“Untitled” by Jordan B.

“Bubby, stay where I can see you, please!” I call over my shoulder, only to receive an indignant snort in response.

“I’m taller than the racks, Sis,” he calls back in a deep voice that I still haven’t gotten used to. “No matter where I go, you can see me.”

When I turn around, I see that my brother is right: he is a blonde head floating above the racks of clearance dresses. He’s not facing me, but I don’t have to see his eyes to know that he is rolling them at me. I also know that I don’t have a good counter-argument, so I let him continue wandering around while I wait at the counter for my boss to hand me a copy of next week’s schedule. It’s December, which means Kaleb is just a few months shy of sixteen, and already on the precipice of 6’2”.

Dawn hands me the schedule with a laugh, “Jordan, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were his mother.”

---

We’re waiting, hunched shoulder to shoulder, outside on the curb outside the loudest house on a quiet street. The early summer sun is shining on yesterday’s hopscotch course, and burning our noses while we sit on top of hastily packed bags. I alternate between looking the time on my phone, and looking down the street for Grandma’s silver Mitsubishi.

Despite Mom’s best efforts, not even the wailing of the overturned vacuum and the ice being ground to dust in the blender can drown out the yelling. I’ve never understood why she thinks it helps: they just have to yell louder to compete with the noise. Besides, the living room window is still open a crack. I don’t think either of them have noticed, because if they did, they would have seen me and Kaleb through the curtains when they closed it. They haven’t realized we slipped out the back door yet, either.

I don’t know if things are going to be okay this time. It doesn’t sound like it. The thought of our house without Dad in it makes me want to cry, but then I hear Kaleb’s sniffles give in to tears.

I shuffle closer to him so I can wrap my arm around him. I kiss the top of his head, and whisper, “I called Grandma and Grandpa. They’ll be here soon.”

A plate shatters on the kitchen tile. I cover Kaleb’s ears with sweaty palms.

---

“Mac and cheese, again?”

I am keeping vigil over the boiling noodles, stirring occasionally, mechanically.

I’m getting sick of it too, but I don’t know how to cook anything else, and even if I did, there isn’t much of anything in the cabinets. Kaleb knows this, so he doesn’t argue. He takes the butter and milk out of the fridge and a package of hot dogs, “For protein.”

I’m not really sure that hot dogs count as protein, or have any nutritional value, for that matter but I don’t know much of anything. Like fractions, for example. I don’t know how to do the fifth grade version Kaleb is struggling through at the table, and certainly not the fractions that appear in my geometry textbook. I don’t have the time or the energy to slog through them. I’m barely passing the class.  

I don’t know when Mom will be home. When I asked, all she said was that it would be late, and last time she said that, I didn’t see her until the next day. I wish she would be more specific, so I’d have a better answer than, Don’t worry about it, she’s fine, whenever Kaleb asks me where Mom is. But not everything is about what I want.

Mom says I need to stop being so selfish. I’m trying.

It’s always a fight to get Kaleb tucked into bed. He hates being alone almost as much as he hates the dark, which is why he still sleeps with Mom, even though he’s ten years old. I’ve been attempting to lure him into the creaky twin sized mattress that used to be mine for almost an hour, but he keeps insisting on calling Mom so he can ask her if she’s coming home soon.

“Yes, you will.” I’m finally losing my patience. It’s eleven o’clock, and I’m exhausted. “And it doesn’t matter when she’s coming home, because I’m home and I’m in charge, and I say that ten is too old to sleep with your mom.”

When I finally manage to get him under the covers, it’s almost midnight, but I still reach for the book on the nightstand. We’ve been reading the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series on the nights Mom stays out late. We’re on book three now. I read until my voice is raspy, and Kaleb has started snoring into my side. Then I read some more, just to be sure.

I creep out of the room and turn out the lamp, but I leave the hallway light on.

When my door cracks open at midnight, I pretend not to notice Kaleb sneaking into bed with me.

---

Everyone on Dad’s side of the family is at my graduation ceremony, and of the nine of us, I am the only person who isn’t crying. Kaleb is crying the hardest. Even though he’s getting taller, he looks so young. His face is still round and as red as the rough material of my gown, buried into my the crook of my neck. I think there’s snot on my collar, now.

“Bubby, don’t cry,” I say placatingly. “It’s  not like I’m dying.”

“I know.”

We have a similar conversation a few months later in my new dorm room. He’s crying again, not as hard as last time, though. My eyes are starting to sting a little. As I blink the sensation away, I squeeze him harder. We are surrounded by boxes and Target bags, but the room still feels so empty after he leaves. The whole campus does.

I set about unpacking, trying to be excited, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not the one who is leaving—I’m the one who got left. I don’t really know what to do with myself without Kaleb, so I send him a text reminding him to get a good night’s rest before football camp tomorrow and that I miss him already.

His response is a simple,  I will.  Miss u too

“Fish Out of Water” by Keaton S.

I’ve had life dangled in front of my eyes as if it were a fish on a hook; gasping, choking for the life-giving water it so desperately needs to survive. This happened on a couple different occasions where I had to be the water for the fish. I don’t know why it was me that had to show them how to swim and breathe again just to survive in this ocean a little longer, but I do know I was the only one who could have shown them at the time.  Sometimes you just have to be the saving grace someone needs even when you don’t know how or why.

I’m sixteen the first time I find myself banging on the bathroom door of my friend Clarissa as she attempts to barricade herself from any attempt of help.  Their life is dangling in front of me just on the other side of that door as I hear them say they aren’t worth it. I grab the cold brass knob and try twisting only to be met by the clicking sound of the lock. 

“Open the door Clarissa. I know you don’t want to do this, not to me and not your family. I know things are hard but you gotta just talk to me, okay? Just talk to me.” After a few moments of silence, I bang on the door once to show how serious I am. The worry in the back of my mind now creeping forward quickly as one of the only real friends I have ever had attempts to kill themselves. I bang harder and  harder just to remind them that there is still someone attempting to show them they are worth being around in life for even if not for themselves.. Minutes go by with nothing on either side until the lock on the door clicks and the door opens to show what has happened. My brain attempts to wrap itself around how someone could hurt themselves to feel better, but I know I have saved them this time. I look at her and she walks forward and sweeps by me, her body visibly shaking from just moments before almost taking her own life. My mind is spiraling with anxiety and stress at the prospect that I could have lost someone important to me had I not been here to save them. I follow her back downstairs to her living room and the T.V. plays in the back ground while we pay it no mind. We just sit there together for a few hours wrapping ourselves around what had just occurred, and our minds don’t know what to do but we know in our hearts that we have just saved one another. 

After that first time I wondered to myself over the span of a few months how someone could believe that about themselves. How someone could think they are so worthless that people would be happier without them even though I’ve thought the same before.  But after that first time she seemed to be feeling better for a while without any incident. She was smiling and happy while with her friends and even at home, for at least a few months all was quiet again.

The school day had ended and everyone went home for the weekend while my friends, Clarissa and Rachel, both stayed behind for their club activities. They seemed so happy at the time but I had this weird feeling something wasn’t right but I didn’t know what it was so I left it alone.  I didn’t realize what that feeling was until my best friend Rachel, and the girl I loved, suddenly needs me to help her come back from the edge. I rush to her and see the release they crave so close to them as I talk to them calmly. “You know don’t have to do this. Life may be full of pain and regret but it’s what we choose to do with that pain and regret that makes us who we are.” My brain is panicking as I say random things that come to mind in a desperate attempt to save them. The look in their eyes tells me they are like a child trying to understand the words of an adult telling them no, but I see there is also an understanding and a fear. A fear that is only natural in a case such as this where the uncertainty of survival is on both of our shoulders. I look at her and speak with an obvious shake and sadness in my voice, “Life, is an obstacle course within a marathon but when we are about to fail, that is when we lean on others to take us further.” I reach for the blade of she had within her hands and watch as she slowly allows me to take it from her and toss it aside. Once again, I have somehow done something I have no clue how to do. She turns to me and hugs me as tears stream down her cheeks and I just look down at her with a deep sorrow in my heart. After this incident the thought crossed into my mind again about what it is that makes life in this ocean so unbearable people would choose to choke and suffocate until they no longer struggle. I contemplate this for a long while and still never come up with a valid answer to satisfy my thinking. These thoughts and feelings about people had never crossed my mind before I met these people and now suddenly I am helping people come back from the edge of life.  I didn’t understand why any of this was happening, but I knew that without me they wouldn’t be here, so I accepted it and continued on with school and life.

As my junior year rolls around life had been going well for the most part. Everyone I knew was swimming along just fine and everything was treating them well. However, it’s not until halfway through my junior year that once again Clarissa needed me. I asked them what’s going on and what was making them feel like life is too hard once again. They looked at me and simply said Their resolve to keep going and breathing has been beaten out of them. They looked at me and I seaw the defeat and sorrow in their eyes begging me to let them go. I could tell they felt as if everything was falling apart and that this was the only answer. They had completely lost the will to live and nothing they could think of would help. But to me just the fact they were telling me this was a sign they could continue fighting. It was about three in the morning at this point and the moon was illuminating the street. It was a nice night even though something so terrible was happening within her. I looked at her and took her hand.

“Sometimes life isn’t about whether we feel like we can continue or not but whether it is our time to continue or not. I know you believe in God and that he has a plan for everyone, so I can’t help but think you know this is wrong. Just the fact that I am here is God making an effort to keep you here, right?” She looked at me and I could see her trying to think of some reason to give me that proves me wrong. I smirked at her in the way I always do when I am amused and know I’m right. She knew I was right but she didn’t want to admit it so we just sat there in silence as the crickets chirped from their unseen homes. I had come to realize that silence was just as powerful as words sometimes because of the smaller incidences I had with other friends. I think to myself as we sit there that maybe even though I don’t always know what to say at least I can be there to help in a small way. That even though I know people can usually save themselves sometimes they need a savior and a helper to get them back up sometimes. After this incident I finally understood something I had been trying to figure out since I was a child. I figured out that one of the reasons I had been put in this ocean of people was so that I could be moved into the paths of those who just need someone even though they don’t know why they need to or how to help. Sometimes, just being there for someone  who feels like nothing has a point is all they really need because in the end, you could be a once in a lifetime grace in disguise.

“Untitled” by Yu Z.

When I was in middle school, about 14 years old, I met a Chinese teacher, Mr.Hu. Now, I am 21years old, but I still think of her from time to time. Her forced leaving of my class becomes a contradictory moral question occupying in my mind without any tendency to fade. 

Mr.Hu was a middle-aged woman. Short hair, and some was just seated around her cheek, which however made her face look bigger and the hair less fashioned. Actually, there was no fashion that young teenagers prefer in her at all. She was so plain. However, unevenly swarthy skin, non-standard mandarin with the ambiguous voice quality, all this made her plain but in a way that is not any aesthetic style. I know it is not fair to judge a book by its cover, but this judging just happened when she first met the whole class. That time, she recited some poem to us students, which should be so honest and romantic.

 She adjusted her eyesight around the whole classroom and her tone to cooperate her recitation rhythm, but the rhythm was just not right. At the beginning of entering the classroom, she started to recite without any foreshadowing. I preferred her courage to recite in front of the strangers.  However, the result was embarrassing. We were not moved by her poem or by her reciting. Her voice, gesture, and eyesight just didn't move us. The whole class went into some point, some atmosphere in which no classmate knew how to response or tried to response.

This reciting was the starting point of our story with her. At the following day, most of us didn't like her. Or, at the beginning, most of us didn't feel attracted by her. Charm was a big thing but not a thing big enough to force a teacher to leave. She was strict in any aspect. Her usual strict expression made occasional smiles on her face show no harmony in her and her small eyes became the evidence she was mean and particular. Her repeating stress of the necessity of annotation when reading met our disgust. Some bold and naughty student derided her way of repeating, imitated how she was angry behind her. I felt funny about their vivid mimic but gradually felt sympathy for her. No one followed her requirements but I did. All her stress on reading habits works on me, the way how to keep a record of conversation between me and the book, how physical marks help recall information in the book, and etc, all of these made me start to master the philosophy of reading. I felt grateful to her. I stated to be aware of she was a patient and experienced teacher. I was like some plant, completely opening myself to absorb nutrients from her. However, she was so unpopular. I watched my classmates’ insulting to her without saying anything. Should I say something? Say something to act against them? To say you guys are showing unrespect to the teacher? Why I kept silent? I still don't know the answer right now. 

After long time, this teacher was allocated to another class. Some student asked her parents to report his version of ‘unreasonable’ part of her to school—he argued his paper grade with Mr.hu, and she didn't changed her mind. To show the respect to the parents, she left our class. However, who showed the respect to Mr.Hu.

The last scene I remember about Mr.hu was when that student argued the paper grade with her. At the gate of the classroom, dusk gave the hallway obscure shading. Her face was even darker than before and that students kept arguing. He floated his sight and looked down but still raised his jaw highly. She peacefully said the reason why she gave this grade to his essay but I felt there was some angry hidden in her. I accelerated my pace when I passed them. I felt she felt hurt. I was afraid she might cry. In memory, there was no any farewell. I didn't know what she thought about this really and how this thing affected her life.

I don’t know. Who was wrong? Who was the victim? Were my classmates mean ? Was I coward? If not, why I felt guilty? Many years past, I grip this period of memory and couldn’t let it go but still do not have the answer.    

“Lying to Children” by David P.

As a child, I was taught to believe that marijuana was evil.  I was taught in school, in church, and even in my own home, my mother would tell me that it was a sin. D.A.R.E. told us of the “dangers” of smoking; that it was a gateway drug, that it would make us want to do worse things and try harder drugs, that marijuana would ruin our lives. Fast forward to today, and almost half of the country has decriminalized, if not legalized, recreational marijuana.  So how can it be legal in some places and taught to children as evil in others?  I have learned a lot about marijuana and other drugs in my life and it all started when I met Dwyer.

When I was in grade school, my best friend, Dwyer, and I did everything together.  His mom would pick me up on the way to school and take me home after.  Most days I would go to his house after school and we would hang out and play video games or ride bikes around his neighborhood.  He lived in a rougher neighborhood and we loved to go right into the heart of the shitty parts of town.  The two of us were inseparable.  We were always getting in trouble in classes for talking or pulling pranks on our teachers.  I went to a catholic school that taught kindergarten through eighth grade so most of us knew each other from the start, but Dwyer transferred from a public school in third grade and we instantly became best friends.  He was far less sheltered than we were in our little catholic school in rural DeKalb, IL than he had been in the more urban public school in Rochelle, a few towns over.  He knew a lot more about sex, gangs, and drugs than any of us and I loved learning about it from him.  Until that point all I knew was what was told to me by my teachers, which was that drugs and sex were the devil, but I don’t think I ever fully believed that. 

There was another student at our grade school, Cole, who also transferred from Rochelle. Cole was a couple grades above us and taught us a lot of foul language and other frowned upon behaviors and, in hindsight, was a terrible example for us, but we loved it.  When me and Dwyer were in eighth grade and Cole was in high school, we rode our bikes over to his house as we had a hundred times and found him in the garage with some of his older friends.  They were all smoking weed, we could smell it from the driveway.  It was the first time I had smelled it before. Cole told us they were smoking and said we couldn’t come in.  Dwyer and I had talked about smoking pot before and we both wanted to try it. I don’t know if it was the rebellious nature we had that made us want to break the rules or if it was that subconsciously, I already had doubts in my mind about wether or not we were being told the truth all this time in school, but I had wanted to try it for a long time. We told him we wanted some and he told us to come back with $20 so we rode back to Dwyer’s mom’s house and he went into her room and stole a twenty.  We went back and exchanged the twenty for a ping pong ball sized nug that was in a torn off corner of a grey plastic bag, twisted up and tied in a knot.  We raced back to his house, scared and anxious.  We were both nervous to try it for the first time, not knowing what it would be like, having only heard the bad things that the school had told us about it, but we were also excited to try it. We knew that if we smoked it right then, his mom would be able to smell it, so we took it to his room and hid it.  I called my mom and got permission to sleep over at his house.  

We stayed up late, waiting for his mom to go to bed.  We did this often when we had sleepovers, we would wait for her to go to sleep and steal her cigarettes or sneak out and go to the movie store or gas station, but tonight was different.  We were both so nervous it felt like forever.  When she finally went to bed we went upstairs and took one of his mom’s cigarettes and emptied it.  We filled it with the pot we bought and went into his backyard to smoke for the first time.  We smoked the very poorly rolled joint and neither of us felt anything, so we rolled another equally shitty joint and smoked that too.  About half way through the second joint I felt something I never had before.  I was stoned.  I’ll never forget how surprised I was at how relaxed I was immediately after being so nervous to try it and thinking about why anyone would think it so terrible.  We went back inside and we watched south park and played Xbox until we couldn’t keep our eyes open.  We laughed uncontrollably all night and had a lot of fun.  

I woke up the next morning feeling as though I had been lied to all my life. I felt betrayed. Until that weekend, I was always scared of trying it because of everything I had been taught.  After trying it I felt like I had been wearing blinders up until that point, made up of all the lies I had been told, keeping me focused on the path that adults wanted me on.  That first time smoking removed the blinders from me and all of a sudden the world was a lot bigger.  It was like I didn’t know what to believe about what was good and bad because I knew then that weed was not what they said it was.  Did they know the truth and choose to feed us lies anyway? I thought maybe our teachers had never even tried it before and had just been told the same thing.  Either way I was disappointed in my education system, and I don’t think I ever looked at school the same way.  Teachers, after all, were supposed to be authority figures who knew better than us and could be trusted to teach us the truth, so what was I supposed to believe in now?

I remember going back to school after that weekend, Dwyer and I had just done something nobody else in our class had done before but we couldn’t tell anyone.  Not only could we have gotten in trouble if our parents found out, we knew that the rest of our catholic school classmates didn’t know the truth and would have seen us as degenerates or worse; they could have told on us.   I wanted more than anything to tell them the truth and try and tear their blinders off as well, but I couldn’t.  I had to keep my secret and live questioning everything that I was told from then on.  I believe that smoking weed opened my eyes to the possibility that teachers and other authority figures were fallible, and that realization changed the rest of my life.  

“But I Have a Black Friend” by Noah N.

“Hey Noah, can I say it”? Many of my white friends over the years would ask me this question and frankly, I never knew what to say. My father would always lecture me on the usage of the word “nigga” and my friends would always ask me how I felt about them using it. I finally asked myself how I felt about it and realized that solely researching this question and basing my opinion off of others was not how I was going to arrive to a conclusion. Instead, my personal experiences with how humans treat each other answered this question that many people had a very easy answer for, but for some reason I never did.

I am 14 years old, laying in my bed listening to rap music that is filled with curse word after curse word when my father yells for me to come downstairs. I would always grow incredibly anxious whenever he would yell for me. My heart would hit a little harder, my palms would become a little more clammy and my mind would begin racing with the question of “what did I do wrong?” I bounce out of my gray sheets and walk down the carpeted stairs with my bare feet, until they land on the cold laminate floor of the foyer. I walk closer to my father who is laying on the couch in the living room. I glance over to the television to see the movie “42” playing: a film about Jackie Robinson’s experience as the first black professional baseball player. I move my attention back to my father where he holds a face of concern. “Do you let your white friends say nigga?” What my father believed and what he taught me was to never let anyone who was not black say the n-word or any variance of it. Ordering me to sit down on the couch, my father would advise me of how the real world would treat me; how people would not always be bold enough to confront me directly with racism, but I would feel the discrimination when it came around. As he lectured me constantly about the sacredness of this word, I would listen to him, but not completely agree. To me, it was not a big deal if anybody said nigga it never mattered.

My justification behind this behavior was that my friends never used it to degrade me or any other people. My white friends would call each other niggas, call me a nigga, and I would call them niggas. They obviously weren’t racist, I mean… they were my friends, right? Over the course of the summer, all my friends would spend our time in the attic of one of my best friends. Everyday at noon it would be ridiculously hot; the only resources we had to cool off was the Arizona green tea that we kept fully stocked in the mini fridge and a metal fan that sat in a corner and did not even oscillate. During one of these typical summer days music would be blaring loud enough to be heard throughout the house, even though we were stationed in only one room.

Eventually, a rap song would shuffle on and a few of my white friends would say, “Noah, can I say it?” and I really didn’t care if they did. Besides, if I said they couldn’t say it, then they would say it when they weren’t around me. I believed that by not using the word, then you simply gave it more power; if people treated it like every other word then, it would be just like any other word.

The only problem is that it is not like every other word and that is what I have grown to realize. One can not research how it feels to be demonized, belittled, and brainwashed. I felt that racism was not as existent as my father made it out to be.When you have not had many experiences with racism, it is incredibly easy to pretend it does not exist, even for a person of color. Growing up around mostly white people, you begin to see yourself as just a person, but not a black person. Then you notice how the teacher is surprised that you articulate your words and that you are so “well behaved”- you know… like a dog. You go shopping at a store and the clerk keeps asking you if you are “finding everything alright” every five minutes while keeping an eye on you at all times. One night an officer lights you and your friend up for walking in the park. He asks for both of your license and returns to his vehicle to run them through the system. While standing there, watching the red and blue lights collide to form an ominous purple hue, it seems to get colder, but your hands just get hotter and more clammy and you can’t put them in your pockets because then you might look like you are reaching for something. Then you look at your white friend who is wearing a baseball cap and is too calm for the situation that you both are in.

He tries to crack jokes with you because he sees you are uncomfortable. You realize that although this racism is not terribly abrasive or direct, it’s there and you can just feel it, almost like a paranormal experience. People notice these microaggressions and rarely stand up against them. Most white people will appreciate the culture that the black community has created, but will not accept or merely acknowledge the marginalization that black people face in their day to day lives.

If you are not black or African American then you should not use the word “nigga” under any circumstances. That word has only ever been used to make humans seem as if they were less than what they are. The reason that this word is incomparable to any other racial slur in America is because black people were enslaved and discriminated against on the same land that we continue to live on. There has been a stigma placed on black folks and African Americans ever since we were forced onto boats, and we are still fighting against it. I do not care if you have a black friend, or listen to rap, or voted for Barack Obama twice--if you truly support the black community then you would understand the amount of hatred the word “nigga” breeds.

“Major Defect” by Nicole D.

NICOLE I could never, in the six months I had worked for Menards, understand why it was necessary to roll the entire defective product bin all the way to the back of the store when there were only three or four items sitting in the bottom. I mean, honestly, what’s the harm in letting them chill in there overnight so we can fill it up the next day? It would make way more sense to roll it back when it was full, but I digress. It wasn’t my job to dictate these kinds of things; only to move the damn things.  

Two people, each from different alternating departments, were assigned to take the two large bins back to the trash compactor. On the day this story began, the plumbing department and the cashiers fell victim to the rotation. After [not] much deliberation amongst the front-end managers, yours truly was selected to take one for the cashiers. Along with me was a young man, about my age, named Tyler. He was your typical guy who could invoke a ‘holy shit, he’s hot’ reaction from a number of women, myself included. Nothing like a tall, slender man with reddish brown hair and just enough facial hair to call a goatee to get you motivated. Come on, if that wasn’t going to motivate me to take one of those huge defect bins across the entire store, nothing was.  

“Are there really only a couple things in this frickin’ bin?” he groaned. 

“Yea, but sadly we still have to take them back,” I shrugged. I could feel my face was on fire and yet, no matter how much I tried to look down or avoid direct eye contact, somehow I still felt like it was obvious. 

“Oh, I am not taking that back with just that shit in it. Wait here.” 

“Um - ok,” I muttered as he walked away. Those cowboy boots made his ass look great, not that it was important, but damn was it a good view to pass the time while I waited. As I stood there I could hear footsteps approaching behind me. Since everyone was hustling around the store trying to get closing duties done, I didn't think anything of it until someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turn around to find the assistant manager of the cashiers, Nathan. 

"Hey, who did they send from plumbing to take the defect bins back with you?" he asked.

"Tyler, why?"

"Oh, I was just curious. Are you two friends?"

"We just met, so I wouldn't quite say that."

"Ok, well I just wanna let you know that he's gay."

Gay? Well fuck. Skip to the third strike guys, because I'm already out. At the same time, however, I was really curious as to why Nathan was telling me this. 

"Wow, ok. Is there a reason that is important to this conversation?" I asked.

"Everyone knows. Just wanted to keep you in the loop," he replied before walking away. Hearing his explanation really didn't provide any kind of closure to my question, but it did get me thinking. If Nathan is telling me that Tyler is gay the first time I ever get to interact with him, then how many other people talk about his sexuality behind his back? Nathan met his girlfriend down the entryway and I could see them talking and looking back at me. I guess that answers my own question; it must be everyone.

Minutes later he returned with a car full of dirty and broken parts that had pink defect stickers all over them.  

“What the hell is this, Tyler?” I laughed. 

“If there is actually shit to take back, I’ll take it back. There wasn’t any, so I found some. Just call me Major Defect!” 

“How did you get all of this?” I asked through the laughter at his new nickname. 

“I have my ways, Boo,” he said with a wink. I got all giddy inside because now I had a pet name. I guess we are friends. 

“You are a lifesaver, Babe.”  I could get away with saying that, right? 

“Babe?” he asked with a confused look in his eyes. Damn, I guess not. 

“I call all my friends that, male and female.” 

“Oh, cool then. I have never known anyone who actually does that!” 

“Really? I’m from a small town, so we call everyone Babe and Honey. Baby is for significant others only.”  

“Believe me, I had never heard of anything like that until I met my boyfriend, Casey. He calls everyone ‘Dear’.” 

Boyfriend? Nathan wasn't kidding, I guess. 

“Wow!” I exclaimed with a super fake smile. “I use that one too.”  

At this point I was pretty bummed. Not because I had realized that I was talking about the insane hotness of a gay guy, but at the fact that I now knew everyone in the entire store knew and was talking about it. At least, on the bright side, a hilarious friendship blossomed from the fun, albeit embarrassing, experience.  

TYLER "Hey Boo!" I shouted from my desk in plumbing. Nicole was bringing some returns back from the service desk. Her arms were full of PVC pipe. I was on my way out to have lunch with Casey, so I went over to her to have a quick chat.

"Hey Babe," she said, "what's up?"

"What are you doing tonight? I know you procrastinate just as bad as I do, so you won't judge me for this. Christmas is only a week away and I need some help getting my tree home and getting ready. You in?"

"I am into it, around it, and all up in it! I'll follow you home after work."

She was smiling at the idea, her smile almost as bright as the single diamond in the center of her cross necklace. Suddenly I began to think about last Christmas. Casey tried to call his mother about coming home for the holidays. She simply told him that it’s Jesus’ birthday and Jesus doesn’t approve of homosexuals. Apparently being gay means you can’t celebrate Christmas now. 

"That sounds great, but there is something I need to ask you."

"What is it?" she asked.

"Are you religious?"

"Well that's a bit random, but yes, I'm Christian."

"Shit," I muttered. Casey is going to hate me for being friends with her. Now what?

"Don't tell me you're going to lump me in with all the gay shaming sign holders."

"No, it's just my boyfriend Casey. He's going to be home tonight and he is very anti religious."

"What led to that?"

"Let's just say he had a really rough transition when he first started college here."

"Oh, that's too bad. I just won't mention anything about God around him. Not my lover, not my life," she said. I have always loved how non judgemental she is. That's probably why we are such good friends.

"Ok, and don't say anything about being Christian or going to church either. He hasn't ever met a Christian who doesn't immediately tell him he's going to hell," I explained.

"Well then we will just leave that out when you introduce us. If we decide to tell him, maybe then we just shouldn't lead with that information. Save it for later on after he likes me." 

I like the way she thinks.

"Awesome, well I have to get going, Casey is actually coming by to pick me up for lunch.”

"Alright, have a good time!" she waved and carried on with her PVC pipe stocking. Not even a few moments later I noticed Casey coming in the front entrance. He jogged over to me and gave me a hug. 

"You ready to go?" he asked me. 

"Of course! Shall we make our way to our extravagant McDonald's lunch?" He chuckled and put his arm around me as we started walking out the door and towards the car. 

As we were in line at the restaurant making our order, a woman stood by her husband staring daggers at me and Casey. She looked like the typical soccer mom. The type who would immediately pull the "my husband is a cop" card, or something of that nature. Her hubby was pretty buff looking, so I wouldn't have been surprised. They were both wearing shirts that were from a church of some kind and covered in scripture and crosses. I turned around to see Case with our bag of food ready to go. We made our way out the door and started walking across the parking lot to our car. He put the bag on the roof while he dug through his bag to find his keys. It seemed like it was taking forever. 

Suddenly we heard tires screeching directly behind us. Lo and behold it was that same couple from inside pulling out of their spot and headed right past us. Next thing I know I felt a sudden bomb of freezing cold substance all over my torso. I looked up at the car and see the husband sticking his middle finger out of the window.

"Fuckin' faggots!" he shouted at us, his wife cackling in the passenger seat. As they drove off into the distance, I noticed a plethora of "I love Jesus" and "He is risen" bumper stickers. That explains the shirts, I guess.

Casey nearly charged after their car, but I threw an arm in front of him before he could gain too much momentum. He slapped me upside the head and scolded me for getting in his way. He always does things like that, so I try not to get on his nerves, but sometimes you do what you have to do. I looked down at myself, covered in what I believed to be a chocolate milkshake of some kind. Most people would think this would have been hard to explain to their coworkers, but they gossiped about me enough. I'm sure they could put two and two together. 

"Let's go. I should get back to work," I muttered quietly. Casey shook his head and walked over to the driver side. 

"I saw those stickers on their car," he said. "Those damn Christians will never accept us, you know that."

"I only stopped you because I don't want either of us to go to jail," I said. "And you don't think they should go to jail for half the shit they do to people like us? They are all the same, Tyler, and that's just the truth. They don't want to accept us or befriend us. They want to change us, hurt us, or even kill us," he said as he started to tear up. At that time I could only assume he was having flashbacks of his mother. 

We made our way back to Menards and once we arrived, I let out a big sigh before heading to the entrance. I turned to wave goodbye to Casey. Before I even get to the door I saw Nicole pushing carts from outside. She took one look at me and gasped in horror as she ran over and began asking me what happened.

"Just more faggot haters," I sighed. 

CASEY I waved as Tyler got out of the car and made his way inside with who I could only assume was Nicole. He talks about his friend at work named Nicole who has a collection of western boots. This girl had a very nice pair of American flag pattern boots, so I was sure it was a safe bet to assume it was her. I knew I should get out and introduce myself or at least wave as I drive by, but it wasn't a good time. I couldn't stop thinking about those stupid Jesus freaks in their stupid car with their stupid bumper stickers. Man, the whole thing was so stupid! I couldn't help but wonder if they didn't consider us human beings. 

The seething anger I was feeling took me further back into my memories from when I first moved here. Starting community college and being bookchecked by anyone and everyone who knew I was gay. I thought bookchecking was just a middle school thing, but I guess not. At least it wasn't anything I wasn't already use to. Even growing up things were really tough. Coming out to my parents was probably the worst. I'll never forget when my mother looked me in the eye and said "I will not have a gay son". At that point, I wasn't her son anymore and I went to Tylers. We lived together from that point on. 

Upon pulling into the driveway and getting parked, I sat back and just closed my eyes. I tried with everything I had to get out of this headspace and into a more positive mood. I was going to meet Tyler's best friend and then we would all decorate the house for Christmas. We both always had a hard time making friends, for obvious reasons, so this was actually a pretty big night. With that in mind, I went inside and began to make plans for dinner. 

NICOLE That evening, after we both finished our shifts for the day, I followed him home with his Christmas tree strapped on his roof and through the windows. As we pulled into his driveway, I caught a glimpse of who I thought to be Casey in the living room. He looked through the window and started jumping and clapping when he saw Tyler’s car. They waved to one another before he caught a glimpse of my car parking behind his and let out a big smile. Let the fun begin. 

We walked in and headed straight for the kitchen where we found Casey standing. He was dancing circles around the hardwood floors grabbing various pots, pans, and utensils to get ready for dinner. When he stopped and saw me, he glanced down at my Menards vest and realized I was Tyler’s coworker.  

“Oh my gosh, you must be Nicole!” he exclaimed as he threw his arms around me.  

“I’m guessing you must be Casey,” I chuckled awkwardly.  

“I’m so sorry Honey, we’re huggers here. I didn’t mean to catch you off guard."

“No, I love it! That means I’ll fit right in,” I giggled along with them. I was so excited because things were going great and I was really hitting it off with Casey. That's when my phone rang. It displayed "Pastor Larry" on the screen with a big picture of him during his Easter Sermon from earlier that year. I could feel Casey's stare before I even looked up to see it. 

"You’re a Christian?" he asked in a sinister demeanor. 

"Yes," I choked.

CASEY Without so much as a second thought, I grabbed a frying pan with my right hand and held it high in the air over my head. Then, with my left hand, I grabbed a spatula and pointed it at Tyler. From that point on it became an extension of my arm as I continued to use it in my gesturing.  

“You brought a Christian into this house?!” I shouted, pointing the spatula towards Nicole while staring angrily at Tyler with red, watery eyes. Honestly, for a hot minute, I felt scared for my life. These are the people who have attacked and ridiculed me all my life, and she was one of them? How dare Tyler bring her into our home!

“Whoa whoa whoa! Calm down, Casey, she’s cool! She’s one of the good ones!” Tyler shouted.

“Casey stop!” Nicole screamed. Tyler and I stopped in our tracks and turned our eyes directly to hers.  

“Yes, I’m Christian," she stated "but no, I don’t give a flying fuck if you like men or women. It doesn’t matter what I think, or what anyone thinks, whether they are Christian or not. Do what and who you want, I’m not going to tell you any different.” 

I lowered my kitchen utensil weapons and looked at her. I wondered if she could feel the inquisitive look I was giving her through the tears I could feel building in my waterline. Could she feel all the years of pain and suffering people like us have endured? I was still shaking with tears rolling down my face.

“It says in your precious Bible that people like us are an abomination,” I sniffled, “I just don’t understand how you can defend something like that and consider yourself chill enough to have gay friends.” At this point I was on a whole new level of anger.

“It also says in that same Bible that a woman who is not a virgin on her wedding night is to be taken to her father’s house and stoned to death. Do you think that nearly as many people would be married today if we still enforced that rule? There is a verse that says only the person who is without sin may cast the first stone. I’m not perfect either.” 

“You’re not an abomination like you people think we are. You’re not lesbian.” 

“Alright,” she snapped, “first off, I am not a part of some cult that you refer to as you people. I understand why you’re on guard, I do, but you’re overgeneralizing. Second, no I’m not homosexual, but I have sinned plenty according to that book. I’ve had relations out of wedlock, I’ve consumed alcohol underage, and I’ve certainly gone through times when I did not honor my mother and father. I’ve been  jealous and lusted after things I shouldn’t. Those are all sins according to the Bible, so if you want to have a stone throwing match, who goes first?” 

I stared her down through my angry tears.  

“There is nothing wrong with the way we are! We aren’t defective because we’re gay!” I shouted in intense agony. 

Suddenly, like breaking the tension in a depressing romance movie, I grabbed my coat and left the house after slamming the door behind me. I don't know who to blame right now, Tyler for bringing someone like her into our home or Nicole and the rest of her kind for everything they had ever done to us. My seething anger continued to grow and grow. I'll figure something out. 

TYLER Eventually Nicole and I found ourselves on my living room floor watching football and making decorations for the tree we had just set up. I let out a small sniffling sound, but it sounded more saddening than it did like a cold. I'm not a very good actor, apparently, because she clearly noticed. 

"Tyler, are you ok?" she asked, putting her hand on my shoulder.

"I'm scared and I don't know what to do," I confessed to her. "I have no idea if Casey is ever going to get past this, but at the same time I know I didn't do anything wrong. We couldn't plan for that! He's had such a rough life and this kind of thing really gets to him. What should I do?"

"Stop blaming yourself, for starters," she demanded, "and after that just live your life. He has every right to be on guard, you both do. After everything you guys have been through and still put up with every single day, there is nothing wrong with that. Personally, even as a Christian, I don't care what other people do because my choices are what determine my life. Why should I make a big deal about what other people are doing that I can't control?"

I began to cry with my face in my hands.

"Do you think he'll come back?" I choked. 

“I'm sure he will."

Later that night, after Nicole was gone for the night, I began to pick up our little arts and crafts mess. The place was quiet, which was not something I had ever planned on having to get use to. As I was walking through the living room cleaning up, I stopped by the Christmas tree to look at the ornaments. Right at my eye level there was a photo ornament with a picture of me and Casey on our first date. I felt a tear fall down my cheek, but I quickly wiped it away and continued working. 

All of a sudden the door flies open and I hear someone stomping up the stairs. It's Casey. Before I could open my mouth to welcome him home or ask if he was ok, I feel his hand on my throat.  

"Why would you do this to me?!" he screams in my face. 

"What are you talking about?" I choked out despite his hand on my neck. He releases me.

"Don't play dumb, Tyler. You knew she was religious yet you still invited her here. To a house with two gay men living in it."

"You heard for yourself, she doesn't care what we do!"

"That's what they all say! They say that 'only God can judge' and that it isn't their place to criticize your decisions, but that really doesn't apply to us. Everyone has already judge us and made it abundantly clear. We are going to hell and that's that, obviously."

"Would you stop it, Casey?" I pleaded. "She isn't like that, and had you not acted like a complete psycho and got to know her you would know that." 

"Don't call me a fucking psycho!" he shouted. After having barely finished his sentence he pulled back his right arm and launched his fist directly into my face. My right eye suffered the most. He continues his assault by pushing me down on the floor and pointing his finger in my face as he continues to yell about Nicole. I struggle underneath him, but manage to slip a leg inward and push it into his stomach, triggering his release of me. 

As he laid back on the floor, one hand on his pained midsection, I tried to reason with him. Before I could get more than half of a word out, he is storming into the kitchen. I troll behind but stay on the opposite side of the room, hoping he will calm down. He stood over the sink with his arms on the counter and his head down. I could hear him gasping for air between sobs, so I assumed he was collecting himself, but I was wrong.

Next thing I know he has one of the empty pickle jars I use for planting in his hand and he is charging after me with it held high over his head. I barely blinked before he smashed it into my head. Shattered glass was now strewn all over the kitchen and small red drops fell to the floor beneath my head as I tried to rise. I put my hand up to him.

"No more!"

Casey yanked me off the floor by my elbow and pinned me against the wall, his free hand on my throat. At one point I could almost feel my face turning blue. He leaned in real close to me and whispered something awful.

"When they come for you, do you really think she'll stay on our side?"

I knew exactly what he meant. That eventually push will come to shove and things will be at their point of life or death based on my being gay. He thinks that the religious folks will all stick together, no matter what they think individually, because of the God they worship. That's what he thinks about Nicole too. 

I feel a falling sensation as he lets go of my neck and I am back on the ground, curled up in agony. I tried to crawl my way to the living room to get my phone, but alas, I only made it to the staircase railing. Casey stood over me and then, as he smirked and shook his head, took his foot and nudged me just far enough to where I helplessly fell down the stairs. Once I reached the bottom I appeared to be a limp, lifeless body with my hair damp from the dripping blood. 

"Don't go anywhere," he chuckled maniacally, "I have some things I need to get."

I laid there helpless, of course, and obeyed his command. Not because I was intimidated or because I wanted to, but because I couldn't move. A little while later he comes down the stairs with multiple bags in hand. He opens the door, slamming it right onto my head that he had already damaged with the pickle jar, and looks down at me.

"You'll understand someday, but by then it will be too late for you." Needless to say, after he finally finished with me and left with his things, we were over. 

NICOLE "Tyler, what happened?" I yelled as I dashed over to him. His right eye was black, he also had cuts across his hairline and one on his bottom lip. Don’t get me started on the various bruises, or at least the ones I could see.

"Casey happened."

"Wait, he did this to you? I swear, if I see that boy again I'm gonna - "

"Don't bother," he said. "He's long gone now. We're over."

"I'm so sorry this happened, Babe. I never should have gone over. How can I fix this?"

"Stop blaming yourself, for starters," he smiled, using my own words against me. We both started chuckling, but not for long. Nathan and his girlfriend were approaching from down the aisle. 

"Heeey Tyler," he said, mocking him in the stereotypical "gay" voice. "What happened to your eye? Infection from the money shot your boyfriend gave you?"

Tyler lunged at Nathan, but fell short after I threw myself in front of him to hold him back. 

"Fuck off, Nathan!" he screamed, tears beginning to fill his eyes. 

"Whoa, chill! I was just concerned for your eye is all. No need to get all pissy about it," he chuckled, his girlfriend laughing along with him as they walked away. Tyler covered his eye with one hand and held his left out. 

"Do you have any concealer or foundation I could use to cover this up?"

"Of course," I reached into my purse and gave my concealer and a mirror to him. As he begins to cover up his black eye, I feel horrible for what just happened, but even worse for it happening every day and not being able to do anything to stop it. He was my friend, and he was suffering, but I was powerless to end it. I knew this was a huge problem in the community and in the world, yet I never realized just how much it affects everyone involved. Even the heterosexual friends of those who are LGBTQ are hurt, and I can certainly feel that now. That pain for Tyler and that pain for Casey, despite what he did. "I didn't realize things were this bad just because you are gay," I said to him. He hands me back my things and looks me in the eye.

"Most people don't, that's why it's such a problem in this world."

I begin to tear up along with him. We hug each other tightly. 

"I hope you know that you're not alone in this. Seeing these things and hearing about everything you've been through hurts me to hear it," I said to him. "Just remember, being gay is not a defect. You're perfect the way you are." 

Suddenly we hear our names called over the PA to take defect bins to the back. "Not a defect, huh?" he chuckles as he races to the bins and jumps up to sit on the side of one of them and do a superhero pose. "Then why do they call me Major Defect?"

We both busted out laughing.

“Deprivation” by Cole O.

I'm five years old. I’m with my best friend, Karley. Her family is really close with mine. We grew up together. She’s like my sister, ya know? They’re like my second family. Our moms gotta go pick up our brothers from school. I don’t even notice, I’m too into my Lego architectural masterpiece. It’s a square with a hole in the middle. Absolute masterpiece. I’m building my mansion, piece after delicate piece, when I hear Karley’s whimper. A sound of genuine distress, anxiety and fear. My heart skips, my throat swells, my skin goes jagged. I look up from my structure and at my friend. I’m frozen.

They’re not coming back. That’s all Karley keeps saying in between her racking shoulders and red-stained cheeks. They’re not coming back. With every fiber in my being, I believe her. And I just start sobbing, sobbing along with her. No amount of rational thought could convince me otherwise. A sensation previously unknown had surfaced its ugly little head in the abyss of my soul, rooting itself into the fabric of my innocent being. I can’t articulate how I feel, I can’t even process it. But it certainly exists, like the wind in the air and the whites in our eyes. It is born.

I run outside, smashing my Lego home into pieces. It’s snowing but I don’t notice, not even when my socks immediately become soaking wet from the slippery driveway beneath me. I’m running down the driveway, tears streaming down my face, ears numb from the cold. Karley can’t keep up with me, I’m running too fast. But she’s crying, too. Screaming, even. I can barely hear her shrieking, the wind drowns her out. I can’t see, but I’m still going full speed down the winding driveway. The whooshing of the wind mecrilessly whips my tiny face, as if to say welcome to the real world, buddy! I can’t shake the sensation of separation, of abandonment, of the total loss that I could feel in my heart. Even when our moms turn down the street and notice their screaming children running through a snow storm with no shoes or coats, I still feel it. Even as my mother gets out of the car and hold me in her embrace, I still feel it. No amount of comforting reassurance could change that.

Who’s the spokesperson in charge of communicating how the five-year old’s of the world are feeling? What they’re going through? Where exists the global survey results of a child’s most challenging struggle, of their deepest fear, their most overwhelming anxieties? The truth is, none of that exists, and it never will. Instead, those answers come from us, the survivors. The grown- ups who can now only begin to process the experiences we’ve lived through and the trauma accompanied. Only we have power to vocalize incidences of our past. Because if we don’t say something, then who else will?

I’m 21 years old. I’m a journalism major at a respected university. I keep up with news, I work at 5:30 in the morning 4 days of the week, and I still feel it. Karley asks me if I remember that time we almost got hypothermia looking for our moms when we were five. She’s laughing. I think about it for a little before saying yes. Because even if I didn’t remember the vivid details, if it really was snowing as hard as I had thought, if our moms were gone for a minute or an hour, I’ll always be able to remember the hopelessness I’d felt. That moment of having my entire world ripped away from me. The consequences I’d have no choice but to face on my own for something I could not control. My innocence ripped away from underneath me... I crack a smile before changing the subject.

Now imagine I was right. Just imagine for a moment, if you will, my mom was never coming back. The family that raised me, took care of me, taught me everything I had known up until that point of my life- taken away in an instant. As a child, was there anything I could have said or done to prevent it from happening? Would my voice have been heard?

It’s happening again. It could happen during your morning routine. When you go to take that first sip of coffee for the day. It could happen when you finally work up the courage to talk to the cutie who sits behind you in science lab. It’s happening again, and again, and again... and again. 2000 and counting. The Trump Administration Family Separation Policy is a zero- tolerance policy. That means, under absolutely zero circumstances, will the government accommodate a family attempting to assimilate into The United States of America. Every family is at risk of being stripped from their world- beyond just a fleeting moment. What once was a daydream, a hopeful wish, a shot in the dark at a life worth living with the only ones you’d ever loved, taken in an instant. The voices of those who suffer this phenomenon, drowned and suffocated in the sea of political chirp. Deliberately hidden from the public are the experiences of those who were taken from their families by our government without a second thought. I think back to being five, to the feeling of helplessness and powerlessness I felt, my voice unheard and uncared for. Then I think about today, a 21-year-old student capable of creating awareness, capable of seeing the good in humanity, capable of telling my stories and fighting for others and all the others like me- because if we don’t say something, who will?

“Personal Essay” by Emmy M.

I’m sitting in front of the keyboard in the library trying to rack my brain. What do I want to write about? My fingers are on the keys, gentle indie music is pumping through my headphones, my stomach is full from the peanut butter sandwich I ate on my way to the library, but I have nothing. I text my friends and my dad asking what I should write about. They say things like “Write about your mom!”, “Write about me!”, “Write about something happy. You only ever write sad things.”

The trouble with my writing personal essays is that I only ever write personal essays, so when I am asked to write another I come up with a blank. They say there are several ways to tell the same story, and they’re not wrong. I just struggle writing my story. Every time I sit down to write the story of when my mom told me she was going to prison, or when I saw her getting arrested at the local pool, or when my dad told me he was divorcing her and we would never see her again, I shake. I shake so much that sometimes I have to stop typing and just look around the room; I have to plant myself in a stable environment.  

My mom went to prison when I was starting the fourth grade, but everything leading up to that moment, the three months in the mental hospital, the trial, the confession, the death threats my dad received, all happened prior to her leaving. She had a sexual relationship with one of her fourteen year old female students and she was, for the most part, unapologetic. By the time she actually went to prison it was kind of a relief; she could start her three and half year sentence and we could get it over with. I was being homeschooled at the time because, as I mentioned, my dad was receiving death threats. Not just for him and my mom, but mostly threatening the lives of my older sister and I; saying things like “I’m going to do to your daughters what your wife did to that poor innocent girl”. I was told the girl wasn’t innocent and, unfortunately, I believed that until I was in high school. My uptight, religious grandmother whom we fondly call “Nanny” oversaw my sister and my schooling. My dad had taken up working two jobs; one at day and one at night both for financial reasons, and I think also as an escape. Nanny taught me from the very beginning that I shouldn’t tell people who I am.We once joined a Christian homeschool group in hopes to make friends, but we were asked to never come back when they found out who our mom was. So, I swallowed my identity with the cold microwave dinners I ate when my dad didn’t feel like making dinner. I developed a new identity; a happy girl in front of the world who kept her suicidal tendencies a secret. My dad made my sister and I start public school in middle school; he decided we no longer needed to be isolated. Again, I was reminded not to tell people about who my mom was or where I went every weekend when I visited my mom in prison. I started coming up with elaborate stories to conceal the truth from my friends, “Oh yeah, my mom left when I was younger. Now she lives in Topeka and we drive up there to see her”. When my mom got out of prison it was much easier to bury my story like a time capsule. My dad finally moved us out of Southeast Kansas to Iowa. I made new friends in high school and I told some of them about why I don’t have a good relationship with my mom, but it took college to start really talking about it. My Sophomore year of college I was suffering with some deep depression despite declaring to my family and close friends that I no longer wanted to die. I was depressed because I started having flashbacks to my childhood that sent me spiraling into intense panic attacks. These flashbacks occurred, usually, after being pulled over by a cop; seeing the red and blue lights sent me falling backwards into a world of misunderstanding, my mother crying, and her wrists tightened in handcuffs behind her back. Unfortunately for me, I have a lead foot and have been pulled over three times in the past year. The cops tried to make sense of my blubbering, some got defensive because they were pretty sure they weren’t doing anything to harm me. They weren’t, and I tried to assure them of this, but I couldn’t make sense long enough to explain what went wrong. I decided I wanted to write about one of these flashbacks for a creative writing class I was in. I felt ready to share what I saw and what my triggers were. I tried to write my essay in a discreet way; I was ready to share details about my past, but not all the details. Fortunately, this was the essay I decided to have a face-to-face meeting with my instructor about. She sat at a table in the Prairie Lights coffee shop reading my essay and circling parts of it with her black ink pen. Her glasses slid down her nose as she read the words I had painstakingly typed out. The coffee shop was quiet other than the occasional clanking of dishes against one another behind the counter. Then she finally looked up at me, “I don’t get it. What are you saying? What is this moment? Tell me this story,” she said. I looked around the coffee shop, then down at the the brown wooden table.There was a young woman sitting alone next to us silently sipping her latte, and I wondered if she was listening in to our conversation. Still, I was planted in a safe place; my instructor wasn’t going to ask me to leave and never come back. She was just reading something I wrote. I inhaled deeply, then looked up at her. I told her my story, “When I was younger I saw my mom getting arrested at the local pool. She had a relationship with a student and she wasn’t supposed to be around kids, so they arrested her… I wasn’t supposed to see it, but I did,” I said nervously and kind of rushed; it was the first time I had ever just opened up to someone about my past and it all came out like vomit on the table. She looked at me with an open mouth, then took off her wire-framed glasses and set them down on the table. She pinched the bridge of her nose in attempt to aleve a headache and I laughed nervously. I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought I was absolutely insane. “Oh my god, Emmy, what the fuck,” she said in an almost whisper. “I’m gonna be real with you. You need to write about this. Your story is insane. Please write about it, and only it, for the rest of my class. I will be here to help if you need it. Seriously, come see me again,” she said. We wrapped up our meeting and I left with my heart full of excitement. I thought perhaps I had a chance in the writing world. It was the first time my pain had done me any good in life. I didn’t write about anything else the rest of that semester and I wrote a lot of good stories. I had the chance to talk not only about my mom, but also being suicidal for several years of my life, or searching for answers to my questions about my mom’s trial on the internet. It felt amazing to sit down, experience the heartache and tragedy all over again, and then let it go. I struggle to write personal essays now; there is so much to say, but too much to write out for everyone to examine. I always try to write about how the event made me feel and I forget to write the details people really care about. People sometimes ask me “What was it like to visit prison” and to be honest, all we did was play board games and eat pudding with plastic forks. To me, my life isn’t very interesting. Prison wasn’t interesting, being an outcast wasn’t interesting, leaving behind the life I had been accustomed to wasn’t interesting.  I’m just a person with a lot of baggage. My story doesn’t interest me, because I’m not reading it on a piece of paper in a college English class; I survived it. Writing helps me deal with the tragedy, but it doesn’t make it go away. Today I sat down to write another personal essay; another account of a story it exhausts me to write. Sure, I could write about other things like about the first time I fell in love, or my experience acting on stage, or I could write about my dad and my sister… honestly, it’s all the same story; everything goes back to my mom in handcuffs. I spent most of my time here sitting at this computer watching the guy next to me watch “How to Train Your Dragons” and skipping through ads on YouTube. No shaking, no discreetly trying to wipe tears off my face, and no resurfacing of buried emotions. Just me, the facts, and everyone else in the library.

“I Love You” by Shane C.

It has always baffled me as odd and unrealistic whenever I saw someone freeze up in a movie. There is always that moment where the main character would just not move at all when a tragedy was about to strike. They stare helplessly at their loved one, unmoving as the big bad villain rolls in and ends the main character’s family or friends. Then the main character gets upset and acts like there was nothing they could have done in that situation. That was the thought that was going through my head as I rewatched the Dark Knight Rises with my family, unaware of the terrible tragedy I was about to face.

It was dark when I got the call from my Dad, it was unusual for him to call but at the time I thought nothing of it. So I got up and went to the back room before answering the phone. His voice was slow and calm explaining to me something that I just couldn’t simply wrap my head around. After all, he was talking about cutting life support, a final goodbye or something along the lines of that. I didn’t understand what he was talking about or why he had called me to talk about it. For a moment there, I had thought he misdialed and called a colleague of his, after all he is a doctor. Then he handed the phone to my grandfather who said three simple words. Three simple words that anyone would love to hear but not in this situation. Those words were “I love you”. His voice sounded so weak, so utterly defeated when uttered them. I realized instantly what was happening and it wrenched my heart. My Grandfather was going to die soon and there was nothing I could do about it.

I froze, up unsure of what to do or say as I stood there. A gambit of emotions ran through me, from confusion to anger to grief. It was a whirlwind of responses that wracked through my body and soul, tearing it all asunder. At first I felt anger feeling as though that my grandfather had made a selfish decision in choosing to die. Though I chastised myself as for I knew that I was the one being selfish. Soon Tears began to leak out as I stood there recounting the moments of the day leading up to this, wondering if there was anything I could have ever done to prevent any of this.

It was then where I remembered the thoughts that plagued me before. On how a character could just freeze up in the face tragedy. It was something that I always wanted to figure out, but I never wanted to figure it out like that. I never wanted to experience it for myself. I never wanted to hear those three words. After all it wouldn’t hurt as much if I never heard those three words. Though despite all of the pain and grief, I will always treasure those three simple words.

“Switching into the Unknown” by Elizabeth S.

My college career started off a little bit rockier than others. My freshman year of college, I was a biomedical engineer, then after a year I changed to undeclared. Now after a year of trying new things, I am officially a public health major with a writing certificate. Although I do not regret my decision, I wish I would have gone into college with the idea that it was okay to change your path. After my freshman year of college, I found that my grades were not where they needed to be to succeed as an engineer. Cs may get degrees, but not when that is the grade you get in every single course. I no longer believed that engineering was the right fit and that is when I transferred to the college of liberal arts and sciences. No one knew what was going through my head that summer as I searched for my ‘place’ and proceeded into my sophomore year as an undeclared. 

I walk into the Pomerantz center three days after I have undeclared engineering. Even though it was summer, I wore a cardigan shivering with nerves. I step into C210 after dragging myself up the stairs, preparing for the advisor to ask me why I switched and that I should continue doing a math or science. This is something I did not want to do. I finally reach the front desk and I ask to meet with the most open-minded advisor that will help me best decide my major. They tell me to go down the hall and to my left and that my new advisor’s name is Stephanie. 

As I rattle with nerves into her office, I look to my right and her entire wall is covered with Walking Dead action figures and knickknacks, she also happens to be listening to one of my favorite bands. She looks at me and smiles, reaching out a hand to meet me with. That is when I simply vomit up everything that has been boiling within me. Talking about how I did not believe engineering was the right fit for me, and now I have no clue what to do, and if I am going to be able to graduate in four years. That is when she hands me a packet, “take a couple minutes and fill this out, and then we will discuss”. I look up confused seeing questions asking what my favorite tv shows are and what are things I do not like, any unusual hobbies I have. When I finally feel like I have reached the end of it, I look up and she asks me to tell her what I do. I tell her that I volunteer at the hospital, I love morbid crime shows and Bones (an anthropology crime show), and I love to read. She then begins looking at my transcripts, asking if I had ever been interested in writing. “It appears writing is the only thing that you received an A in from last semester, tell me about your writing”. I walk her through my fiction writing course and how it was my release from engineering. We discuss all my questions and how we are going to plan my next semester. I walk out of her office with my sleeves rolled up and feeling a bit more confident as a Pre-Business, Interest in Public Health, and Anthropology Major with an interest in pursuing a writing certificate. 

I have finally heard decent news about where I am going to go in my future. I am not going to end up homeless, I am going to graduate, we just don’t know what it will be in yet. That is when I decided it is time to tell my friends. Miranda, my best friend, took it the best. She understood why as she also struggles with the idea of being an engineer. Now it was time to tell other people. Many of them took it well, but the most memorable was my once close friend Morgan. She could not understand why I switched majors. 

I call her to meet with me at Buffalo Wild Wings, a place that now recognizes her face and knows her order. I see her walk in with her swaying hips and feet just slightly outward facing. She has on a navy dress and bright red lipstick, and of course, she tells she just came from an engineering interview. As I order they ask if she would like her order brought to the table at the same time as mine, she pays and says yes. That is when we sit down and begin catching up. I tell her I think I like this guy Gabe, and she begins talking about how all the guys in her classes have a crush on her. Sadly, this is not a new conversation, because it happens every time we meet up. She has concluded she is going to fall in love with six-foot ginger. Once she says that, I have decided it is time to drop that I am no longer an engineer. “But all your friends are in engineering and how will we hang out?” I had thought about this conversation multiple times, because I thought this was how many of my smart-ass friends would respond, not her. She was the only one to ask this question. She flips her black curls with a slight sway of her hips in the chair. She puffs out her bright red lips. She continues to interrogate me with her eyes narrowed now, and my sleeves have come down and I can feel my body shaking. She believes that because I simply switched majors that I have ended our friendship, and suddenly she is blaming me for any friendship ‘problems’ we have had. As this continues, I have finished my wings and pay, coming back to more and more questions. “What will you do now?” “Are you going to have any friends?” “What have other people said about this?” As if I have a disease, she acted like I could no longer be associated with her. That is when I walked out of BWW. She did not understand the thoughts I had going in. 

It is a few days later and we are having people over to my apartment. Everyone is there, we are celebrating Miranda’s birthday. In the corner sits Morgan, occasionally glancing at me. “You know she wants to talk to you,” Miranda apologetically says to me. She knows this is not an easy task for me, especially when you have state your case to the most unopen-minded person in the friend group. Once again, I drag myself to speak to someone about my major. I sit down next her, as not only the couch, but my insecurities swallow me up. She turns to me, fluffing her hair, and tears welled in her eyes. “Please tell me your side of the change so I can understand.” I know she is trying to be comforting, but all I can feel is her sweaty hands on my back. Almost like she is trying to consume the fact that I will no longer be in her classes and ignore that I am different. I ask, “If you did not like engineering, would you stay in it?” 

With switching majors, I found out who was willing to help me in this large life change, and who were questionable. Although I am going to miss the closeness in proximity with some of my friends, I have a better perspective on my future and that is important to me. I am now officially doing something I love, and you can see it when I tell you about it, that I truly enjoy what I am doing. I have made more friends and I have become active in something that excites me. Although it was not the easiest switch, I am happy to be in the place I belong, rather than pretending to love something I hate.

“Click” by Oliver W.

In two days, it was over. The fall happened at one a.m. Mercy in Des Moines—one hour from his Ames home—admitted him at three, with my father’s help. Then he was still conscious and speaking, enough to protest a sponge bath the nurses wanted to give him in the morning. By noon it seemed over, consciousness had lapsed into a restless slumber helped by drugs to ease the pain. I held his hand for hours, looked at the wrinkled face I had seen every year of my life. The day slipped away in that hospital room. I had arrived at two and met my father and grandmother in the darkened room just a few minutes later. There was nothing the hospital, for all its machines and doctors, could do for him. All we could do was watch as the last moments of time slipped away, like water droplets falling from ice. I sat perched on the edge of the tan hospital seats and held his hand for as long as I could. He had held me as a baby, held my hand as we walked and hiked around lakes in Colorado. And there I was, holding his hand as he slipped away from life. Occasionally his eyes would open, brief flashes of view and recognition of us there, until he slipped back into the daze. I held his hand through it all, as tight as I could, feeling the worn fingers that had written so many letters to me. Drawn so many pictures for me, of livestock and horses. Of the mountains of Colorado, his favorite place in the world, which became mine as well.

Our family went to Colorado every summer, staying in a little town called Estes Park. Nestled in a valley, the town is surrounded on each side by mountains that tower over the buildings, of which only a single building—the movie theater—is two stories tall. Grandpa and I used to make smores and sit on the porch watching the wilderness together. The bench was a brown wood, rough to the touch. Every time he’d wear his gold, wire-framed bifocals, grey hair becoming silver in the sunlight, and smile out at the wilderness. He hung the hummingbird feeder on our left, full of red sugary liquid for the hummingbirds. His breathing was slow and steady, with a coarseness from years of smoking. His eyes were bright blue, seeming to flash the same way mine did when a hummingbird came to feed. When storms came in, we’d sit and watch them cover the valley in waves of water, raining from dark clouds. As the storms came across the valley, he’d say “Seems like it’s raining in Bear Lake” or “Horseshoe trail is finally getting some rain.” He knew Estes Park like a second home, he’d been there each year since he was a child; just like me. We walked everywhere in that town, visiting the oldest continuously operating movie theater in America, the Park Theatre, Kind Coffee, his heavily frequented favorite coffee shop, and MacDonald’s Bookstore. A few years ago, he waited at the bookstore, grey hair towering above the others in line but as excited as everyone else, until midnight, ready to grab the first copy of The Deathly Hallows. He brought it back to our little cabin and we read it, learning together how Harry’s story ended. Everywhere in Estes Park has a view of Long’s Peak, the tallest mountain in the area. It was Grandfather’s favorite. He climbed it once with my dad and my aunt, reaching the summit and climbing back down with a piece of rock in his bag. That rock, illegally taken, was one of his favorite pieces. A memory of family. He collected many paintings of it in his Ames apartment, done by one of his Estes Park friends, Robert Wands. He always bought the paintings with brilliant blue skies or shining red sunsets reflecting off the mountain’s wide, flat face. Most of them ended up in my care, each sunset reminding me of the time we spent together in Colorado. After many hours of whispering our memories together, my dad urged me to go home and get to sleep. I didn’t arrive home until nine. I hardly slept that night. By Sunday night he was gone.

Two weeks later came the funeral, the first I had ever been to. The visitation occurred the night before. Grandfather’s portrait hung at the center of the room, under a spotlight, framed by large flower arrangements on each side; huge medleys of lilies and white roses. His urn sat on a little table in front of it, a grey steel capsule containing his ashes. The portrait watched over all of this. It was of grandfather leaning on his lectern with a piece of white chalk—often hiding a cigarette—between his fingers. He had the small smile he always had, and wore the bright red tie with small cattle on it in the picture. I was wearing that same tie. That was the first time I had seen him since I kissed his forehead on the way out of the hospital. I sat in a chair, tucked away in the back corner for the few minutes before the visitation, watching the pictures of my grandfather rush by on the TV’s around the room. People flowed into the room in a gentle trickle at first, gradually more appeared in the little lobby and formed a line to talk to my father and grandmother. At this point I joined them, greeting and mingling with the visitors paying respects to my grandfather. It was all such a blur, this day and the next. The funeral was run by his minister, an older woman from the Presbyterian church in Ames. She spoke her kind words, and father told his stories. Each of Father’s stories summed up his character, from the Burning Bush—Grandfather’s cigarettes don’t work well with the dry Ames bushes during attempts to hide the smoking—or the time he drove up a gravel road and kicked a rock into the gas tank, they formed a picture of him as the painting never could. Two of Grandfather’s graduate students spoke too, both preaching about his ability as a teacher. How he was always there to help them through their studies. The same way he was always there for me. I fidgeted in the chair, uncomfortable in their plushness, smelling the scent of the roses and lilies that permeated the air. It’s the smell of a funeral, of death. I think of it every day. Even now, as I write my memory fragments like a collage of his final days, I wear his swiss army watch. He is always there with me, through every time in my life. To remember this I only need to stop, and be silent for a moment, and I’ll hear it. Click. Click. Click. Seconds moving forward but never leaving him behind.

“The Truth” by Murfee C.

My first heartbreak takes place at a kitchen table in October of 2007. I am sitting in a wooden chair directly across from my mother, my scrawny legs dangling above the ground. Excitedly, I babble on about my second-grades class’ upcoming field trip to the aquarium. My mother smiles politely as I go into great detail about catfish, jellyfish, and any other sea creature I can think of. Simultaneously, I spin long, buttery spaghetti noodles with a fork too big for my hands. My sister, sitting next to me in a high chair, giggles about nothing. I lose my train of thought when I notice the circle of red sauce smeared around her mouth and begin to laugh uncontrollably as any eight-year old would. This brought my aquarium speech to an end. I notice my parents look at each other with uncomfortable eyes. My mother shifts her weight in her chair. I stop laughing.

“So, girls, we have some sad news.”

My first thought is that the field trip has been cancelled. Then, I think maybe our pet dog, Teddy, was sick.

“Uncle Mark passed away last night on a camping trip.”

It takes me a second to understand what she is telling us. I am pretty sure “passed away” means death, but I still need some clarity. 

“You mean…he died?”

My dad hesitantly chimes in from the other end of the table. His eyes dart quickly between my mom and me.

“Yes, and I know this is difficult to understand. It’s normal to feel confused and sad. Your mom and I are upset as well.”

My mom tries to explain how Uncle Mark’s heart stopped working. I have no idea what that really means and she seems uncertain, too. I feel warm, salty tears slide down my face. I realize our Thanksgiving tradition at Uncle Mark’s house will come to an end because there is no more “Uncle Mark’s house”. His death seems impossible to me. Hysterical, I accuse them of lying. I have never before lost someone in this way, and am in complete and utter denial. The Thanksgiving the year before, my uncle taught me how to make paper airplanes and throw them into the wind, so they could fly. I think about colorful, autumn leaves and my favorite purple sweater. How could the rest of my memory still exist, but he didn’t? The simple word “sadness” doesn’t seem to exactly describe what I am feeling. There is too much confusion and anger mixed in. My eight-year old heart has been broken.

Ten years later, my heart has long recovered from the pain of Uncle Mark’s death. Not because it doesn’t matter to me, but because my family refuses to speak about him or his death. Throughout the years, sweeping it all under the rug has made it easier for me to move on. So, I never provoke any sort of conversation about Uncle Mark. Besides, I’m preoccupied with a million other things. College is just around the corner, and I am staying with my grandparents in Texas for a week while I visit nearby schools. It’s been a nice break from home. My mom is constantly on my case about the ACT and all of my AP classes. I know she means well, but sometimes I’d rather talk about things that don’t send my blood pressure through the roof. My grandma, on the other hand, is very easy-going and a great listener. At night, my grandma and I stay up late talking about anything we want. Tonight, I am dreading the plane ride home to reality the following morning will bring. My grandma listens intently as I babble on about the great deal of stress I am under. As I’m talking, I watch her lips twist into a crooked frown. She stares at me with glassy, pale blue eyes. Once again, we face each other on opposite sides of a kitchen table.

“Sweetie, you should really make sure you aren’t letting the stress get to you. It can mess with your head. You know, like it did with Uncle Mark.”

I chuckle to myself, “Grandma, I’m eighteen years old. I’m really not worried about having a heart attack.”

Confused, my grandma furrows her eyebrows and awkwardly adjusts the silver necklace around her neck. She looks down at her orange coffee mug, still filled to the rim with hour-old tea. With a quiet, shaky voice, she says, “I’m not talking about a heart attack. Uncle Mark got too stressed with work, and that’s why he took his life. I-I just want to make sure you know how to manage your stress, that’s all.”

Stunned, I stare at my grandma with wide eyes. For the last ten years, I believed my uncle had died from natural causes. Now, I discover that was all a lie to protect me from an ugly truth. I think about my mom at the kitchen table that night. Two similar situations, with two drastically different stories. My grandma feels terrible when she realizes I didn’t know. She asks me not to tell my mom. I am angry and speechless. Even more so when I learn my uncle isn’t the only one in my family to suffer from mental illness. I feel betrayed and heartbroken.  

I have since forgiven my family for keeping the truth of Uncle Mark’s death from me, but it troubled me for quite some time. I understand suicide is a challenging subject to bring up to children, but as I grew up and matured they still failed to tell me the truth. I wondered why they thought ignorance was better than acknowledging the fact that mental illness, while frightening and ugly, was a genetic disease that existed in my family that needed to be addressed. Sometimes the truth hurts, but lies always do. Pretending something didn’t happen won’t keep it from happening again. Only acknowledging the problem and doing something about it can prevent it from happening.

“My First Car Accident” by Anonymous

It was like a scene from an action movie, but at the same time, it wasn’t. We were laughing at the silly things that seem so important to high schoolers when she hit us. The crash was intense and so peaceful. Everything moved in slow motion and I was in the director seat, only I didn’t care about the outcome.

Every time we wanted to go anywhere we had to drive. My friend Chloe was feeling especially down that day, she needed the company, and I never minded being the driver. I would go to her house and then wherever our desires took us. Driving was easy. The rules are straightforward and simple. Stay to the right of the yellow line, go when the light is green and stop when it is red. We had the windows down to enjoy the cool September evening breeze that flowed through the car as easy as the conversation. As we came up upon the stoplight in the left turn lane Chloe filled me in on the group chat that we had with our friends from the passenger seat. This particular stoplight was notorious for having accidents since they installed the light. It is located at the bottom of a hill, so the light is not visible until one has reached the top. The incline was steep, so one had to break immediately to avoid running the light. Chloe was a stickler about texting and driving, as a result, I was not even allowed to look at my phone when I drove. I only wish Chloe was in the car with the other lady to enforce the same rules on her. Perhaps she wouldn’t have ruined the mood.

As I made my turn, I glance to my right and I see the car. It is less than ten feet away so there is nothing I can do. As the cars collide, there is a moment of extreme bliss where everything comes together like a movie scene. My hair flies like a jetting plane and my body feels weightless. It felt like a freefall from the tallest drop of a rollercoaster, slowness turned into vigorous acceleration. I couldn’t overcome my laughter as adrenaline pumped through my veins. The side of the car crumples up just as a piece of paper does when its contents aren’t good enough. The force is extraordinary sending the car spinning around in a circle, but I feel nothing. Any moment the air bags should deploy, but nothing. I wait as sprinkles of glass shoot up from the door like fireworks, but nothing. As we slowly come to a stop my euphoria dissipates. The collision was less grand than I thought it would be.

All I can think to myself is how screwed I am. Chloe is freaking out, and this can only go downhill from here. I can now see why my mom insists that I stay in the same place I tell her I am going. How stupid can someone be? This is definitely her fault. She had to have been texting while driving. How else could she have missed the glaring red glow illuminating from the stoplight? Chloe is calling the cops, I suppose I should call my parents. I go check on the lady that hit us. Her car skidded across the intersection near a light pole. As I spoke with her, it was obvious that she was more concerned about her car than our wellbeing. The cop just got here, this should be fun. Chloe is really shaken up about all of this. Officer, I just told you what happened, I was in the middle of my signaled turn when she smashed into the side of my car. When I spoke with her, she said her wrist hurt. How else could she have hit the gear lever with her wrist? She must have been texting. Chloe is right, he was baiting me to saying it was my fault. So much for innocent until proven guilty. I understand that I have only had my license for a year, but I know how to drive. As the officer proceeds to lecture Chloe and me about the importance of staying off the phone while driving, I see my parents sprinting down the road. They enter the conversation as Chloe’s dad insists on what we have already established, that I was not on my phone at the time of the collision. My dad begins arguing with the officer telling him that what is he doing is unethical, stereotyping us for our age to make his paperwork easier. The officer is so consumed with his conversation that he doesn’t notice Chloe is now rubbing her neck. In a matter of thirty seconds, the day has come to ruin. And at that point, I realized that nobody cared. The lady didn’t care about the safety of others, the cop didn’t care about assigning appropriate blame, and no one cared why Chloe and I went for the drive in the first place. Maybe that was the inspiration for creating movies about car accidents. It is entertainment for people to relinquish all care and watch the destruction of someone else. Just like movies, all that is left is internal hurting, and no one cares about things they cannot see.

“My Biggest Fan” by Sarah S.

Growing up, I was lucky enough to be blessed with four relatively healthy grandparents. I loved all of them and I know they loved me just as much. I had a unique relationship with my dad’s parents. They lived a quick 30 minutes’ drive away and my mom would bring my siblings and me every Wednesday for lunch. My grandma would be waiting in the kitchen for us, with apples, bagels, and my favorite strawberry cream cheese sitting on the kitchen table. My mom would make us lunch while we ran around, playing on my grandparent’s old stationary bike and chatting with my grandma. She would then turn on the TV and we’d watch from the tile floor in the kitchen bordering the carpet to the living room because there was “no eating in the living room”. When we were done eating, my grandma would pull together a goodie bag full of off brand Oreos and Rold Gold honey wheat pretzels. We’d leave the comfort of her house and drive home, usually falling asleep with one hand inside the goodie bag.

As I got older, I noticed most people outside the protection of my grandparents’ house would stare at our family. They’d notice the wheelchairs, the handicap parking spot, the unusual amount of time it took to get from the parking lot to the restaurant. All they would see is the immobile left arm of my grandmother and the vacant look on my grandfather’s face. Both of my grandparents had multiple health issues, restraining them to wheelchairs and hugely impacting their way of life and mine as a result. I never took any notice of this. Of course, I knew that my grandma being unable to speak other than a few select words and my grandpa not being able to filter what he was saying was something out of the ordinary. I just didn’t care. They were two of the most important people in my life and we loved each other immensely. However, other people did care. I played basketball in middle school on a feeder team for my future high school. My grandpa, having a free schedule in his retirement, often came to my games. He would sit in his wheelchair next to the first row of bleachers. My friends loved him. They would always address him as “Grandpa” just like I did. One Saturday, we welcomed a new girl onto the team, Kaitlyn Baxendale. She was nice and tall, perfect for our point guard heavy roster. Minutes before we were going to start warm up, my friend Stephanie asked me where Grandpa was. “He’s over there!” I pointed to my grandpa, sitting with his glasses on the tip of his nose watching the game before mine end. “That’s not really your grandpa,” the new girl, Kaitlyn, said. I looked at her. “Yes, it is,” I responded shortly. She looked around at the other girls, bemused, seeking some support from them for her comment. No one looked at her. “I don’t believe you,” she said, laughing nervously. “There’s no way that’s your grandpa.” “Yes, it is,” I said my voice a little raised now out of frustration and anger. “Prove it.” I spun, walking over to my grandpa, smiling. “Hi, Grandpa!” I said, giving him a one-armed side hug. He lifted his arm and returned my hug, awkward because of the chair he was in. “Okay, baby,” he said, which I knew meant both hello and good luck for my upcoming game. I smiled, and walked back over to my team, who watched the interaction uncomfortably from the other side of the gym. I looked at the new girl who, blushing said, “Oh.” I went on to play the game, but in the back of my mind I was livid. I did not understand why Kaitlyn did not believe me when I told her that my grandpa was my grandpa. I did not understand why she had to say something like that to a fellow teammate. I did understand that the reason she was skeptical to believing that he was my grandpa was because of the physical state he was in. It made me feel ashamed of my grandparents and how different they were from “conventional” grandparents. This girl, who I just met, convinced me in a few short sentences that my grandparents were not normal and they were something to be self-conscious of. Years later, I was at another basketball game. This time, I was a sophomore in high school and we had an away game at a school with a very old building. My dad, once again, brought my grandpa. There was not wheelchair ramp up into the gym and there was no room for his wheelchair next to the bleachers because the building was so outdated. I again felt the pang of embarrassment and frustration at the fuss that was going to be made around my grandfather. I remembered the judgement I felt all those years ago at that feeder basketball game when the new girl couldn’t open her mind enough to fathom that people had different family dynamics. I tried to distract myself from the scene until my friend Stephanie said, “Hey Sarah, isn’t that Grandpa?”

I grimaced, turning expecting to see some manager making an annoyed fuss over my grandpa, but instead I saw him, smiling, sitting on a creaky old wheelchair lift, being lifted from the first level of the school into the gym. I saw people pointing and smiling at the happy look on his face. I smiled and waved, glancing back at Stephanie and the rest of my team and saying “Yeah, that is!” Grandpa sat the entire game at the end of our bench, and whenever someone would come off the court and walk down the line of girls giving high fives, he’d stick his hand out and they gave him one as well. That was one of the best basketball games of my life. I learned many things from my grandparents. I learned how to love, how to have fun, and most importantly, how to look at every person with an open mind and without any judgement. I now look past everyone’s physical state and notice the person in the wheelchair instead of the wheelchair itself.  I try my very best to treat every person I interact with as an equal, no matter their physical state. All of these lessons link back to my seven-year-old self, running into my grandparents’ house and settling in for a Wednesday afternoon of TV and strawberry cream cheese.

“Confidence” by Abby A.

Everything seemed to fade away. The moment I heard our name come out of the announcer’s mouth, my mouth proceeded to drop. Everything and anything else didn’t matter. I had finally done something that paid off. All seventeen years of my life led up to this moment. The moment that gave me confidence and complete happiness.

I have been dancing since I was three years old. I have been competitively dancing since I was ten years old. When I started high school, the only logical thing to do was to try out for the dance team. With surprise I made the junior varsity team my freshman year, and then finished out the rest of high school on the varsity team. My senior year I decided to run for the position of captain because I knew I had nothing to lose. Being in a position of power is not something that I had been used to. The following week I found out that I had gotten the position and I was going to choreograph the competition dances. We practiced these dances from August until April.

August was the month of choreographing. Everyday a couple of us would meet and listen to the music. Every second of the music needed to be filled with different movements. Each movement needs to be original and flow right into the next one. September through March was constant rehearsal. After school we would run through the dances until they were perfection. I would step out of the dance to watch certain parts and have them do it again and again until it was perfect. Practicing every day meant sore muscles and not a lot of time for homework. Most days everyone was positive but there were always the days when everyone would be frustrated, because all they wanted to do was go home and do their homework. Regardless, this was going to be our year.

In March we found out that we were headed to state. We competed at state every single year, but never won. Although, we have been close before. Third place, second place, fourth place, and second place again. Getting so close to first place made us want it so much more. State was intense. My sophomore year was my first-time attending state. I remember walking into the venue (which was a stadium) and sitting down in the bleachers. I stared directly down to the center of the room. There was a huge stage with hundreds of bright white lights pointing on it. My eyes began to water and my hands started to sweat. I couldn’t believe that I had to get on that stage and perform in front of almost a thousand people. Two years later it was my senior year. I was sitting in the exact same place, no sweat and no tears. All I felt was pride, pride that I was able to look at that stage without fear. I could not wait to perform.

Coach Piekarski had the most ambition and strive to get us to our state title. She had been a coach for the dance team for almost fifteen years, without getting to a state title. Every day at 2 practice she would remind us of the teams that we are going to compete against and how they were probably practicing ten times harder than we are. Her reputation created her to be something she was not. People say that she is terrifying, intense, and intimidating. When you get to know her, you realize that she is a genuine person who really changes your life for the better. She has helped me become the person I am today.

The morning of state my team and I met at the venue of the competition and we began practicing. Coach Piekarski gave us an inspiring speech which left almost all of us with makeup streaming down our faces. After reapplying our makeup and finishing practice we performed.

Our performance was the best one that I have ever been apart of. Together we held hand in hand walking out onto the stage. The bright lights hitting our faces while our eyes squint to adjust. Once the music started we began. I can’t even remember actually dancing the entire two and a half minutes. All I can remember is right before and right after the dance. When the music ended and we had hit our final pose, I exhaled, stood up, and left the stage. Without even knowing the scores, we all feel like everything we have worked for has been worth it. Tears streaming down the cheeks of all the seniors faces, because we can’t believe this is the last time we will be dancing together. When it came time to announce how we had placed we all sat in front of the stage. I could feel the coolness of the marley below me and the heat of the lights hitting my skin. My hair stiff from hairspray, and my face thick with makeup. I felt secure and like I would never want to move from where I was. Everyone around me all feeling the same thing. Wanting to stop time and stay here forever. Sitting in a large circle we heard them announce third place. As soon as they announced it Coach Piekarski and I made eye contact, nodded and looked back down.

Then they announced second place. Once again coach and I looked at each other, nodded and looked back down. Squeezing my teammates hands, we closed our eyes and held our breath. And then they said it.

We had won.

A dance that I had choreographed, a team that I had led, everything that I had worked for had paid off. I jumped up as quick as possible and ran towards Coach Piekarski. Her cheeks were bright red and tears were rolling down her face. The confidence that this state title brought me  has helped me become the person I am today. If things hadn’t gone in our favor and we didn’t win I would still be grateful. Coach Piekarski pushed me to be someone who I couldn’t see before. I never looked at myself as a leader, or even just a good dancer. She saw all of this before anyone else. She changed my life for the better. Ever since I met her I have been able to speak my mind and be able to lead groups when necessary. Sometimes all you need is for someone to see the person in you, who you don’t see yet.

“Memories” by Ashton T.

Mom’s been watching the videos again. She’ll sit there for hours, watching them. She takes out an old video recorder, the type they don’t make anymore, and hooks it up to the living room TV. I don’t think much of it today; I am waiting for Laura to come over. Usually we go to her place, and I can avoid my parents and the discomfort that comes with our delicate interactions. I would much rather talk to Laura’s parents. The conversation is similar with either pair, but here I am called Amanda, and there I am called Ashton. But today it is her that doesn’t feel at home in her own room, and so my house it is.

Knots form in my stomach as I venture downstairs and sit down at the island. I spin back and forth on a dark cherry wood stool. My mom turns around and smiles at me. It’s a sad, tired, yet hopeful smile.

“Hi honey! Watcha doing? Do you wanna watch this with me? They’re just silly little videos from when you guys were younger. You were absolutely adorable!”

“I’m waiting for Laura.”

“Oh, nice! Is she coming over?” “Yeah.”

At that moment I get a text from Laura saying she’s here, and I walk to the door and open it for her. She walks in, tall and awkward with a head full of bright blue hair. She’s wearing her (and my) favorite black choker, only partially covering the slowly fading hickeys on her neck.

To me, she is a warm and glowing comfort that undoes the knots in my stomach and replaces them with butterflies. My mom stands up to greet her, and a polite look comes over Laura’s face. I wonder if my mom sees through it like I do. It says, “I like you as a person, and I tolerate you as my boyfriend’s mother, but I cannot and will not forgive you for the pain you have caused him.” A lot like the face I put on for my family.

My mom, on the other hand, wears an overly friendly look, one that she displays whenever Laura comes over. I didn’t notice it until Laura pointed it out, but my mom treats her differently now that she views her as my girlfriend instead of my friend. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is exactly, and whenever I ask Laura she sighs and acts like I should know.

With my dad it’s easier. I can plainly see that he is uncomfortable and disapproving, but trying his best to be civil; if only because he knows to be polite to guests. But my mom is usually painfully honest, and so this forced friendliness is harder to read. My best guess is that she really does like her and the positive impact that she has made in my life, but her feelings about homosexuality cause discomfort that she tries desperately to hide -- for my sake or for the sake of politeness or for both, I couldn’t tell.

“Do you guys wanna watch some childhood videos of Amanda?” she asks, “They’re very cute.”

I give both of them a looks that says, “No, no, please no this is gonna be so embarrassing.” I also knew that seeing young me could be potentially triggering. Later that night, I would write how, “I had to confront my past, really look at it and say, ‘this is me.’ And how does that compare with who I am now? Are they even recognizable as the same person? Did I become who I was supposed to, or did something go terribly wrong?”

“Sure,” Laura laughs and turns to me, “it’ll be fun to embarass you.”

Ugh. The friendly relationship between mother and girlfriend comes at a cost.

I sigh and sit down while my mom gets the videos ready. One of the first videos is of my family at a hotel pool on vacation. We used to travel every year; it was my favorite part of summer break. In this particular hotel pool, my brothers were doing cannonballs in the deep end while I bopped around in the shallower side, trying to acclimate myself with the cold water. The water went right up to my chin and would occasionally infiltrate my mouth, and I would spit it out. Memories rushed to my brain, bringing back how every time I went in the pool, I would venture towards the deep end to be close to my brothers so I could play with them. There was almost always too much of a height difference, but I tried anyway. Eventually, my dad came and got me to teach me how to jump into the water. I was scared at first, and started by sliding off the ledge into my dad’s arms. I gradually gained more confidence, and soon I was ready to go jump with my brothers. This became a favorite vacation tradition.

Then my mom skipped ahead through the videos, searching for the one of me playing with my stuffed animals. The one where I actually let her see me. I was always extremely private with my toys, stopping immediately whenever someone would enter the back basement in an attempt to witness me playing with legos, or into my room where I held my stuffed animals. I didn’t want them in my world; which I had made for myself and myself only. The worlds I created were safe from outside judgement, and I did not want to jeopardize that. That day, however, I actually let my mom watch me play and even told her some of what was going on. I told her that my stuffed animals were training by fighting each other. They each challenged the small black bear who had two mini lightsabers attached to his back, because he was the strongest. Watching this, I was overwhelmed with a montage-like collection of memories of myself playing with stuffed animals and legos and such. A wave of nostalgia washed over me, and tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.

Laura leaned over and whispered, “how was it even a surprise [that you turned out trans]?”

I shrugged, glancing at my mom. She leans forward, smiling, her eyes far and her mind adrift in the memories. What did she see? A little girl, playing with her dolls? A memory of better times, before I became all messed up and began to distance myself from her? Was she looking for clues, trying to figure out where it went wrong? Was she reassuring herself that no, she was not wrong, I was and am her daughter, and she must fight to ensure that it stays that way? She thinks she knows me. She thinks she knows who I am and what I need. And maybe, in some ways, she does. Or at least she used to. I remember talking to her in the car -- I can’t recall what about, exactly, only that it was deep and intelligent and sacred. And that at some point these conversations stopped. Now, my mom and I are merely strangers who live in the same house.

At least I can understand her. She feels as if she is losing her child. She connects the self harm and the drinking and the drug use and the suicide attempts to me being trans. She views it under that same category of dangerous and destructive. She told me once that she does not want to lose me. She doesn’t want to lose me to suicide or to hormones. She is terrified. And that is understandable. I’m scared too.

“Journey” by Thomas S.

It was day 10 of 12 of Troop 16s trip to Philmont Scout Ranch, located in Cimarron New Mexico. The entire venture was a 79-mile back packing adventure, starting and ending in base camp, a tent city that looked like it came out of the movie Holes, the only difference being that it was not an actual child labor camp. The year is 2010, I am 13, almost 14-year-old, I am the same as I am now minus the ability to grow facial hair, I had stopped growing at this point for over a year. I had always been that big goofy looking kid since my days in elementary school, with my thick sandy hair, sharp nose, and big dog thinking he is a small dog mentality. However, I am not here to write about my whack ass body, I am here to tell you about how my first brush with near death. So bear with me as I set up the scene for you.

Things are so simple and yet to fun on the trail, being here for over a week has made me into a well-oiled machine, I eat, I hike, I eat some more, I set up camp, explore, eat one more time, sleep, repeat. Even the weather was on schedule, it would always rain after 3pm each day, sometimes for a minute sometimes the entire afternoon, but one thing was for sure each day and that was it. Sure, it would be beautiful watching mountains and valleys being drenched below you, seeing flashes of lightning, that is until that same storm comes up and finds you. Nothing sucks more than being on the face of a mountain during a lightning storm, you are un protected from the elements and all you can do at that point is pray that you won’t be on the receiving end of a bolt of lightning. This was why we had to be smart, we had gotten lucky before when dealing with storms at Philmont and we wanted to continue the streak on our climb to Mount Baldy.

Baldy itself was a large bare mountain face that overlooks base camp, it always reminded me of a chipped molar of a dog, based off the yellowish tint it gave off. It had a a massive presence over the trip, you could see it always, almost like a parent watching you from a far while you mess around in the ball pit of a McDonalds.  Today’s goal is to climb to the top of Baldy, which is going to take some serious planning because if we start too early, we won’t be able to see the entire valley, but if we start to late we have a strong chance of being caught in a nasty thunder storm. The idea was to wake up late, around 8:30 AM, eat whatever assortment of dried goods were in the todays food bag and then take one or two small backpacks with us up to the mountain, we had to draw straws to see which one of us did not have to take the bag up and thank christ it was not me. The last thing I would want to do is climb up with today’s lunch, medical supplies and other things such as hammocks collapsible chairs, and our emergency tarps. And so, began our climb to the heavens, the entire hiking squad consisted of Mr. Jenks, dad of Daniel Jenks who collectively were real buzz kills and were people loved to rub their intelligence in your face given the opportunity. Then Mr. Dittmer and his son Matt, the quiet and wise electrician and his squirrely younger reflection. Then there were the rest Nick, who despite being the most normal looking of us all, was also the worst influence and least scout like. For instance, Nick had taken all the Benadryl from the first aid kit so he could trip one day when the adults were on a hike, was always on the lookout for sage so he could roll joints out of ripped up one dollar bills and whatever incredible dumb shit one could do on a supervised trip. The final guy was William “Skuds” a nickname that he resented with a passion. William was sadly the butt end of many jokes, mainly because of his social awkwardness and ultraviolet red hair made him a ripe target for teenage bullshit.

But despite us seeming to be like a train wreck waiting to happen we had mostly worked out the kinks of being a team. We all pitched in and helped other when needed, it almost felt like a business trip going from one camp to another, the logistics needed to be exact for us to keep this well-oiled machine going. When Skuds got heat exhaustion, we took his gear and distrubted amongst each other, on the trail we were a team. But off the trail, that is when the personalities began to flow, everyone went their separate ways, I tended to tag with Matt and Nick mainly because they at least kept things interesting and didn’t obsess over the Lord of the Rings like everyone else. Back to the climb itself, the trail was steep and winding, making it somewhat difficult if this was the first thing day on our adventure. But us being seasoned veterans at this point, 2 miles up and down felt like a cake walk. Now you might be asking, isn’t two miles about the same as climbing Everest? And to that I would say yes and no. Trails like this would be nearly impossible to climb if you had to go straight up, especially for a bunch of 13 year olds and some old farts. So, to help us out they created a winding path leading us all the way to the top of the mountain face, Daniel being the Brainiac did the math (or simply just read the map) and told us it would be about a mile up and down. I both loved and hated the path, sure it was nice to have it carved out for us but it really was a boring climb to the top, you know exactly when you were to turn because you have done it 50 plus times. The only thing to look at was the person in front of you, the trail itself or all the pine trees to your left and right.

But once we arrived at the summit we were rewarded, a 360-degree view of New Mexico, from the valleys were the cattle ranchers work, to the vast and wild mountain ranges. We could view 30 miles from any direction; it was just us and the wind on top of that mountain today. It was breath taking as it was terrifying, one misstep for a photo opportunity and you would be having a direct trip to the bottom via free fall.  I don’t have a fear of heights, I have done high ropes courses and rock climbing for years.  I do however, have a fear of falling to my death, so as soon as we got out our cameras and did our obligatory photos for people back home, I began making my way towards the trail.

This was great timing too because as soon as I make my way to the base of the trail I hear the rest rush down in a hurry. “Storm! Storm! Let’s get our asses moving people!” Shouted Mr. Dittmer. You didn’t have to tell me twice, I grabbed my bag and started making a fast descent. The storm itself was a black wave, indifferent to our well-being, it was pushing all the warm air out and instantly the temperature dropped 10 degrees, you could almost taste the electricity in the air. You always see the light before you even know what just happened, then you feel the sound wave go through your entire body, your ears cringe, and if you were as close as we were, all the hairs on your arms begin to poke up like porcupine quills. We are all freeze, a monstrous bolt of lightning knocks off all the bark of a spruce tree no further than 40 yards away, it became abundantly clear that we are not going to be able to make it to base in time.

So, short for ideas we go slightly off trail, find an opening in the tree line and begin to put up an impromptu tarp as best as we can. We were lucky we packed the right one because if we did not, the maximum people that could be dry were four. We decided to wait out the storm, moving around in a tarp four feet high to whichever spot wasn’t getting flooded by the water going downstream. I never really thought I was going to be in danger, even when we climbed a mountain during a storm, I barely thought of it.  Maybe it was just the closeness of the lightning that rattled me but I was somewhat scared of the situation we put ourselves in. We looked like were a bunch of soaked penguins huddling to stay alive. That was the first time, maybe ever that I thought there was a chance of me dying. Yeah, I try not to ponder on it but that spruce could have been me instead, and I am eternally grateful it wasn’t. Nobody wants to be a fried piece of bacon, especially being so close to coming back home.

But we kept positive and passed the time by telling stories (mostly lord of the rings shit c’mon) and joked around. Suddenly we realize how quite it was outside, the stormed had passed! Despite the wet ground and broken branches, it would be hard to tell if a storm had even been here, the sky was back to its normal shade of powder blue, not a cloud in the sky. I remember the smell of wet pine after the storm it was so potent it felt like the needles were caught in my gums. Even today that smell throws me into a time machine and takes me back to the time I nearly died. It’s weird which smells stick with you, and the memories that come with them, the hairs sticking back up like the time you nearly got cooked. And just like that we packed up our tarp and made our descent. The trip from then on was easy, it was literally all downhill from then on. We returned to base camp the next day and had a hot shower and a meal that didn’t we didn’t have cook, I still remember it, chicken parmesan, broccoli and a scoop of chocolate ice cream.