’m just gonna lie here for a second.” I lifted up his jersey around the lower-right side of his back where the red leaf lay. A breach in his skin, puckered and folding over itself, spewed a steady stream of dark red down his pale back and onto the pavement below. I put his Brady jersey back down. I took off my hat. “We need to put pressure on this – can someone give me their sweatshirt? Or your flannel or something Steve?” Steve stood in the dark rain with his Mario hat still on and tossed his shoulders out from under his flannel. He passed the crumpled shirt to me and I shoved it underneath Brendan’s jersey. “That sounded like kickback from a car,” Bruce said. Apparently he had come back too. His construction helmet rested in his hand. “That’s what I said,” Steve replied. “I thought it was a firework.” Blindly hoping my efforts were having an effect, I flexed my arms hard into his back. “I’m going to call the police,“ Bruce decided. “No don’t call the police I’m fine,” Brendan protested. “Brendan I’ve gotta call—“ “Don’t call the fucking police, I’m fine bro it just hurts a little in my stomach.” “Brendan, even if it was like, shrapnel from a car or something, we still need to call the cops.” “I’m fucking fine, I feel nothing don’t call the fucking cops.” “Can you move?” “I don’t really want to. Don’t call the cops. It just feels kind of weird in my stomach but don’t call the fucking cops.” “I’m dialing.” Silence rang heavily. Bruce’s friends surrounded us as we hovered around Brendan. The smell of fresh rain coated the air. Droplets pelted the pavement around us. Soaked, freezing clothes lay heavy on our backs. “God damnit Brendan. I liked that flannel,” Steve joked. Brendan tried to chuckle, but the breath caught tight in his lungs. “Could whoever’s putting pressure on my back ease up a little? Really hurts.” “Shit, yeah, my bad.” “Hang in there Brendan, ambulance should be here any minute.” Steve, Bruce, and I spent the next two hours hiding in a nearby sorority as all of Dartmouth campus received a text stating that the school was now in lockdown. Bruce went upstairs to comfort his friends. Steve and I sat on the first floor in an open closet with a direct view of the front door wondering what we would do if they came back. Eventually we were informed nothing but that there was no reason to be afraid. We were driven to the hospital in the backseat of a police cruiser. For a few moments of his life, Brendan was tipsy, filled with painkillers, injected with morphine, and slit open with surgical knives. Eventually, the knives found the bullet. We entered the blinding white room and saw him lying in the bright white bed in a blue-white hospital gown like an angel resting in heaven. I was amazed how quickly they had completed the operation. “How you feeling, Brendan?” Bruce asked first. Brendan’s bulging eyes scanned confusedly around the room. “Brendan?” “Oh, yeah. Yeah. I’m good.” None of us were sure quite how to talk, what to say. All of us were trying to dislodge the tension but none successfully. Bruce moved in to break the silence. “The operation fully done?” “Oh, yeah, it’s all done.” “And? Any synopsis?” Bruce chose the chair beside Brendan’s bed. “Oh, apparently I’m lucky. The bullet entered my lower back.” Brendan swallowed. His eyes stared forward, avoiding our gaze. “But I was lucky. The bullet went between fat and muscle. Which means it avoided any bone. If it had hit a quarter inch anywhere else I might have been paralyzed. Or worse.” He straightened his back. “I’m lucky.” Steve and I drove left-lane down bucolic, forest-bordered New Hampshire roads. The greens and browns of thick evergreens flashed past our passenger windows. “Dartmouth’s food is shit,” I declared. I pushed the accelerator. “True. My breakfast sandwich was sandpaper.” “Facts.” Silence sat for a moment. “Think we’ll be heading back to Dartmouth any time soon?” I forced a chuckle. “I’m still trying to process what happened.” “I know. Me too.” “The odds of Brendan being completely okay are so low.” I swallowed. “I don’t know if lucky is the right word, but the bullet could’ve hit him elsewhere, could’ve gone through him and hit one of us, could’ve—” “I know, I know. I mean good news, I guess, is statistically speaking, we’ve experienced more than our fair share of random shootings for a lifetime.” “Isn’t that too bad.” A truck became my rear-view mirror and I tossed us into the lane to our right. The truck passed and I pulled back left. “I guess we reacted the right way. You giving up your flannel, me putting pressure on the wound, Bruce calling the cops.” “The odds of so much going randomly right in such a randomly wrong situation. Not just the bullet’s lucky placement, but the fact they caught the guys that same night… and on the other hand, the odds it’s us who get shot at, the odds the kid who gets hit is a visiting student, the odds of a shooting happening at all in Hanover, New Hampshire.” I decelerated. “Think this will stick with us?” “Maybe. Could’ve been far worse though, remember that.” “Brendan. Of all people. Nicest kid you’d ever meet.” Steve had no response. The pair of us rode back home alone together. “During Wednesday’s sentencing, the victim’s mother read an impact statement describing the trauma her family has faced over the past three years. ‘We have cried so many tears,’ she said. ‘Our hearts are broken. Our sense that people are intrinsically good is shattered. Why would these men try to kill our child? We are haunted by the what-ifs.” – WMUR

Windows

Kristoffer Balintona
March 4, 2022

Beauty Rarely do moments of clarity arrive: ephemeral gifts recognized only a beat too late. As an exercise in free association, my memory draws, once again, to that thunderstorm. It materialised slowly yet caused me little alarm, not unlike my relationship with my dear window. I think its gradual pace is the reason why I didn’t notice it. But what I did notice was a feeling. An intangible awareness. The winds shivered ever so slightly, a seemingly imperceptible turbulence in the air. I find this feeling akin to a fun-fact I read years ago. Buried in a forum thread is a comment that reads something along these lines; I work as a paramedic. I have a lot of experience with these kinds of situations. From my experience, we have some sort of inherent sense that something is wrong. When a patient tells me they’re going to die, or they have this intense fear in their eyes — not the normal kind, but a deep, infinite kind — something bad happens very soon. Something fatal like a heart attack, for instance, strikes minutes later. The human body just knows. I can’t corroborate this fact or the anonymous tale, but its veracity is irrelevant — I entertain a faith in this phenomenon. Almost like a dog instinctively barking at a brewing tornado, I felt a compelled certainty. Entranced in my chair, I watch the flash seep everywhere. It confirms my gut instinct. With it passed, and my brain rebooted, I recognize this as a familiar yet confusing scene: Shouldn’t there… CRASH! The off-beat thunderclap shook me. In this tiny space, I feel, for the first time, like I was living in more than just the room I call mine. The label of ‘room’ became inappropriate. It was at this moment, from a mere open window, that I learned sensations could be so raw. Such an oceanic largeness on its other side; an immensity that demands humility. I wondered: Why have I just now noticed this? Discomfort The season: Summer. The temperature: Scorching. The consequences of that heat are especially urgent on my soles. Not the entire flat of my feet, just two spots: one where my first and second toes wrap around the wire of my flip-flops, and another near my heel where the wire inserts into the sole. These particular points dig into my skin at every step. Jutting from the landscape of my East Coast campus are spurts of hills and plateaus. Unfortunately for me, Google Maps apparently demands the pain of managing uneven terrain perfectly conducive to the pricking of soles. The twists and turns in these narrow, one-way streets don’t help either. “My god, why is Providence so damn hilly…” I can’t help but feel disadvantaged for having been raised in Chicago, the land of ‘unchanging-altitude.’ That’s the acute discomfort. Demanding my focus chronically is the humid stickiness that permeates every surface of my body. At this point, my clothing feels more like soggy paper. The household walls across the street and close to my right are high, variegated, and annoyingly bare. With no passerby in sight so far, there is no escape. I am alone in this mundane struggle. The only saving grace from the incessantly burning sun is the relief of my first in-person class. I’m not bubbly or giddy, just expectant mixed with a tinge of nervousness. I welcome the sun’s immense and uncomfortable pressure. It’s too good of a coincidence that the heat advisory warning overlapped with this momentous occasion — already delayed by two weeks, in fact. I tend to entertain myself with my own humor nowadays. I think it’s a habit I developed who-knows-when during that swath of solitude. All-in-all, I consider the sun’s grace a harsh “welcome back.” Inquiry I admire it. My window has an audience. A picture frame of a poem gifted as an off-to-college present from my mother; a duet of flasks, one tall and skinny, the other short but wide; a metal cup with a handle, perfect for tea and water; my ivy plant, whose leaves number more than seven times the initial five it started with when I brought it to Brown. Behind the main characters of the stage — the foreground you could say — is the unsuspecting setting. Unclear glass muffled from fingerprints and residue. A pure guess, I assume that the frame is wood coated with white paint. Contrasting the aged glass is this wine-like wood: age evident but not distasteful. A grid screen sits just behind it. It stops the bugs from getting in, and me from falling out. Most of the time the pane is lifted more than a foot above its closed position. How wonderful such a simple change has been. Shallowly, this story is about the way my window has dyed the color of my first year of college: positively. Deeply, on the other hand, is a commentary on our sheltering, which twists sanctuary into captivity. What have we isolated ourselves from? Without Someone I knew once said, “I started playing chess when I was five.” “Oh, is that why you’re so good now?” “I’m not that good.” “Your rating is literally 1800!” In Freshman year of high school, I met someone who had been a gymnast since the third grade. One of my close friends had been playing piano since kindergarten. It’s a usual occurrence for these outliers to broadcast themselves on YouTube or Instagram — a knack for art paired with an intractable sum of dedication. That isn’t me. My idols, none of which I’ve actually met, tend to have a childhood filled with something. I did not. Vacuous is how I’d describe myself. But this description is all retroactively applied. I say this now with the knowledge of a bigger world, filled with more stresses and joys alike. I picture my young environment as hollow because time didn’t really exist. My memories of a time when urgency was an undefined sensation are fond: such a stark contrast to life now. That basement and even tinier living room was my world, my detention. Existence was what was immediately in front of me: the TV. “Today on How It’s Made, we’ll learn about how erasers first…” “The Kid’s Next Door!…” “But Finn, you can’t…” Although I reimagine myself as being silent and unnoticed, it was the other way around: the world around me was unnoticed. Unnatural. That infinitesimally small space was only so because I couldn’t see something larger. I couldn’t see more of the world — physically and metaphorically. There was much, much, much more beauty to behold. So much more chaos and serendipity. So much more to appreciate and wonder and stare at. When your world is the only one you know, you can’t see anything but that. Comfort DRRRING!!! DRRRRRING!!! DRRRRRRING!!!… There are things that cannot be done when you are in a rush. Waking up is one of those things for me. Waking up is tormenting. My mind resists being rustled. Far too easily, I shove my late-night reminders behind the warming luxury of blankets. In my struggle, a break in the clouds becomes apparent. Literally. I listened to a podcast a few months ago about how light rays, especially those that hit your eyes directly from the sun – those not refracted and scattered through a window’s glass – are essential to the wake of the body. I keep my left eye a tenth open but the right completely shut. The left one can’t even do that for much longer than a few moments before its accumulated nocturnal debris grows too troublesome — but it’s enough for me to find the outline of a certain black rectangle. I need to shake it because I use a special alarm clock app. It’s a preventative measure for a chronic over-sleeper. All that matters is that it’s been doing its job. The fact that I’m conscious enough to have this thought proves my point. I couldn’t help but notice the unfettered rays peering through the opening. Stopped a foot above the windowsill is the bottom of my blinds. I’m reminded of my foresight last night to lower them so that my present self’s retinas wouldn’t be burned. I mentally pat myself on the back for it. I then laugh at myself for mentally giving myself a pat on the back. At any rate, the sunlight demands my attention. It is bright but balanced by the darkness of the crevices it cannot reach on my messy table. The area is bright enough to stir yet dark enough to soothe. I’m surprised at how natural this feels — was it always like this? No, my old room didn’t even have a window in the first place. In my trance, I realize the coherency of my thoughts. I rather quickly raise my upper half from under my tempting sheets, rub both eyes with either hand, and check the time. Unnoticed If your second semester in college was unexceptional, then yours wasn’t so far off from mine. Mostly monotonous weeks passed until any novelty arose at all. But only an inkling, a turning ambiance: an inappreciably small shift. I stand at a distance, across the room, far from the window. Peering through it produces in me a feeling I never knew I yearned for. Even as I type this paragraph several weeks later, I sense a radiating, motherly familiarity. An inanimate object, this window reminds me of our fickle randomness. Unappreciated. Unmoved. Unnoticed. Our myopia dawns on me. We stumble through life, deceiving, loving, becoming learned, then sputter out within the span of a dozen tree rings. What possesses you? Is it your career? Your homework? Money? Has gasping for breath at the workday’s close become routine? Reflect on your day-to-day: has a moment ever penetrated into you as much as this window has into me?

Once You've Wrestled

Sam Hawkins
February 28, 2022

“…Everything else in life is easy.” – Dan Gable A ref’s whistle is not swayed by how much work you put in. It cannot read the horror on your face as you step on the mat, cannot register your strong humility against an opponent’s weak arrogance. It only knows the wind from the ref’s mouth: the anxiety-ridden starts and the ego-brutalizing ends of each ruthless period. Coach gripped his belly and tucked it around his seatbelt so he could turn to see my bruised face in the van’s wrestler-cramped back seat. “Could he beat you in chess?” Hell no he can’t beat me in chess. “In checkers?” Coach, if I could beat him in chess, do you really think he could beat me in checkers. “Can he beat you in school?” You act like you didn’t hear him speak – the kid’s GPA is probably negative. “Uh… in writing? On the cello?” Yeah, my creative talents really helped when he was crushing my windpipe between his bicep and his knee. “How about… how about, in social interaction?” I get it coach – “Yes, coach, I got it, thank you.” I decided to cut my losses and just shoot a blast double. But it was not a “shot” as shots usually go – it was more a half-assed attempt at a lunge where half my body went forward and half my body stayed put. He laughed. He literally laughed, stepped out of the way, and as my center of gravity rose again by a single millimeter, he eliminated me. Goodbye. He had me on my back, my neck in his elbow crook, pulling my shoulder blades to the mat. But I refused to quit. I’ve eaten next to nothing in the past 24 hours. I weighed in 3 pounds underweight, stupidly. And I’m tired. I’m nervous, and hungry, but so damn nervous, about to get beaten up in front of hundreds of people, I can barely think, barely process – For about a full minute straight, he just bullied me. He sat heavily on my back with his knee in my spine, wrenching my left arm behind my back so my left hand rested where my right pocket should be. He actually giggled as I squirmed beneath him, unable to shift my weight anywhere. I should’ve stuck to cello, I thought to myself. I hated that whistle. It only ever blows when you don’t want it to. It blows when you or your opponent’s shoulder blades kiss the mat; and after the ref spits saliva-breath through those horrible plastic holes, he smacks the mat with an open palm, just so you’re doubly sure that you lost. Just in case your crushed ribs weren’t enough of a tell already. The kid’s waist was invisible, and his quads looked like anacondas wrestling and suffocating one another up his entire leg. His calves somehow equaled the width of his legs. And then across from him there was me, the guy who had never squatted once, who had spent the summer exclusively bench pressing and bicep curling in the hopes of scoring girls’ attention at the beach. Wrestling meant something more to me than those other things. It’s a different kind of pain and endurance that even the worst of wrestlers has to bear. It’s flexing every muscle in your body for six minutes straight, contemplating both your defense to his offense and your offense to his defense, considering complex techniques while your mind is drenched in adrenal-fear, your heart maintaining a steady 210 bpm, your lungs exhaling too rapidly for you to inhale – all this while you stand there as close as humanly possible to buck-naked right in front of all your best friends. I hooked my elbow onto his. I shifted all my weight to my right, and threw our tangled bodies into a vicious sideways roll. Finally this bout was turning in my favor. I could sense myself on top, could see my points on the board – yet as we spun, I realized we were spinning too far, that he was making us spin too far, and it hit me that he had rolled my roll. I did not know this was possible. “I’m sorry — what, coach?” “What else can he beat you in?” The ref smacked the mat. I checked again for my singlet. Yeah, of course I remembered it. That’s why my entire body itches. Goddamn singlets. Wrestling itself is humiliating enough, and then they want us to do it wearing a fucking onesie. Wrestling was good for me because I never would have learned discipline without it. As a cellist you just frantically practice to figure out some piece in order to impress the teacher your parents pay for. With wrestling you don’t practice and your skull gets caved in by some man-child taking out his childhood anger on your sorry ass. So you learn to practice. One shift of his weight, and my neck was back in his elbow crook. Somehow my right foot was next to my right ear, and my throat let out a sad, choked-out yelp of distress. I was able to hold off the pin for approximately one second, which angered him immeasurably, pushing him to cut off my airway completely. The whistle blew. Of course I get stuck with the number-1-ranked 182-pounder in all of New England as my first damn match of the tournament. “Uh oh,” Coach muttered. Alright, well… game plan, I guess, is survival.

Let me show you the (SUB) way

Gabby Sartori
February 20, 2022

Ah yes, the city that never sleeps. “Fuhgeddaboudit,” so they say- how’s my accent? Do you know where I am yet? You guessed it, “New Yawwk City” baby. There’s so much to see and do in the Big Apple, from visiting the Empire State Building to taking a leisurely stroll through iconic Central Park. Maybe you want to visit the Statue of Liberty, walk across the Brooklyn Bridge or take in a Broadway show. You really can’t go wrong in New York. However, you need a way to get to these places. I really don’t recommend an overpriced taxi that’ll charge you ten bucks for going one block over. The best mode of transportation is the only one thing that keeps New York’s wonders connected and in touch. What if I told you this transport was a magical place beyond all these fantasies? A place that provides all their splendor and more in one place, that’s right ONE PLACE. What I proudly present to you is the most extravagant ride of a lifetime, more riveting than any amusement park ride you’ve ever been on: the New York City Subway. For a brief overview, riding the subway is like riding a bike; it’s scary at first but you get used to it after a while. If you can read a map or use the Google Maps mobile app, you can use the New York City subway. Officially, the subway is known as MTA or Metropolitan Transportation Authority. Each train line has a color-coded letter or number. There is even a large map on the wall of every subway station, and upcoming stops are easy to see when you are on the train. It’s recommended that you use Google Maps or another good map app. The app will give you step-by-step instructions for getting from where you are to where you want to be, using subway trains, buses, and your own two feet. Underground subway stations are probably the first thing people think of when talking about this mode of transportation. It’s much larger than expected and busy at all times. These Manhattan stations generally have several entrances and serve multiple train lines on multiple levels. If you know the train you want and the direction you want to go, it’s pretty easy to follow the signs to the correct platform. Subway trains in Midtown Manhattan may be crowded every day, all day long, hence why they call this line “Midtown Mayhem.” At rush hour, there is no personal space. Everyone just squeezes in because the next train won’t be any better. The subway is the most iconic, accessible attraction we have. It’s our premier people-watching spot. At the end of the day — or rather, all day long — millions of people from every pocket of society navigate a system where the rules are simultaneously never-changing and constantly in flux. It’s like a cocktail party where everyone’s invited and only half of the guests are drunk. You haven’t really experienced New York City unless you’ve swiped a MetroCard, whirled through the turnstile, and grasped a pole to mitigate the sudden twists and turns that can make getting to your destination feel like a tightrope walk in high winds. When riding the subway, you are quickly greeted by the sights and scents of the station itself before departing. As you peer over toward the rat whisking away its own New York slice, smells fill the air with roasted chestnuts complimented by the occasional urine and marijuana combo as you catch a glimpse of the doting New York commuters enslaved by their 9 to 5s. Here’s a tip, don’t talk to them because they most certainly will bite. “Excuse me, when’s the next stop downtown?” Now, you may be a little startled by your response, but a typical answer would be “Go fuck yourself.” Don’t worry, that’s “New Yorker” for “have a nice day!” The subway might seem like a lonesome place, but I promise you it unifies people only under certain circumstances. Riders all have a common enemy and it certainly tests the survival of the fittest. This challenge is known of as the beast itself; the mechanical train door. New Yorkers will use their newly shined shoes or bare hands to try to stop the mechanical doors from closing when they see someone who’s sprinting to catch their ride. Folks wrestle with steel doors even as conductors implore them not to, because we all know what it feels like to have left the house early and still wind up late to a job interview, a doctor appointment, or any relative place that involves punctuality. No, these doors aren’t as sympathetic as elevators who give you a second chance and reopen when you stick your hand out of desperation. Just like that New Yorker who was willing to bite you before, the mechanical doors do the same. Only this time, they won’t hesitate- you stick out your arm and you find yourself wrestling with an alligator’s mouth. We’ve all had to take the gamble and if you fail, the next train might show up in time to get you to your destination- or it might not. The breathless latecomer to the train car who has just single handedly held up hundreds or possibly thousands of people will draw eye-rolls, but they can’t lie, they’ve all been that person. And even though their successful sprint adds one more silhouette to a car that’s already full to bursting, it’s that shared experience — no matter who you are, no matter what stop you’re getting on at — that keeps them from killing each other and may be the closest thing to unifying New Yorkers. As we continue our voyeuristic journey through the underground, the enclosed train car is populated by people who will just have you scratching your head wondering what is going on. I now present to you the people who really keep New York up and running; the Subway Creatures. Now, when I say “subway creature,” I’m not referring to the mosquitoes gnawing at your ankles as you’re drenched in your own sweat on a hot summer day from just making your train. I’m talking about the guy next to you who decided to reenact his pole dancing routine on one of the safety bars in the middle of the train car. Don’t believe me? See for yourself: You probably won’t get that lucky with a free show nowadays due to the new warning signs that at least attempt to stop people from doing so. Don’t believe me? See for yourself: Aside from the shenanigans ensuing all around you, the journey on the outside is one worth encapsulating. Each station, each train, each route has its own sights and sounds. On a letter or numbered line, heading uptown to downtown, east to west, and into the outer boroughs, the subway is a means to an end. In New York City, the subway is the best mode of transportation we’ve got. Every commute has its problems, but every line also has its dazzles. One of the most interesting subway rides is the F train to Coney Island. In Manhattan, the ride is that of a standard underground variety. However, a couple of stops into Brooklyn, the train emerges and rides high in the sky. If you look to the harbor, you will get a view of Lady Liberty herself. The station at Smith and 9th Streets is the highest in the entire subway system. The elevated stop has one of the best views of the city. If you take the downtown-bound 6 beyond Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall, you’ll pass through a beautiful abandoned station. And Hoyt-Schermerhorn, which hosts the A, C, and G trains, is just kind of fun to say. As you embark on your journey from Smith, the train dips back underground, only to emerge again. This time, you get authentic views into the various back yards from neighborhoods in Mid-Brooklyn. The train terminates at the Stillwell Avenue station, which is designed to be environmentally friendly for the most part, its cleanliness is satisfactory. This could feel like a long ride so if the ride’s got you hungry, no need to fret. Right across from the station is Nathan’s Famous. Get a couple of franks with mustard and sauerkraut and celebrate a wonderful ride. Hit the boardwalk, ride the Cyclone and enjoy the ocean breezes. The beautiful sights may very well be the stops of some A-listers you’ll be lucky to ride along with, having an opportunity to scope out a celebrity or two. Known for traveling public transport are the stars who look to laid-back Brooklyn neighborhoods to get away from the chaos in Manhattan. One of the most star-studded areas in the borough is Brooklyn Heights, where John Krasinski and Emily Blunt, Matt Damon, Jennifer Connelly and Paul Bettany, Mary-Louise Parker and Paul Giamatti all reportedly have homes and have in fact traveled the subway system. The subway is a memory-making machine. It’s a place where marriages have been officiated, where lives have begun, where you might just share a seat with a soon-to be platinum singer-song writer, and where, even if you’ve only paid the price of admission once, you’ll leave with your very own tale to tell. Sure, weddings, births, and errant celebrity sightings are as rare as the screaming, cautionary headlines on the opposite end of the transit teleprompter, but when an obvious tourist or apparent recent transplant successfully swipes through the turnstile on the first try, pauses to applaud a subway creature, or perks up when the train pulls into a station adorned with an unexpected army of rats, it reminds us to take a moment to appreciate those things. It’s a beautiful thing to see when a new commuter is about to experience the ride of a lifetime. So sit back, and take in the beauty and chaos all around you. It’s a pleasurable ride for the most part, just as long as everyone stands clear of the closing doors.

Flags

Caroline Sassan
February 14, 2022

My Nan tells me about a plant she was given by her friend Joanie. Some people say they ain’t good at caring for plants, she says, and I know she’s shaking her head on the other end of the line, but I always tell them: Just keep watering your flowers. She has no such problem with caring for things. When her new plant bloomed, she says, It was like Joanie every day. There is absence and there is distance and there are the things that fill the gaps. When I answer her questions about the rest of my family, she holds onto my words in that particular way people hold onto wishful truths, wringing them out along the sidewalk without ever needing to loosen their grasp. She is among the ranks of old persons who have an exceptionally strong grip–even keeping a hand on the possibility of death, if only to make it seem like less a fact of inevitability and more a question of when she concedes. I am among the ranks of human beings who like to touch everything at once, if only to find some guaranteed presence in the point where my fingers meet something solid. As if a place of one dimension is somewhere you could ever survive; as if that one dimension–a certain scent, striped moonlight through the window–could ever constitute a place at all, let alone one high enough for you to stand. If a thought is merely a point of departure, then it is a place to which we never return again. If life is spent accumulating distance, then there is no way for you to understand this story. The light changes just as I turn the corner. The flowers flutter as if to fly out the window. The leaves flood green over the wide road and I think to myself that I do not know what makes a place a thing you can inhabit. *** When I was young, my mom gave my brother and I buckets and gloves and sent us into the yard to pick weeds. She particularly wanted us to go after the dandelions, incentivizing their capture with five cents per flower we picked. I wound up kneeling in the grass with a flower cupped in my hands, leaning close to listen—the flower was alive! Humming with energy even after the plucking! I opened my hands to add it to the bucket, and out flew an undoubtedly angry bee. It circled me once, twice, and then was off. I wasn’t stung that day and haven’t been since. I was recently informed that dandelions are hydrophobic when they go to seed. What this looks like when a stem is plunged under the water is: every seed equidistant from the center. I thought for a while that when you are yourself, you are a sphere, which is to say that you are someone whose every part is equally distant from their center. Maybe when you are this spherical self, maybe with the water pressing in, there forms a membrane of what can be seen on the surface and spun any which way to always resemble the whole. If this is true, then the integration of your being is mostly composed of that distance between the center and the things it reaches out to touch. I’m not sure. Regardless, I no longer pick dandelions. When I left home, my mom packed five tubes of sunscreen. She insisted on buying a wedge of asiago from the grocery store even though I rarely eat cheese. She inspected the bathroom once, twice. She talked over and over about the best beaches in Rhode Island. I only knew beaches, real ones, from family vacations long ago. She has some infatuation with the shoreline from childhood days spent at the cottage in Maine. On our family trips, she would always sit back in her white sunhat, reading a book or a magazine with toes sunken into the sand while I dared myself to go farther into the surf. She surveyed the scene with a contentment I didn’t then understand and now am too far from to picture clearly. In the times she let me drag her out to the ocean, I felt safe enough to swim out to the bigger waves, safe enough to stop my paddling and put my face up close to hers to see through her brown tinted sunglasses. I’m losing track of the story. Let me try again. I’m driving home. The flowers are fluttering, remember? To my right, a man raises a flag from half mast. I never find out why the flag had been lowered. I think about it from time to time, along with the image of your face in the moonlight asking some perpetual question. I’d charcoal in the moon to dust over your superstitions, but how do you begin to forgive the things you cannot see? I cut the flower stems diagonally like you taught me. They are sharp at the bottom, but this way they can take in more water. Using the present indicative is maybe a way of getting closer to acceptance, just like tricks of the light are maybe a way of getting closer to home. *** The stone skips on the water because it has something to say, but it says nothing but look. That’s all I can give you here. I grew up in a house with a mother who loved me in ways she doesn’t remember and said things I’d rather forget; with a father who hid things in the back of the cupboard and always liked watching TV for the knowledge that thousands of people were watching at the same time. Sometimes there were flowers on the counter. For my Nan’s second wedding several years ago, I made a bouquet of origami flowers: paper that would last forever. But flowers, I think, are in a forever way of leaving. I was younger then, anyway. She keeps the flowers on her desk, and when the sun strikes through the window, all I see is the dust folded between each layer of tissue. When I return home for the first time, I find that even a homecoming can be a way of moving farther away. My favorite scabs to pick began to heal when I wasn’t looking. I pass streets I have no need to turn down; houses on corners with porches to which I can no longer walk up and knock. The flag still remains at full mast, but I didn’t stop by to tell you. I was somewhere else, thinking that if I fall away from every person I want to address in the second person, maybe I’ll fall into myself. Distance, by definition, is the length from here to where we began. What does it ignore? A final memory I offer you: I am small and my mom lets me choose the plants for the little garden patch right beneath my bedroom window. I’m standing with the hose showering that pine bush, the one perpetually dying with half its needles red and dry. We kneel among the coneflowers and dogwood and sprawling tree with the soft little buds on it, and she explains why we have to cut back the lamb’s ear, trimming its lushness to some arbitrary margin; the gangly offshoots will stretch farther away and steal more and more water from the original plant. Still, she smiles to see me sitting in the grass, clippers cast aside, with the softest of leaves between my finger and thumb. Sometimes I look at a flag and see a distress signal. Someone raised it from the froth of peonies, tumbling over each other in a way that we call blooming, because they have reason to want to return home. Sometimes I look at a flag and see you, waving your white hat from somewhere further down the beach.

A Tale of One City: Pawtucket’s Old and New

Nicholas Miller
February 10, 2022

A giant mural decorates the main concourse at Pawtucket, Rhode Island’s McCoy Stadium, the abandoned home of the Boston Red Sox’s former Triple-A affiliate, the Pawtucket Red Sox. It displays a green box score with 33 innings in commemoration of the longest game in baseball history, played at McCoy in 1981 by the PawSox and the Rochester Red Wings. Next to the mural is a photograph of the PawSox’s Marty Barrett scoring the winning run. The caption reads, “A Moment in Baseball History.” But now, not just the photograph, but the entire stadium is a relic of the past. The PawSox, a part of the Pawtucket community since 1970, left for Worcester, Massachusetts in 2018 after a long and emotional fight to keep the team in the city failed. McCoy has been largely unused since then. High tufts of grass pop up unevenly in the outfield. Section placards rest in the stands, having fallen from the walls. Pawtucket, a 70,000-person city 20 minutes northwest of Providence on the banks of the Seekonk River, is filled with these memorials to a former time, which are decaying even as the city shows signs of an evolution. It was in Pawtucket that the American Industrial Revolution began in 1793. Samuel Slater, the superintendent at a British mill, fled to America with stolen textile factory designs and established the country’s first fully mechanized cotton-spinning mill at Old Slater Mill, a site just 400 feet from Pawtucket’s current city hall. It was the beginning of the city’s prolific manufacturing career, which would remain prosperous through the 19th century and into the 20th. But eventually, in the mid-20th century, much of the city’s textile industry closed or moved elsewhere. Together with the later construction of strip malls outside of the city, this development led to the decline of Pawtucket’s downtown economy. Further, the construction of I-95 through the downtown area, allowing travelers to whizz past the city with their dollars unspent, meant that the city became passed by both literally and metaphorically. When former city councilor John Barry III, 72, was a child, he couldn’t walk in the downtown during the Christmas shopping season because there were so many people. “There was not a vacant storefront. There were clothing stores, appliance stores, hat stores, and bakeries. That’s all gone,” he said. Instead, what remains are old buildings with empty storefronts and “For Rent” signs and, fitting with the city’s aged aesthetic, a collection of apartment buildings inhabited by the elderly. Even one of the businesses that does exist is a call back to a former time. Stillwater Books, a quaint bookstore owned by husband and wife, Dawn and Steven Porter, sits on the corner of the city’s central intersection and supplies a clichéd representation of the sense of the past that hangs over Pawtucket. But while Stillwater is a charming piece of nostalgia, just across the Seekonk River looms the Apex Building, a futuristic, pyramidal monstrosity that shows the ugly decay of Pawtucket. It was built in 1969 as a department store for the Apex Company, with its huge ziggurat design allowing for the company to broadcast its name to I-95 drivers while avoiding billboard regulations. But the company faltered in the early 2000s and the building has been mostly empty since 2015. The Apex served as the cover for Business Insider’s list of the ugliest building in each state, and while perhaps intended to seem sent from the future, its sci-fi-like pillars and pyramid crown only convey a lamentable architectural style of the distant past. The city’s proposal to keep the PawSox in the city would have torn down the Apex and built a stadium in its place, which Dawn Porter hoped would revitalize the “sad and depressing” downtown. The PawSox had agreed to a deal with the city and state to pay for half of the 83-million-dollar stadium, more than any other minor league team has paid for their ballpark. Former Pawtucket Director of Administration Tony Pires was part of the effort to build the new stadium, and said the deal, which also included new hotels and houses, was a “home run,” and would’ve raised significant tax revenue for the city while also energizing the declining downtown. However, many Rhode Islanders were wary of significant statewide investment after the Rhode Island legislature had sunk $75 million to bring to the state 38 Studios, a video game company that quickly went bankrupt. “There was always resistance from the general public [in Rhode Island],” said Pawtucket Mayor Don Grebien. He said he understood public hesitancy but that keeping the PawSox and developing around the stadium would have meant “more taxes, more jobs, more revenue in the long-term for the city.” “It’s hard to explain that to people,” he said. After a public outreach campaign to try to win support, the bill to approve the spending passed the Rhode Island Senate in 2018, but in the House, Speaker Nicholas Matiello never put the bill to a vote, citing worries about the legislation’s state bond guarantees, which would have left the state on the hook for the money if the team defaulted. Matiello proposed a new bill, without state bond guarantees, but without that security, the cost of building the stadium would likely have spiked. The new bill, introduced the day before the legislative session ended, passed both the House and the Senate, but the lack of state bond guarantees seemed to be a dealbreaker for the PawSox owners. On Friday, August 17th, the owners held a press conference to announce their agreement with the city of Worcester, and suddenly, the PawSox, after 48 years, were set to leave. “My heart was broken,” Pires said. “I think a lot of people’s hearts were broken.” “It was such a good vibe in the neighborhood,” said resident David Lithgoe of having the PawSox in Pawtucket. “To see families, little kids excited with their glove… it was real, real nice.” “Everybody was happy,” said resident Diane Proulx. “Now there’s nothing.” When the PawSox left, they joined the city’s Memorial Hospital and beautiful Leroy Theatre as community institutions to depart in recent decades. The hospital was built in the early part of the 20th century, and went through a number of expansions, serving a large portion of Rhode Island and Massachusetts. It began to have financial difficulties in the mid-2000s and closed in 2017. The Leroy, a lavishly decorated movie theater, was built in 1923 and destroyed in 1997, even after it was added to the National Register of Historic Places. “It feels like Pawtucket is losing everything,” a customer of McCoy Market–a convenience store next to the baseball stadium–told me. “It’s like the wild, wild west.” It’s a harsh description, but I know what he means. Walking through Pawtucket means taking note of the creepy deserted warehouses, office buildings, and stores. At one point, I walked into the shadow of an abandoned school building that towered over the sidewalk. It had a symmetrical brick structure, with the roof forming a sharp triangular peak in the middle. “St. Mary’s School” was carved into a stone patch on the front façade, with “A.D.” and “1890” chiseled on either side, and a crumbling stone sculpture of the Virgin Mary above. All the windows were wide open; many had holes in their glass panes. Behind the spiky, metal fence, the front yard contained ugly, overgrown vegetation. And of course, there was a graveyard right next door. But beyond the occasional horror-movie feel, the deserted buildings are indicative of a more serious reality. The Pawtucket of today seems an artifact of the past, a sad collection of remains from a better, more prosperous time. But there is also another, more hopeful side to Pawtucket, Rhode Island. The most obvious piece of evidence sits on the western bank of the Seekonk River. For now, the site doesn’t look pretty. Three yellow excavators rest beside mounds of sediment in a mini-wasteland surrounded by green brush. But in a year and a half, the site, together with its counterpart directly across the river, will hold new shops, restaurants, apartments, a riverwalk, a pedestrian bridge, and the chief feature, a brand-new 7,500 seat soccer stadium, which will host Pawtucket’s own professional soccer team from the United Soccer League, U.S. soccer’s second tier. Labeled “Tidewater Landing,” the project, with a $284 million price tag, will be the largest development in Pawtucket’s history. The idea for the project arose when the city listened to development proposals for the deserted McCoy Stadium shortly after the PawSox left. While nothing has come to fruition for McCoy, out of those discussions, the city established its relationship with project developers, Fortuitous Partners, and began conversations about Tidewater Landing. Grebien said the city didn’t have the intention of replacing the PawSox with the new project, but added that the loss of the PawSox made the state government more willing to help out Pawtucket. They “realized something needed to be done,” Grebien said. For the Tidewater Landing project, the state will provide $50 million in incentives, including a $36 million loan that will be repaid with future tax revenue. The stadium itself will be entirely privately financed. Rhode Island’s Department of Commerce estimates that the project will create 2,500 construction jobs and 1,200 permanent jobs, and Grebien said that over the next 20 years the project is expected to bring in an additional $800 million in tax revenue. And while some residents and business owners I spoke to questioned how much new business the soccer team will really bring to the struggling downtown area on the other side of I-95 from the stadium, Brett Johnson, founder of Fortuitous Partners, argues that the development will “lift the collective boats in the broader region.” More corporations and investors will want to take advantage of the increase in economic activity, Johnson reasoned, and that will lead to new ventures located in the areas beyond Tidewater Landing, including the downtown. Compared to the failed PawSox stadium, “It’s a much bigger, better project,” Mayor Grebien said. And by investing in soccer, the city has an eye to the future. “Baseball is a slower sport” mostly watched by the older generation, Grebien said. “You’ve got the younger generation that wants soccer….It’s an up-and-coming sport.” In addition to Tidewater Landing, the city is also building a new train station that will be completed in the summer of 2022 and will connect to Providence and Boston, an idea that has been in the works since 2005. City officials hope the train station, while making it easier for residents to commute, will also draw both visitors and new residents to the city, and therefore, promote business investment. But beyond these plans for economic prosperity, Pawtucket’s social dynamics also invoke the coming of a new age. One of the reasons the city government and developers are so confident in Tidewater Landing’s success is Pawtucket’s demographic mix. The city has large immigrant communities from Cape Verde, Portugal, and Latin American countries, for whom soccer is very important. But Pawtucket’s immigrant population—25.85% of the city’s population was born outside the U.S.—does more than just supply sufficient interest in soccer. It positions the city as a representation of the future of the United States, where the immigrant percentage has tripled since 1970 and is only continuing to rise. While walking to the Tidewater Landing construction site, I passed a community garden with signs written in three languages in addition to a trilingual school. When knocking on residents’ doors in search of interviews, I had to on multiple occasions awkwardly apologize and slink away when I realized my potential source didn’t speak English. In this way, Pawtucket, while representative of the American manufacturing town fallen from its prosperous past, also symbolizes the future American community in which diversity is high and English as the primary language is not taken for granted. Pawtucket’s connection to a new America also reveals itself in the city’s politics. In the 2020 city council election for the city’s fourth ward, Alexis Schuette, a 34-year-old progressive, queer woman from North Carolina defeated Barry III, a 72-year-old, 30-year incumbent. One of Schuette’s first actions was to remove all gendered pronouns in city council procedures. “Pawtucket is an amazing place,” Schuette told UpriseRI. “It is progressive.” In her conversation with me, Schuette showed the idealistic positivity that defines progressive youth in America. She expressed intense excitement about the potential for Tidewater Landing, and when I asked about the current state of Pawtucket, she spoke with remarkable passion and pride about several small businesses that have thrived even through the pandemic, and others that have recently opened up. “I don’t see it as a city in decline,” she said. “I see it as a city that has room and potential to grow.” Barry, who, in addition to his political career, spent nearly five decades working for the Roman Catholic Diocese of Providence, is less optimistic than Schuette. He thought the new soccer team would provide some enjoyment for people, but questioned how much the soccer stadium would really help the city’s businesses. “I think people will go to the game and then get in their cars and leave,” he said. Regardless of who’s right, the transition of power in Pawtucket’s fourth ward seems not just a harbinger for new, progressive policies in the city, but also a representation of a new optimism and energy. Still, amidst these changes, reminders of Pawtucket’s sad aging process remain prevalent. In addition to the decaying McCoy Stadium and Apex Building, both of the city’s high school buildings are over 80 years old, and the city hall building was constructed in 1933. All three will need to be replaced soon, Tony Pires told me. Many residents also expressed continued anxiety about the departure of Memorial Hospital. One woman told me the hospital was where she gave birth to her two daughters, and she said was worried about how far people now have to go for medical care. The closest acute care hospital is now Kent Hospital, about 25 minutes away. Even as the city awaits the arrival of a professional soccer team, the loss of the PawSox still pains the community. A woman who lives behind McCoy Stadium told me the city has too many memories of the PawSox for the soccer team to make up for the team’s departure. Even Mayor Grebien agreed, saying of the PawSox leaving, “We’re losing part of our history, part of our being. So I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to replace that.” At the construction site for the new train station in the northwest part of the city, behind an excavator, black rubber tubes, and mounds of rubble, an attractive stone brick wall rises partially completed. While the new station takes shape, just a half-mile away, Pawtucket’s historic former station, constructed in 1916 and closed in 1959, is crumbling. It is covered with trash and graffiti; it attracts squatters and drug abusers. Once considered for nomination to the National Register of Historic Places, the miserable condition of the building’s structure means that it now is a significant safety risk. “This building has fallen into such disrepair, and it is disheartening,” Mayor Grebien told The Providence Journal. The two train stations seem a representation of the Pawtucket of today, where residents celebrate the burgeoning of an exciting future while at the same time mourning the demise of a cherished past.

We're Going on a Coronacation

Gabby Sartori
February 4, 2022

Rhode Island might be the smallest state in the country, but this place is simply unapologetic from day to night. It’s Saturday, approximately 7 am on September 11, 2021. I’m a recovering insomniac feeling the wrath of the night before that left me with burnt retinas. I had a god-awful sleep and, if I’m being honest, I don’t think I closed my eyes for more than 2 minutes. What do you expect? You can’t get a good night’s sleep on a typical Friday night in Providence. You think New York City is the city that never sleeps? Fuhgeddaboudit. Tell that to the Thayer Street motorcycle brigade that hums their motors in hopes of catcalling college girls two times younger than them at midnight. That’s not even the worst part. The entirety of my time in my brand spankin’ new apartment has involved the same construction starting at 5 in the morning. The construction is so close that I actually made friends with one of the construction workers from simply opening my blinds. At least I know that if I ever feel alone, I can simply open my window up to be greeted by my non-English speaking companions. Oh, and the neighbors screaming across the way from what you thought was a party being thrown? Yeah they didn’t shut up either, sick invite by the way. The temptation to march across the hall in my pajamas was at an all-time high. Luckily someone else was bothered by the fear of missing out and took matters into their own hands. Yes, I’m talking about the one of many skunks on Brown’s campus that broke into my apartment complex, not all heroes wear capes. Ah yes, that 7 am wake up was sweet. The morning was bright with a solid 70-degree breeze that was creeping through my half-cracked window. It was reminiscent of the same morning 20 years ago before all hell broke loose. I guess September 11th has a tendency to mislead us with a good day ahead. My nose has been burning for the past 48 hours, as if I took a spoonful of wasabi and shoved it down my throat. I feel so worn down without motivation to do as much as lift my head off my pillow. “This is the best way to wake up before a 90-minute lacrosse scrimmage,” said no one ever. It’s this type of adversity that really bodes well for the entirety of a student athlete’s college experience. Aside from all this, the morning routine is plain and simple. Checking my phone and seeing that there’s 20 plus unopened emails is my new love language, especially the Healthy Verily account that is so desperate to know if I’m alive and breathing. There’s nothing quite like going through a “check all that apply” symptom survey and submitting “none of the above” for each question. No, I’m not on the brink of death. So why should I even address my ringing head that’s completely congested and scratchy throat I have persevered through for the past 24 hours? I finally get out of my bed, drink the occasional pot of coffee I doused with half a creamer bottle, and munch on a crumbled Kind Bar that laid on a bed of fruit and yogurt. Instead of a typical grandpa’s sit and read of the morning paper, my go-to is always a verse of the day from my Bible app and then the newest edition of “Today@Brown.” Huh, an 82 percent increase in Covid cases on campus has been confirmed within the past seven days? Don’t worry, they’re all asymptomatic. Meh, if it’s not me, why should I even be remotely concerned? Departing for the two-minute trek to the athletic fields has officially commenced. It always starts with the warm welcoming of a Kelsey Shea smile waiting in the elevator to pick you up, because just like girls having to go to the bathroom with a buddy at a party, Kels needs me to hold her hand and help her cross the street for any lacrosse practices. I constantly have a bone to pick with Kelsey. She always leaves temporary tattoos on my arms after practice. Of course I am referring to the absurd number of bruises that make my skin tone blue, purple, and green. As a defender, Kelsey loves leaving her mark (both literally and figuratively). I mean she is a captain; she has no choice but to do so. Of course me being an attacker, I avoid going against Kelsey and rather than apologizing for the hits and bumps that are simply illegal, you’d think she would apologize, right? Nope. A casual “Suck it up Gab, you bruise like a peach!” is her response. Preparing for the scrimmage took longer than anticipated. I was in the locker room suiting up in the pinny I own covered in blood stains and while doing so, caught my hair on the bathroom stall door. Not to mention, I was also battling the constantly spammed calls from random numbers that made my phone jump off the wazoo for 10 minutes straight. At this point I’m really questioning my existence and really wish I had a hard copy of “Ned’s Declassified School Survival Guide.” Stepping on the turf and actually having the opportunity to play a real game is sacred these days. As a junior, I have half a freshman years’ worth of athletic experience from missing out on two seasons. And the kicker? I’m referred to as an “upperclassman.” I have yet to experience an away game and have to pretend to assert dominance on freshmen and sophomores, when unbeknownst to them, I have the same confusions about the season as they do. Continuing on with the trend of today’s misfortune, I regret to inform that my team was absolutely demolished by the other team. I don’t know what hurt more; losing, the check that left a swelled-up golf ball on my left arm, or the wrist that wore my Apple Watch. Not that I was checked it or anything; I just had to keep slapping it to turn off the ringing that persisted from yet again, more prank calls from numbers I am probably going to block. It was a hard-fought scrimmage from both teams, leaving everyone sweaty and smelling like according to one of my teammates, “a wet dog.” However, I heard this comment and simply couldn’t comprehend it. “I can’t relate,” I said. “My nose has been burning all morning and can’t even smell it. Guess I have corona haha!” Yea, let the film scratch marinate here for a minute. Let’s just say this is the last off-color comment this story has to offer. Brace yourself, shit’s about to hit the fan. I was in so much pain after the scrimmage that I was craving an ice bath that would succumb my entire body in frost bite. Of course, I had to walk a good five minutes bare footed on the cement and sidewalks to get to the nearest bath that was inevitably closed. I guess that’s okay, at least I was stopped by President Paxton and her dog, Cooper, on the trek back to the locker room. I wish Cooper Paxton got to decide on whether my last season could’ve been cancelled or not. When I petted him, I told him to put in a good word to his mother. Can’t blame a girl for trying. After arriving back to the locker room, I discovered that the showers were of course out of service, which left me no choice but to shower at home in my lavish off campus apartment (yes, the same one that can’t accommodate my sleep needs). Since I’m heading back toward Andrew’s, a spontaneous overpriced yogurt bowl has to be secured. I’m not on meal plan, so the very thought of even walking into a dining hall this semester had yet to cross my mind. What better way to celebrate the worst Saturday morning in a while than with a guest appearance in a place I haven’t been in since freshman year? Not to mention in broad daylight looking like I just walked out of a Peloton class drenched in sweat. I finally understood why this was the first I stepped into Andrew’s in a while. The line was FAT. How was I supposed to hush the rumbles my stomach made in hopes of catching my attention? It was a valiant effort from it though, but my phone’s constant badgering officially made me crack. WHO IS CALLING ME NOW? The one call that I actually had the energy to answer had a name on it. My trainer was calling. Did I not submit a form? Why on Earth is she calling me when I was just at the fields? If it were that important, she would have taken me aside. Since time was slowly going by on the Andrew’s yogurt line, maybe whatever she had to say would fulfill my need of entertainment. Upon answering the call, I was mid-completion of my yogurt concoction. I felt bad having to tell my trainer some of my order…“Hi Kendall, how’s it going – Wait just a sec – Yes, I’ll take some honey and extra strawberries thanks.” What I thought would be a friendly conversation quickly turned into an exchange no one ever wants to hear, especially in the midst of a highly populated dining hall. “WHERE ARE YOU RIGHT THIS INSTANT,” Kendall screamed at me. I mean did she really have to make her voice blare like I was on speaker? When asking her if she could hold on for a second while I settle down and mix my yogurt bowl at a table, her voice started getting frantic. I mean spit it out already, the suspense is killing me! Well, after her next sentence, I think it’s safe to say that not every story has a happy ending. She screamed at me: “YOU. HAVE. COVID.” I mean ouch. She couldn’t have asked how my day was going or what I was up to for the weekend? I don’t know who was more alarmed by her words, the two short dudes behind me who overheard the call and abruptly got up from sitting at the table next to me, or the actual person that had corona. Yes, that being me. The funny thing was that I was in so much denial that I started pleading my case saying I didn’t have it since I had no symptoms. Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t have read the “Today@Brown” statistics that showed the number of asymptomatic cases had increased by 82 percent increased. Instead, I should have opened the test result I received at 6 am this morning telling me I had tested positive. Swearing to my trainer that I had a negative test persisted, trying to change her mind on the news she broke. I mean how hard would it have been for her to say: “Gabby, you don’t have Covid. Why? Because you said so.” One question remained with me after hanging up the phone with my trainer. Why was she the one to relinquish the news to me instead of Health Services, which is what’s supposed to happen? Well, after reviewing my missed calls and recollecting on the annoyance I’ve had with over-the-phone pranksters all day, let’s just say I’ve had this virus longer than I’ve been awake and people attempted to inform me… I really didn’t know what someone was supposed to do right when they find out they’ve been diagnosed with the virus responsible for being the deadliest pandemic in history. I mean, this thing just passed the influenza pandemic of the early 20th century with a higher death toll. Since I could not be bothered with the stress that was sure to ensue, I simply sat in the corner room of Andrew’s in complete isolation, put “My Way” by Frank Sinatra on full blast to really feel the magnification of my situation, and simply ate my yogurt bowl. Ahh, peace at last. The undefeated streak of negative tests was breached and the ego I expressed toward this virus was humbled at last. It really was reminiscent of the same feeling I got when my brother acquired Boardwalk in Monopoly; game over, there’s nothing else to do but surrender. Don’t take this the wrong way, but if someone had to get the coronavirus, it had to be me. Not once did I give the virus any credence for its destruction, no way this thing was real. How is this beast still up and running, hasn’t it taken enough? A freshman college experience? Gone. My best friend, personal confidant, also known as grandma? Gone. The entirety of my sophomore lacrosse season? Gone. And just because I never believed in its power, let alone refuse to receive a vaccination until Brown’s ultimatum, it was time the virus seized the final thing I had left: my pride. I finished my yogurt, savoring every last second taste I may or may not have within the next couple days. It was now time to alert the authorities, or as some people call her, my mom, on the breaking news. When I told her of the illness, she did not even bat an eyelash, responding in a way that made it seem like I lost a peewee soccer game and came home with a participation medal. “Ahh okay, that’s unfortunate. Well, that didn’t take long,” she huffed at me. “Okay, I’ll get the Amtrak and ferry ticket, see you home in four hours.” What do you mean “see you at home?” Thayer Street is my home, now I have to be nomadic? I can’t just leave like this. I just had my first week of class. Not only that, but my lacrosse fall season just commenced. God really does have a sense of humor. Five months of being on Long Island during the summer wasn’t enough, so luckily for me he was gracious enough to bless me with a solid ten days extra. Well, after telling my unphased mother of what transpired, it was time to tell those who really needed to know: the potential contacts. This elite list of people included the following: my boyfriend; three roommates; Kelsey Shea; Christine and Cooper Paxton (tried emailing her, hope she sees it eventually?); and my coach who would alert the teammates I just had full contact with at practice less than an hour ago. My boyfriend was the first one I called, but, of course, no answer. After spamming his phone like mine this morning, I started to head out of the dining hall. Fully masked out in public and still maintain that post-practice glow, I think I saw just about every single human being enrolled in this school. Like I mentioned before, I was known for my distaste for covid and anything it stood for, including mask mandates. Therefore, when people saw me walking down Thayer Street with a mask on, some were confused, but others were quick to realize what was going on. All except the one person that I wished understood what was going on: my boyfriend. The one time I see this kid on a walk by, it’s when I have full blown corona. He finds me and attempts to give me a hug, but I quickly back up. “DON’T TOUCH ME,” I shouted. Pretty sure people mistook him for attempted assault with the way I delivered this shriek of fear in the middle of the street. I simply started tearing up, sat on the curb and once again embraced the sense of defeat from this damned virus. You can take as many seasons of my lacrosse career as you want, but cutting off the embrace from loved ones is where I draw the line. Because of this stupid thing, I haven’t had a hug from my late grandmother for the past two years. Now I can’t even get one from a guy that gives them out like free candy every day. That wasn’t even the worst part. If anyone was going to be at risk from me acquiring this virus, my boyfriend is number one on the hitlist. I gave him the warning, wishing him luck with what’s to occur within the next 24 hours, and even devised an escape plan for if and when he was to receive a positive test tomorrow. Although a Marriot might be nice since he lives on campus, Ratty grab-and-go doesn’t compare to a homecooked meal on Long Island. Thankfully he was showed mercy, an absolute miracle that he tested negative. My coach and roommates wished me well and safe travels for the journey I was to embark upon. The last contact to notify was Kelsey Shea, who was traveling the same time as me, currently in Philadelphia’s airport fresh from landing for a bridal shower. I felt like a federal criminal going on an Amtrak and Ferry with corona, but I guess just keep the mask on and stay away from everybody? I tried hard being as non-discrete as possible, but how could I when I was fully conversing with Kelsey, explaining I had a virus in the middle of an Amtrak? Oh, and in the quiet car no less. Yeah, I would’ve kicked me off too. Kelsey landed in Philadelphia just so she could immediately fly back to Providence after I broke the news. It was a race between the two of us now to see who got home first. Well, let’s just say a plane is certainly faster than a ferry holding a dozen cars across a bay. Within four hours, I was back in my childhood bedroom, resuming online school like I never left it. My taste and smell disappeared instantly after my last taste of a Long Island Italian ice. I shoved an onion up my nose just to feel something. Nothing. At least I could save money on coffee creamer since black coffee tasted like warm water. I was bedridden for days, feeling so weak that at one point I felt like a corpse. How special am I to be probably the only symptomatic case the campus had at this point? Needless to say, my days of underestimating Ms. Rona were over. There was nothing else to do but lay, sleep and, like the Red Hot Chili Peppers say, “Dream of Coronacation.”

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