What Oft Was Thought

What Oft Volume 14 2017/2018 Barry University Was Thought What Oft Was Thought Volume 14 2017/2018 is published by: Alpha Alpha Xi Chapter, Sigma Tau Delta The International English Honor Society Barry University Department of English and Foreign Languages Miami Shores, Florida

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Cover 05.12.indd 1 5/12/17 3:22 PM What Oft Was Thought Volume 14 2017 / 2018

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 1 5/12/17 3:23 PM What Oft Was Thought Volume 14 2017 / 2018

Published by the Alpha Alpha Xi Chapter Sigma Tau Delta, The International English Honor Society Barry University, Department of English and Foreign Languages

Student Editors Melissa Diaz Jonathan Gonzalez Destiny Ricks Cristina Roca

Faculty Sponsors Andrea Greenbaum, Ph.D. Lillian Schanfield, Ph.D.

Graphic Design Thomas Rockwell, MFA

Chapter Members Gregory Baker Nikia Brooks Kevin Dalia Melissa Diaz Jonathan Gonzalez Unique Harston Olga Hodge Brandon Parker Melodie Plaise Cristina Roca Vincent Silvanio Chandra Thomas Laura Alonso-Gallo

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 2 5/12/17 3:23 PM Table of Contents

Cover Evaporated Girl Yanni De Melo

Preface ii

Comic Writer’s Block Anissa Hester iii

Poetry My Kinky Afro Kahelia Smellie 1

Addictions Juliana Barona 2

Demolition Man Juliana Barona 3

I Wish I Was in Love Again Melissa Diaz 4

Mirror Thoughts Jonathan Gonzalez 5

Bad Presler Maxius 7

Battle Cry Joseph Medrano 9

Early Morning Scripture Joseph Medrano 11

Ancient History Veronica Moreno 12

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 3 5/12/17 3:23 PM If I Don’t Leap Steffane Wharton 13

Hope Edward Wilding 14

Fiction Why You Go To Starbucks Melissa Diaz 15

Felicidades Jonathan Gonzalez 17

The Dust of Life Ingrid Lopez Lorenzo 23

Purifying Springs Eduardo Ortiz 30

Rabbit Hole Paris Razor 39

A Simple Life Destiny Ricks 40

The Light Cristina Roca 46

Fallando Liana Rodriguez 48

Graphic Novel

Self-Help Guide from My Suicidal Aunt Jessa Potter 49

Essay

PTSD in Noncombat Personnel Patricia Martinez 64

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 4 5/12/17 3:23 PM Themes and Horror Conventions in The Exorcist Destiny Ricks 71

Keeping Up with the Untalented Matthew Block 77

Bob Marley Histography Christopher Berman 80

Impact of Autonomous Aerial Vehicles Julian-Alecssandre Dasilva 89

No Hablo Español Rachel Tellez 93

Photography

The Metaphor Yanni De Melo i

Waiting Ingrid Lopez 1

Beach Love Ingrid Lopez 2

Clay Man Jesus Lopez 3

Kono Victoria Newell 6

Bacak Victoria Newell 8

S+J Jesus Lopez 10

Almost Frozen Hannah LeBlanc 12

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 5 5/12/17 3:23 PM Over the Edge Odette Lopez 13

Indonesian Bus Victoria Newell 14

A Peak of Truth Yanni De Melo 16

Untitled 1 Brian Delgado 38

Medieval Alleys Odette Lopez 39

Lion Facade Odette Lopez 45

Wash Hannah LeBlanc 47

Clarity in the City Hannah LeBlanc 70

Untitled 2 Brian Delgado 76

Monarca of Nature Brian Delgado 79

Birth of Fibonacci Yanni De Melo 88

Maria Fiore Odette Lopez 95

Biographies 96

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 6 5/12/17 3:23 PM The Metaphor, Yanni De Melo

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 7 5/12/17 3:23 PM Preface

The members of Sigma Tau Delta (STD), the International English Honor Society (Alpha Alpha Xi Chapter), are pleased to present the work of student authors, artists, and photographers of Barry University. Our journal is open to an array of genres, including fiction, poetry, hint fiction, essays, photography, and graphic novels.

We are able to gather these entries through sponsoring an annual writing competition. Our chapter members solicit entries, vet the submissions, and render their opinions as judges, a service for which they are formally recognized at the University Honors Convocation each spring. The activity of reviewing and deciding on particular entries as worthy of publication helps them confront essential critical questions of artistic merit.

We are pleased to include as well the winning submission for the Dr. Helen Connell Film Essay Award. This award is intended to honor the memory of a faculty member who was a remarkable film scholar, historian, and critic, and to promote the study of film as a critical art form.

With each new issue we feel the need to explain the allusive title of our journal. What Oft Was Thought is a clause taken from Essay on Criticism, a long poem by the eighteenth century poet, Alexander Pope. The words appear in the following couplet:

True wit is nature to advantage dressed What oft was thought, but ne’er so well expressed.

It means that while many have insight into human experience (“what oft was thought”), few have the ability to express these thoughts eloquently. We believe that those selected for this year’s issue articulate the struggle and the wonder of what it means to be human.

Our chapter is indebted to Dr. Karen Callaghan, Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, who generously supports this project. We would also like to acknowledge Associate Professor Tom Rockwell, whose graphic design work and passion bring this journal into fruition.

Matt Haig, author of The Humans and Reasons to Stay Alive, observes the writing process as follows:

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 8 5/12/17 3:23 PM The 5 Stages of Writing 1. This is genius. 2. This isn’t working. 3. This is useless. 4. Really useless. 5. But this toast is nice.

What he is saying is obvious to anyone who has confronted the arctic white page: the process of creating art is perilous, and the writer continually con- fronts his or her self-doubt. The writers and artists in this collection bravely overcame their fears and insecurities and chose to share their art with us, and the university community is made whole by their contributions.

Writer’s Block, Anissa Hester *First Place Award, Graphic Novel, Sigma Tau Delta Writing Contest 2016

iii

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 9 5/12/17 3:23 PM My Kinky Afro Kahelia Smellie

Braided hair parted in 3’s 4’s and 6’s Afros sky high reaching up to the heavens Hair coiled into perfection With Shea butter and coconut oil giving life to these tresses Hair defies gravity to stand on its own A coiled crown that demands royalty Gives life as flowers bloom in nature’s beauty Earth weeps at the sight of perfection Black kinky hair in all its glory Coiled, curly in different shades of melanin Beauty undiscovered and underappreciated for its abnormality Hair that defies reason and logic Turns deep brown to rich honey in the red sun Hair thick and strong in its blackness Needs no introduction in its black beauty.

*Honorable Mention, Poetry, Sigma Tau Delta Writing Contest 2017

Waiting, Ingrid Lopez

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 10 5/12/17 3:23 PM Addictions Juliana Barona

You’re conflicted.

Deeper matters run through your veins, collapse from your eyes in the form of water drops,

Your heart screams for help between irregular beats.

You are the opposite of everything I’ve ever wanted.

That’s a dangerous kind of love.

The kind that burns holes through everything it caresses,

The kind that leaves a stench…

Your Newports touch your lips like when mine do,

And I’m jealous every time a cigarette lingers where my lips should be.

Beach Love, Ingrid Lopez

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 11 5/12/17 3:23 PM Demolition Man Juliana Barona

With every inch of me cracked open…

Standing before you,

I—so foolishly—expected your love

to be the adhesive that would hold me together.

Instead,

You were a wrecking ball,

And we all know how that ends.

Clay Man, Jesus Lopez

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 12 5/12/17 3:23 PM I Wish I Was in Love Again Melissa Diaz

I wish I was in love again Car rides with no destination Daily fights about everything Kisses for no reason Dead flowers

I want to feel something—anything.

I wish I was in love again Cheap dates Sleepless nights Broken plates Smiling while kissing

I want to miss someone—anyone.

I wish I was in love again Crying over the phone Listening to vintage music together Holding hands Endless laughs

No more silence. I wish I was in love again.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 13 5/12/17 3:23 PM Mirror Thoughts Jonathan Gonzalez

“You can’t do it.” We tend to underestimate who we are. We abandon life. We live in our scars. But we were made to survive–to thrive, Like an oak in the middle of a field. No wind or storm will blow it down. “You’re not talented.” Whether you sing or play ball or act Or draw or dance or cook or create, You are different. You are a gold coin locked in a chest. You are a battery sitting in a drawer— Full of untapped potential. “You are not beautiful.” Sometimes we stare at our reflection Searching relentlessly for our imperfections. Soon the sun will dawn and you realize you are Flawless in your own way. Everyone’s a gem–a diamond in the rough. Like a snowflake There’s no imitation of you—no remake “It doesn’t matter what they say.” You are perfect in your own way.

*Honorable Mention, Sigma Tau Delta Writing Contest 2016

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 14 5/12/17 3:23 PM Kono, Victoria Newell

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 15 5/12/17 3:23 PM Bad Presler Maxius

She is something like a rapper’s dream Nothing, but buns Which she uses to make her braid Yes, she is bad Like the milk on her kitchen’s table, She is bad

She has a hundred percent natural hair That does not belong to her Nails longer than wolverine’s Her teeth have a complicated yellow color, Like her urine Yes, she is bad Like the six children running around her house, She is bad

On any given night, She can make anyone jump over a sleeping beauty Only to kiss her cheeks Everyone she lets taste her cookie Or catch a glance of those fan eyelids Wants to be her hero She never fails to surprise them when she tells them You don’t have enough lemon to squeeze out this lemonade Yes, she is bad Like the choices she makes She is bad

She drops it like it is hot Until the sun rises Sleeps until the moon shines On her pantyhose are her paychecks And her regrets Yes, she is bad Like a Michael Jackson’s album She is bad

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 16 5/12/17 3:23 PM On her walls are molds On her pillows are tears Under her eyes is fatigue On her face is remorse On her back are responsibilities Behind her back are her critics Perhaps, her kids will have it worse... Perhaps... she was never bad But her mistakes were.

Bacak, Victoria Newell

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 17 5/12/17 3:23 PM Battle Cry Joseph Medrano

Put down the weapons Click clack And pick up your Langston Hughes And Maya Angelou So you can hear how words hit

So you can feel how your tongue clicks Every time the truth that’s hard to swallow Flows from your lips Ignorance may be bliss But so is progression The pages may all seem white But remember Histories written in black ink Appreciate your pigment

Remember that your body is your canvas And that you are why art works No, no you are artwork Don’t let anyone tell you differently

There’s already been too much blood on the leaves, So let your pen do the dirty work for you And watch as it bleeds Metaphors and similes Like, rewrite history as you recognize that You are not weak

So keep moving, keep breathing, keep progressing Because you are beauty You are power, you are strength So let’s create a world With more love and less hate.

*First Place Award, Poetry, Sigma Tau Delta Writing Contest 2017

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 18 5/12/17 3:23 PM S + J, Jesus Lopez

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 19 5/12/17 3:23 PM Early Morning Scripture Joseph Medrano

Reach for me As I reach for you too

Through medicated poetry foretold I’ll send scriptures to your soul Stingy with my time but for you It seems to freeze I thawed out the conclusion That you want me here forever Clever I cover your body like a sweater No pressure At night when you fear the unknown Let me be your knight

Reach for me As I reach for you too

In that when I wake you up I get the sweetest touch Of your finger-tips across my skin

Beautiful are your eyes As if I’m staring at a crescent moon But it’s time for work my love It’s an hour past noon.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 20 5/12/17 3:23 PM Ancient History Veronica Moreno

Before you could speak I had spoken Before you could touch I had felt Before you could leave I had gone Gone. Done. Moved on. Over you.

Almost Frozen, Hannah LeBlanc

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 21 5/12/17 3:23 PM If I Don’t Leap Steffane Wharton

If I don’t leap from a second story window how do I know if I can fly? Take my sunglasses off to reveal I have lasers for eyes? Why won’t I explore the open option to be more? Not what I see on TV or through other media Look in the mirror, what do I see in me? You, pierced an artery Broke through a wall to a new part of me A part I couldn’t even see The section of myself that wants to be free That knows when I step off that ledge And start living life on the edge If I can just shake me enough to awaken me From this drunken stupor, I can find that destiny I was made for.

Over the Edge, Odette Lopez

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 22 5/12/17 3:23 PM Hope Edward Wilding

Look for the shine in the pouring rain, Freedom in the waltz, Frolic in her eyes, Warmth in the cold, Laughter in her pain, Phantom of my mind, I’ll catch her in the rye.

To guess the stuff she’s made of, it’s all lost in translation, But it’s all of her body, More than the sum, It’s just the bones she’s made of.

A muse becomes the calliope The gobo of the artist to shine the romance, And like a tulip in a garden, She steals the spring time bloom.

I’ve never brought her flowers, But I’ve wrapped her waist, I lost her in this trance, But I’ll find her embrace.

There’s still hope in this story.

Indonesian Bus, Victoria Newell

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 23 5/12/17 3:23 PM Why You Go to Starbucks Melissa Diaz

You take a sip of your black overpriced coffee and realize you’re not over him. The bitter taste reminds you of the feeling you got when he left. The burn on your tongue hurts less than the heartbreak. And with the constant noise of hipsters typing on their laptops and older men talking about politics, you can’t help but think, why do you still go to Starbucks? Is it for the Pumpkin Spice Latte? Probably. Or is it because it’s what every intelligent or inquisitive person does? Sit at Starbucks and pretend that you’re working, but you’re really thinking about your dog, the assignment you forgot to do, or your ex. Your ex didn’t like coffee and hated that you loved it. At one point it was a fun argument you two used to have, who loves or hates coffee more. You would think to yourself, am I actually talking about coffee or one another? The fact that you thought about it bothered you. While you take another sip of your coffee, the older men talking about politics look over at you. They wonder why you’re here alone. You should be sitting at Starbucks with a someone sharing a bagel or a Reduced-Fat Cin- namon Swirl Coffee Cake. Little do they know that you do have a boyfriend, but you’re here alone because your boyfriend is cheap and makes his coffee at home. At the register, a hipster is complaining that their Chai Tea Soy Latte with no whip and extra foam doesn’t taste right. But you’re looking past the hipster and directly to the entrance. You know that on Tuesdays he likes to come to this Starbucks on his way to work. You think if you sit here with your cutest outfit on and seem like you’re stressed, he will walk through those doors and notice that you’re not ok. Maybe he will sit down and ask you what’s wrong. You will tell him nothing, and he will refuse to believe it because he knows you. Even though you know it will never happen. The thought of this actually happening excites you. That’s why you go to Starbucks.

*Honorable Mention Award, Fiction, Sigma Tau Delta Writing Contest 2017

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 24 5/12/17 3:23 PM A Peak of Truth, Yanni De Melo

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 25 5/12/17 3:23 PM Felicidades Jonathan Gonzalez

I stood at the back of the ballroom watching waiters bustle in and out asking if we needed anything for la quinceañera. Abuela Claudia was diligently placing little recuerdos on the tables for the guests to take home. Though Abuela was well over the age of seventy, she was always helpful. Mami was running around the hall coordinating the servers and the master of ceremony. She’d fight someone if the party didn’t turn out the way she wanted.El party de su bebe, it had to be perfect. It was la quinceañera’s special night. The night where my sister, Elisa, magically turned into a woman. Turning fifteen wasn’t something you just did overnight. It requires a year’s preparation. It requires banquet hall hunting that makes absolutely no sense because your mom will end up choosing the one she always uses. It requires picture taking with a total stranger who makes you pose awkwardly against a tree while holding a parasol and looking off into the distance. It requires dress fittings that last hours, because your mom insists on dressing you like a walking piñata in the most overdone color of all. Quinceañeras were fun all right and this was the last one we ever threw. “Angie, you’re finally home!” my abuela said approaching me with open arms, “How was your first year enla Universidad?” “It was—fine,” I said hugging her. I didn’t want to tell her at that moment that I was in academic probation. It wasn’t the time or place, “Where’s Elisa? I brought her regalito from New York.” “She’s in the back getting dressed,” abuela said, “You should go get ready too.” I got to the room and knock lightly. “One minute!” Elisa yelled. She shrieked and hugged me tightly. She pulled away and asked, “What do you think?” She looked regal. Her hair was surprisingly simple and not as poodle-es- que as the millions of quinceañeras before her. She wore a beautiful red ball gown. I was reluctant about the color at first, but she looked shimmering in her dress. “You look beautiful,” I said proudly. “I know!” she squealed. She dragged me into the room and gave me the dress I was supposed to wear. “So what’s new, vieja?” Elisa asked. “How’s freedom?” “You’re free down here,” I said, taken aback. “Girl, you know it’s not the same,” she said. She continued to apply her

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 26 5/12/17 3:23 PM make up. “You didn’t go out? Go to parties? Have any fun?” “I’m sorry I’m not una vaga who’s off partying and getting drunk and getting pregnant,” I said defensively. “You don’t need to be una vaga to have fun. You’re gone for a year and you don’t come back with any juicy stories?” She asked. Elisa got quiet. I brushed off her silence and continued to get ready. “Have you heard from Alex?” she asked. “Yeah, we talked before I flew home,” I responded. Alex was a family friend. We had known each other since we were three and there isn’t a memory from my childhood without him. He was a sweetheart. A man who knew exactly what to say and when to say it. We had this bond between us ever since we were young. He’d deny it, but it started when he was being bullied by the other kids in recess. He sucked at dodgeball and always hid behind someone so the other boys wouldn’t hit him. The fates would have it that he hid behind me that day. The day where, out of pure spite, a kid crossed the line and hit him with the ball right on the nose. It was a bloody day at recess, but not as bloody as that kid after I took care of him. I, of course, got caught, and I was sent to the principal’s office. Alex and I sat in the front desk all scraped up waiting for our parents to get to the school. “Thank you,” I remember hearing his frail little voice say, “for helping me.” From that moment on, we did practically everything together. We went to school together. We walked home together. He was my chambelan when I turned fifteen. We even went to prom together. We were inseparable. Until our acceptance letters came in the mail. “I won’t go,” I told him. “Are you insane?” he said, “Do you know the opportunity you’re giving up? They’re basically paying you to go.” “We were supposed to go together.” “No,” he said as his warm hands grabbed mine. “You are not staying here because of me.” Before I left for college, he gave me his graduation ring on a silver chain and said, “To remind you of the little people during the little steps you had to take.” I couldn’t find the words to tell him. I had never realized how I truly felt about him until he wasn’t by my side every day. For so many years we lived orbiting each other. I didn’t want to just pick up and go. Not without giving us a try. But he was willing to let me go. Regardless, I was home now. I wanted to tell him how I felt about him. How much I missed him walking me to my classes. How much I missed our lunch dates, even though they weren’t real dates. How much I missed seeing

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 27 5/12/17 3:23 PM him. I wasn’t going to let him go. Not this time. “He’s coming tonight, right?” I asked my sister. “We invited him,” she said. The tone of her voice shifted. She was no longer all smiles. There was a heaviness to her eyes. Her shoulders slouched as if they were carrying bags of sand, “He didn’t say he was coming?” I asked. “You tell me,” Elisa said under her breath, “He answers your calls” My eyes widened. “What does that mean?” I asked. She rolled her eyes and powdered her cheeks. I instantly felt uncomfortable. Why would she need to call Alex? Suddenly, we heard a loud knock followed by our mom screech- ing, “Coño, you’re still not ready! You’ve been in there for hours!” Our mom was the Caribbean-loud-mouth-type. She opened the door at looked straight at Elisa. “Que linda mi princessa!” My mother said with all the pride in her voice, “You look gorgeous!” It was the usual response. Ignore me and look at Elisa. Elisa always got what she wanted. She was Mami’s little baby. I felt like a chopped chuleta. “You look good too, mija,” she said while tapping my arm, “Vamonos, the guests will be arriving soon.” There were at least a hundred people in the banquet hall, and I’d be lying if I said I knew everyone. Nonetheless, every other adult was your Tio or Tia and every other kid was your primo. Mami dragged me around the hall, saying hello to every guest at attendance. They caught up, talked about the weather, their kids, and how much life has changed since the left Nicaragua. They’d snap a picture, they’d share a drink, and the guest would comment on the great venue or pretend to like the food. Mami was genuinely happy to share this special moment with the people she loved. You could see it by the way her eyes lit up whenever she spoke. She felt like the reina and her princesa, Elisa, was her star. We approached Tia Nila. An aunt I was not eager to see. Her daughter, Daniela, and I were always pit against each other. We were never close cousins. She was always trying to one-up me. Tia Nila would rave to Mami how smart Daniela was, how hard-working Daniela was, and how talented Daniela was. Daniela was far from it. She never studied or worked a job a day in her life and copied her way through high school. But any time Daniela saw me, she would try to play twenty questions to see “how I was doing.” All she cared about was telling Tia Nila el chisme. Tia Nila went to every party whether she liked you or not. There’s something about free food and a chance to dress up that motivated her to go above and beyond to be extra annoying. She wore a glittery dress that wasn’t flattering for her age, but, according to her she looked “fresca como una lechuga.”

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 28 5/12/17 3:23 PM I tuned her out as she spoke with Mami about how she hated salsa, but how great of a dancer Daniela was. I honestly had no interest in listening to her brag about her daughter. As she spoke, I saw him walk into the banquet hall. He was here. Alex was finally here. I excused myself and rushed towards him. “Angelica de Maria Miranda, look at you,” he said slyly eyeing me up and down. “Alejandro Hernandez,” I responded, hugging him tightly. “I hate it when you call me that,” he said. rolling his eyes. “I can call you whatever the hell I want,” I said. He chuckled and beamed a smile at me. Wow, how I missed his smile. I wanted the world to melt away. I wanted to take him far away from this place. I didn’t care where. I just wanted to be with him. “Angie come,” Mami said interrupting us. “We’re going to reveal your sister soon.” “We’ll talk later,” he said, and he kissed my cheek. We went through the motions of all the ceremonies: Elisa came from behind the curtain looking radiant and detached. She danced with every Tio, every Abuelo, and every primo in that room. You could see that, little by little, her face exuded impatience. What could be wrong? This was everything she’s ever wanted. It was everything Mami ever wanted. She should have been happy. She lit her fifteenvelas and dedicated them to fifteen friends and family members. After Elisa made the rounds and said “hello” to everyone, table by table, it was time for el brindis, which I was going to give. Mami wanted me to toast to my sister. I didn’t have anything prepared to say. I was bad at this stuff. Alex was way better at it than me. I remember he was the one the seniors voted as the student commencement speaker in high school. He could knock it out of the park. With one hand, I grabbed my glass of champagne and with the other I held the mic. “Elisa, we are here today to celebrate your life and all of your accomplish- ments. It is my prayer that you continue to work hard and excel at everything you do.” As I continued to make my speech, I saw him. I locked eyes with him, and it was like he gave me the energy and the words to speak. “I love you, Elisa, and I’ll always be here for you. I hope you live a life full of happiness and satisfaction. Felicidades, hermana! Salud!” Everyone clinked their glasses and drank. I walked away from the stage as music and bodies flooded the dance floor. The DJ blasted “Echa Pa’lla” by Pitbull. If I had a mal de ojo bracelet for every time I heard this song, I’d be blessed for all my days. I was not going to dance, unless I was pulled out on the dance floor, but no one would dare. People

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 29 5/12/17 3:23 PM stopped asking me to dance years ago. They said it’s a shame that a Latina has no rhythm or caderas to shake. I scoped the party guests to see Alex danc- ing with Tia Nila who obviously knew how to shake those hips. I looked out again at the sea of people and saw Elisa going back to the dressing room. She was probably going to change out of her dress. Alone? There was no way she could take it off herself. I tensed up. I weave around the endless trail of family members trying to stop me to say hi or make small talk. I reached her door, knocked, and asked if she needed anything. “I’m fine,” I heard her say. I entered her room to see that she was huddled on the floor. Her eyes were red and puffy like her dress and her face was blotchy, mascara running down her cheeks. I crouched to her and hugged her. “I don’t know what to do,” She muttered between sobs. “What are you talking about?” I asked She handed me a small picture in her hands. My eyes widened. I didn’t know how to feel or even what to feel. How the hell did this happen? Tonight, of all nights, she decided to say something about it. I wanted to tell her she was stupid. She’s fifteen years old. What willMami say? What will Abuela? She was obviously a couple months along. Not enough to show. “What am I going to do, Angie? I fucked up!” she said sniffling. I had absolutely no words to tell her. I never imagined I’d be in this position. Sure, girls got pregnant young in our country. But they were married younger. They couldn’t develop their own lives. They couldn’t be professionals. They had to depend on their husbands. “Who’s the father?” I asked. She sighed deeply and cried again, “Please don’t hate me.” Why would I hate her? My stomach churned. I didn’t like where this was going. But I needed to know, “Who’s the father?” I repeated. “Alex,” she said softly, “Alex is the father.” I couldn’t believe her. I didn’t want to believe her. Every fiber in my being wanted this to be a sick joke. A sick, sick joke. But her glassy eyes told me she wasn’t lying. “How could he do this? How could you do this?” I mumbled, “Why the fuck were you with him? You knew that I…had feelings for him!” “I’m so sorry, Angie!” she said desperately holding my hand, “I wasn’t thinking. You have every right to hate me, but please don’t say anything.” “I don’t owe you anything!” I yelled, pulling away from her, “You’re a spoiled brat who always gets whatever the fuck you want. You can have him and your fucking baby! I don’t care! Go ruin your life!” I stormed out the room, and was immediately intercepted by Tia Nila. She stared me down and asked, “Oye! Que pasa aqui?” Elisa ran after me. I blocked Tia Nila’s view of Elisa as best as I can. I

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 30 5/12/17 3:23 PM didn’t know why I did it. It was an instinct, I guess. It was like my body knew I needed to protect her. I was always going to be there for her. Elisa needed me. Tia Nila couldn’t see her like this. She would just go blab to my mom about Elisa. She was the last person I wanted to see now. “Nothing Tia,” I said trying to think of a lie, “We’re fine.” Tia Nila obviously didn’t buy it. She moved to the side to let my sister and I pass. “Sucia en celos,” I heard her say as we left. I sighed with a heavier weight on my shoulders. Quite ironically, the clock struck midnight and the lights of the banquet hall came on. Guests were already trickling out, taking flowers, recuerdos, and pieces of cake. Soon it was only Mami, Abuela, Elisa, and I among the bustling waiters and servers who were tearing down the decorations. I needed to leave this damned room. I grabbed a bunch of Elisa’s presents and packed them in the car. As I placed some gifts in the trunk, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see, Alex standing in front of me. He had the audacity to come to her party, knowing what he did. Knowing I was here. “Felicidades,” he said handing me a present. “La quinceañera is inside if you want to give it to her,” I said dryly. “It’s not for Elisa. It’s for you.” “I don’t want anything from you,” I said. “Yo, what’s your deal?” he said, “I don’t see you in a year and you give me the silent treatment. I didn’t do nothing wrong to you.” “Elisa told me.” I said. My voice immediately cracked. This wasn’t the conversation I wanted to have. I didn’t want to pretend like I was okay. I wasn’t. “I don’t want Elisa,” he said looking around the parking lot, “I want you.” “I don’t care anymore,” I retorted. The coldness in my voice surprised me. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. I couldn’t believe we could mess it up before even giving us a chance. But we couldn’t. “Felicidades, cabron. You were gonna be father to a beautiful baby girl.” “Were?” he asked I locked the car and walked back to the banquet hall. Elisa stopped me, noticing Alex in the distance. “What happened?” My heart pounded. “Nothing—I’m fine.” She looked at me not knowing what to say. There was nothing to say. I had already sacrificed what was mine. His words weren’t mine anymore. His ring wasn’t mine anymore. His heart wasn’t mine anymore. “I love you, hermana,” she said softly.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 31 5/12/17 3:23 PM The Dust of Life Ingrid Lopez

The fortieth Thunderboat Regatta is in full swing along the horizon, loud, colorful and quintessentially California. A mile away, on a hill dotted with rows of gleaming headstones, six hundred people have gathered at Fort Rose- crans National Cemetery to mourn the death of First Lieutenant Troy Mc- Ginnis. Every Navy SEAL in the west coast is here, to honor a fallen brother. Every able-bodied veteran at VFW post 7420 is here, to pay their respects. The brightness of spring feels mocking. A Navy chaplain leads the mourners in the Lord’s Prayer. There is mea- sured pageantry in the way he moves. The six caparisoned horses that pulled the caisson wait curbside, solemn, bodies taut, like they too know to stand at attention. The firing party gets its cue. Seven immaculate men move as one, toting M1 Garand rifles with the semi-automatic gas action disabled. Manual- ly cycling the weapon is part of the drill. Each burst of sound comes in unison. The calls are short, and clipped, “ready, aim, fire.” Their weight hangs in the air. Downhill, behind a cordoned press area, a dozen reporters with telephotos cover every angle. They shoot video too, get the bugler playing Taps, silhouetted against the sun. When the family is offered the folded flag, the clicking sound of flashbulbs builds to a buzz. Memorial Day is Monday and that kind of picture is bound to run above the fold. Master-at-Arms Second Class Patrick McGinnis can’t bring himself to look at his half-brother’s casket. When a Navy Commander pinned the SEAL trident on his chest six years ago, when he patted his shoulder and welcomed him into the most exclusive fraternity on the face of all the earth—so exclusive it cost him his right arm and his left leg—he finally felt like part of something bigger. They gave him a Navy Cross, the second highest award given for valor, but he’s still halfway through the paperwork on a medical discharge. Patrick is about to lose his only family. Troy’ widow, Esmeralda, takes Patrick’s hand. She’s clutching a Saint Christopher medallion. Her husband refused to wear it on deployment, said it was bad juju, said you trust your team, your training, not some piece of junk metal on a chain. He refused it even though it could have saved him. Deep down, Esmeralda knows Saint Christopher is no match for a fragmentation grenade, but she’s eight months pregnant and her husband’s dead and the promise of a Medal of Honor is not enough solace on the face of so much uncertainty, least of all with a deportation order on her kitchen table and a green card application that never made anywhere. She’s grasping at straws and she knows it, but at least, she’s keeping it together while everyone looks on, while

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 32 5/12/17 3:23 PM her mother in law, Mrs. Lydia Blythe McGinnis stares at the folded flag on her lap, glares really, because she finds Esmeralda somehow underserving of this last honor. It seems like years until the Officer in Charge approaches the family. He takes Lydia McGinnis’ arm and leads her away. Graveside, flanked by her stepson and her daughter in law, she looked pale and bitter, shrunken even, but led away beside the commander in dress whites, she’s back in her element. Among uniforms and protocol and ceremony, Lydia blossoms into WASP royalty. She’s thankful to leave at last, to flee the sight of a daughter in law she can’t stand and a stepson whose every breath she resented since the boy was foisted on her at age four, speaking nothing but Vietnamese. They follow a winding path between headstones. Lydia looks over her shoulder at Patrick and Esmeralda trailing behind her and wonders why they couldn’t marry and make little mutt children and leave her baby boy free to find someone worthy. She wonders why Troy picked her, a green-card scheming wetback, a waitress. How long did Esmeralda wait for a man like Troy to pay attention? Right now, Lydia is too struck by loss to see the parallels, to see a little bit of herself in Esmeralda. Lydia married Troy’s father with dreams about the glamour of being a Navy officer’s wife. She’d envisioned catered soirees and a front row seat to D.C. politics but instead, got twenty years of sweltering summers in sub- standard base housing and never-ending rumors about a husband who’d bed anything in a skirt. A black limousine pulls up to the curb. It picked them up in the morning, rented by the SEALs in Troy’s team, an upgrade from the cemetery’s decade- old Town Car. They shuffle in, Lydia first, Esmeralda second, and Patrick last. He sits across from the women, his back to the driver. He sets down his hat, white twill and a stiff rim like a Dixie cup. With his back to the road he won’t see looming, patchy mountains when they hit the freeway. His heart won’t start racing when he spots an overpass. Mountains freak him out. Cell phones too. He dreams about the ambush every night. A hajji in fucking aviator glasses waving a cell phone and then, the blast. Searing white sunlight. Bullets pinging the lead Humvee. He can feel the sting of blood and sweat in his eyes. The men he drags to safety and then the second blast. He can see the rotting dog carcass in the ditch where he lands and his right forearm dangling below the elbow, tethered to a strip of muscle only a couple inches wide. His face is peppered shrapnel, his shoulders, his arm. At the airport, he sets off metal detectors. The limo glides through the cemetery. The scattered layout of the military reservation gives way to the cookie-cutter suburbs of Coronado. The car phone starts buzzing, but it’s closest to Patrick. Lydia lunges for it, comes almost within reach before Patrick picks up the handset, offers it. Rather than

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 33 5/12/17 3:23 PM accept it, Lydia powers down the privacy screen between the cab and the driver. “Excuse me, folks,” the man says. “Is everyone going back to the same address?” Lydia meets the driver’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Yes,” she says. Esmeralda taps Lydia’s knee “I’m going to my mother’s, Lydia-” “My name is Mrs. McGinnis,” she cuts in. Grief and Botox have wrought Lydia’s face into a mildly surprised stupor, but anger is brewing just beneath the surface. Esmeralda traces the Saint Christopher medallion she’s attached to her rosary. “I’m going to Mission Hills,” she tells the driver. “We’re dropping me off first.” “La Jolla is thirty minutes out of the way, Mrs. McGinnis.” “I just buried my only son,” Lydia interrupts, “and I want to be alone without having to look at either of you.” “Ma, Lydia,” Patrick begins to correct himself but it’s too late. “I am not your chink-eyed whore mother,” Lydia screams. She pounds a fists on the tinted glass window. The driver clears his throat. Lydia snaps off her seat-belt and crouch-walks to the front of the cabin. “We’re going to La Jolla,” she screams, thrusting an arm over the privacy screen, into the driver’s side. She leans halfway in with blind purpose, grabs at the steering wheel, at least tries to. The driver swerves right, startled. Esmeralda holds on to the armrests. “Ma’am, you to have sit down,” he says. “Get on the I-5,” Lydia yells. She’s kneeling on the seat, still trying to reach the steering wheel. The driver hits the brakes. Patrick grabs Lydia before she falls. She elbows her way out of his grip, half crawling onto the seat. The car stops abruptly. “Don’t touch me,” Lydia says. The driver takes the keys from the ignition, lets himself out. “Close that,” Lydia orders, pointing at the privacy screen. Neither Patrick nor Esmeralda move. Lydia makes her way to the seat, digs though her hand- bag for a pack of Virginia Slims. She’s rolling down the window, tearing off the seal on the pack when Patrick grabs her cigarettes. Lydia reaches for them but stops midair. She can’t bring herself to touch the prosthetic’s steel hook. “You can’t smoke in here,” Patrick says. Lydia glares at Esmeralda’s belly. “That’s not my family.” “He’s Troy’s son,” Esmeralda says. She sounds more tired than offended. “Not without a paternity test.” She pokes Esmeralda’s folded flag. “That should have been mine. I’m his real next of kin.” They did give her a flag, a token, but it was pre-folded, meaningless as far as Lydia’s concerned. “I’m his wife,” Esmeralda reminds her.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 34 5/12/17 3:23 PM “Don’t flatter yourself, little girl.” Lydia laughs. “Troy did the right thing. The honorable thing.” Esmeralda counts the cars passing them, gets all the way to fourteen before trying to speak. Her voice falters. She covers her mouth to stifle the sobs that come instead of words. Patrick flingsydia’s L cigarettes in the trashcan beside the limo’s bar. “We are going to Esmeralda’s first,” he says. “Nobody asked you,” Lydia says. “You hide behind that grotesque hook. And that leg.” She leans forward and roots through the trash bag. “How many times has the VA offered a cosmetic cover for your leg? They’ll even match your skin color, but you keep wearing that hideous thing, making everyone uncomfortable.” She shakes her head, keeps going, insults gushing like water. Patrick lets Lydia run out of things to say, leans close when she’s done, well into her personal space, where she has to look in his eyes and see they’re green and remember he’s the living proof that she was never her husband’s first choice for anything. He takes her cigarettes a second time. “You can’t smoke in here,” he says. Lydia makes a whooping sound, a stifled war cry. She yanks the SEAL trident on Patrick’s chest. “You can’t wear this,” she says, holding the pin in her hand, above her head. She’s the only one playing Monkey in the Middle, but it doesn’t deter her. “Give it back,” Patrick says. “There’s half of you left, Patrick. You only deserve half a medal.” Lydia powers down the window. The unflattering, impish look in her face says she’s going to fling the SEAL trident into traffic, but Patrick is quick. He pins her to the seat with his good arm. “Don’t,” he says. Lydia goes limp. She can’t match his strength. “It’s not fair,” she whispers. She drops the trident, and it falls on the carpet with a thud. “It’s not fair,” she repeats. She looks wilted and small, the black of her suit blending into the leather of the seat. Patrick tries to find words to apologize, to let her know he under- stands why she couldn’t love him, that’s he’s long ago forgiven her for being a coldhearted bigot. He takes Lydia’s hand in his, but it’s like the weight of his hand sets her off again. “I hate the goddamn Navy,” she says. Her shrieks turn into a howl. Lydia stabs her thumbs into Patrick’s face. In a second, the wispy frailty is gone and Patrick has to struggle to block Lydia’s hands. He clips her fist in the hook of his prosthetic arm and the sight of her fingers in the metal grip gives her pause but she’s railing again, pulling on the prosthetic’s socket with all her might. Patrick winces when the suction on the prosthesis breaks and the socket tears out. He screams. The nylon webbing on the arm’s harness cuts into his armpit

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 35 5/12/17 3:23 PM where the latest of some dozen plus skin graft is still healing. Lydia pulls even harder and the thick strap that fits across his back grinds, back and forth, making his skin feels like it’s on fire again. He slaps Lydia so hard the sound of his hand hitting her cheek reverberates in the car. She sits back, eyes wide, teetering between shock and disbelief. Patrick feels his face throbbing. He tries to work the arm back into place. His face is bloody, dripping onto his uniform. He brings the stump to his cheek, forget- ting there’s no hand there anymore. It’s been a year and he still favors his right hand for everything, like the ambush didn’t happen. “Fuck,” he says. He gets blood on the moisture-wicking sock he wears over the stump. Esmeralda moves to his side. She’s holding one of those little tissues that come in packets like decks of cards. She holds it up to his face and he can smell the jasmine lotion she wears and the iron in his blood. He slides across the seat and opens the door facing away from the road. He steps out of the car, working off the knot on the black, silk neckerchief on his uniform. He puts it away and starts trying to wriggle out of the shirt, but it’s hard with the harness out of place and the prosthetic arm hanging at the wrong angle. Cars speed past, over the speed limit, raising swirls of rubbish and weeds collected on the side of the road. He walks further downhill, where he’s not so close to the trash. Part of him knows there are no improvised explosive devices in American freeway litter, but the other part hates the feeling of openness, of being such a perfect target. Esmeralda joins him, clutching a plastic water bottle and the rest of her tissues. Patrick takes a deep breath. “I’m stuck,” he says. “Let me help,” she says, helps him pull off his uniform’s dark blue jumper. She helps him out of the prosthetic arm’s harness, holds in the crook of her elbow. The whole contraption feels light, unreal. She searches Patrick’s face, looking for traces of her husband. They have the same green eyes and the same jaw, but it ends there. Patrick is wiry and full of energy where Troy was mellow and built like a running back. She thinks of the deportation order on her kitchen table and the immigration paperwork she overnighted to Iraq almost a year ago. She’s trying to avoid delving into intent, what it might mean that her husband chose to ignore the appeal-by date she’d printed and highlighted on every form. She finally got the papers back last week, in a box with Troy’s personal belongings, dog-eared and unsigned, between bootleg copies of Platoon and Saving Private Ryan. “Here,” she says, and pours water on a tissue. “Use this to clean up.” “Thanks.” He takes the damp papers, wipes his hand, and brings it to his face, touching gingerly. He feels along the cheek, where it hurts the most. In the

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 36 5/12/17 3:23 PM struggle, a shard of shrapnel worked its way to the surface. He turns away from Esmeralda and pulls out the jagged bit of metal. On the palm of his hand it looks insignificant, flat, no larger than a bean. One piece down, hundreds to go. “Why don’t you wear the electric hand?” Esmeralda says, touching the gleaming, polyurethane socket. “It looks almost real.” Patrick’s first impulse when people ask this is to yell that almost isn’t enough. Sleekness comes at steep price with the myoelectric arm: it’s heavy, fragile and painful to wear after just an hour. He puts pressure on his cheek, to stem the bleeding. When most of the metal on his face comes out, he’s decided to grow a beard. He remembers the first time he saw Esmeralda, three years ago, in a little black bikini, on Coronado Beach, rinsing off a vintage Hobie longboard at the public showers. He remembers the apron she wrapped around her waist, remembers dragging his brother to the bar on that apron, to El Mariachi Pinto, hoping to run into the girl with the surfboard. He also remembers the sucker punch of meeting her as Troy’s girlfriend a week later, before he got up the guts to go beyond making a decent first impression. He wonders sometimes, if it’s his imagination or if Esmeralda really seems happy to see him when he visits, pleased by his attention. Patrick looks at her. She’s staring at his arm. He decides the look in her eyes is just pity. “I’m trying to get back into surfing,” he says, at last, though a minute has passed since her question. “The electric arm can’t get wet.” “What about the C-Leg? That can’t get wet either.” “I take it off. I can’t do it standing anyway.” Yet he thinks. “Oh.” “I’ll get there,” Patrick says, tries to smile. “We can go surfing together.” She cradles her belly. “After the baby.” “What about the deportation order?” he says, desperate to change the subject and forget an offer that feels like a consolation prize. Esmeralda looks up. “I saw the letter from immigration,” Patrick adds. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t snooping, I shouldn’t have.” “They can’t send me back if I’m not there.” She shrugs. “Is that why you are going to your mother’s?” Esmeralda nods. “I’ll rent another social security number. It’s not hard.” “Marry me,” he almost blurts. The offer echoes in his mind. “Maybe going back wouldn’t be so bad,” he says, instead. Troy’s death benefit is a pittance in California, but in El Salvador, it would afford her a life in the lap of luxury. “I’ve lived in San Diego since I was a baby, Patrick,” she says, interrupting his reverie. “I don’t speak Spanish.” Patrick blushes. He chastises himself for assuming. “I didn’t know,” he mumbles. Esmeralda smiles. “At least you don’t call me a scheming Mexican wetback,”

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 37 5/12/17 3:23 PM she says, looking uphill. Lydia is pacing the length of the idling limo, smoking. They listen to the cars zipping past, tires bumping the expansion joints on the road, a beat or two of passing music filtering down. Esmeralda breaks the silence. “I have to pee.” She sighs. “We could stop at my house,” Patrick says. “It’s closer.” “Are you going to put your arm back on?” He shakes his head and lifts his right arm. “I don’t have another sock,” he says, “I don’t like wearing it wet.” “Can I see your arm without it?” Esmeralda asks. Her voice is so soft, Patrick wonders if she didn’t ask. He hopes, if only for a moment, just so he won’t have to answer, but there’s no denying the look in her eyes. “Esmeralda, it’s ugly—” “I don’t care.” Patrick lifts his arm and pulls off the three-ply prosthetic sock. The stump is pocked by the scarring of shrapnel and the half dozen surgeries required to spare his elbow. The handless tip is tapered, like a sharpened pencil. His doctor swears it will look better in another year. Esmeralda brings her fingers to the tan line where the prosthetic socket ends. The skin above it is darker. “Does it hurt?” He shakes his head. He’d like to explain it, but lacks the words. As long as he’s busy, as long as he’s wearing the prosthesis, he can do almost anything. He can’t tell her that he hates falling asleep, that he’ll doze off for two or three hours and wake up, screaming, in pain, because he can feel his right hand, because he’s flexing his fingers and turning his wrist and it sends a horrible shooting pain up his arm and down his spine. The first time it happened, he screamed so loud, his next door neighbor called the police. Still, he doesn’t dare take any of the half dozen painkillers his doctor has prescribed. Patrick tells himself that the pain is better in the long run. When he’s out of this hole in six months, he doesn’t want his life to revolve around morphine. But deep down, he can’t fall for his own bullshit. Deep down he’s still angry at God for sparing him, the only guy in a six man team who didn’t have a wife and kids back home. He’s angry he didn’t take out the fucking hajji, but most of all he’s angry because Lydia is a roaring bitch—has been for as long as he’s known her—but he’d still give anything for the tiniest bit of her approval. “Are you okay?” Esmeralda asks. He sees it again, that flicker, that thing that feels like pity. He starts head- ing uphill. “You should get claws for the hand,” she says. “Like Wolverine. Lydia would love it.”

*Honorable Mention, Fiction, Sigma Tau Delta Writing Contest 2016

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 38 5/12/17 3:23 PM Purifying Springs Eduardo Ortiz

It felt like walking underwater, each movement slowed, the pressure becoming too much to bear, struggling, and wanting nothing more than to breathe. This inescapable feeling has encompassed her for as long as she could remember, she feels as though no matter how much she walks she goes nowhere. Her movement is aimless and slow, shuffling, and no matter how hard she tries to push forward and speed up, she can’t. Constantly moving through a crowd like a drop of water in an ocean, indiscernible from any other. She bumps shoulders with strangers but never looks up. The only thing in her field of vision being her own pointed shoes. This constant shuffling towards nothingness has become dull, or perhaps it has always been dull and she simply never took that into account until recently. She began to ask herself, why hasn’t she even bothered to wonder what direction she was headed? Why hadn’t she looked up and even questioned where she was? As though waking from a daydream she became aware with a startling jerk that she was indeed doing absolutely nothing. Walking without direction, moving forward but going nowhere. Lifting her head for what felt like the first time she saw the people about her, and the realization dawned on her that this too was a first. She was unsure of how long she had been stuck in that trance, and how long she had been marching along with the crowd for what seemed like no particular reason at all. She quickly scanned the people around her, a formless mass, all looking down and shuffling through the streets aimlessly like a rolling fog suffocating the city, gripping tightly around the sidewalks and alleyways. Not a single person was looking up at the skyscrapers that surrounded the streets, or the trees that seemed to battle with the concrete, their roots cracking it and raising the sidewalk at sharp angles. When it came to the skyscrapers there was nothing of interest to look at, the unlit windows of stores and restaurants added to the uninhabited look of the city, if it weren’t for the silent parade of nomadic people marching through anyone might think this city had been abandoned. The people were dressed in varying styles of clothes from all cultures and time periods as though they were all going to the same costume party. The only theme seemed to be that a majority of the people were dressed as soldiers from varying countries, other than that the ages and outfits of the people varied drastically. Despite what appeared to be a large and colorful occasion, no one spoke. The lines of people never seemed to end, walking in all directions. Like any person who suddenly finds herself at a costume party she became self-conscious. She glanced down and saw she was wearing her regular

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 39 5/12/17 3:23 PM work clothes, dark navy dress pants, a matching blazer, and a stark white blouse underneath, all ironed to perfection. Meanwhile, she stood in the midst of people dressed in clothing ranging from Victorian era dresses to animal hides and feeling overdressed in comparison. She tried to get the attention of a man in a kilt and vest, who was nearest to her, by reaching out and grabbing onto his arm, but just as her fingers wrapped around it they slipped off immediately. Trying yet again with a man clad in flannel with a miner’s headlamp, she reached out to him, only to have her fingers slip off the moment they came into contact with him. No one would acknowledge her, even when she was standing directly in their path. They simply flowed around her. Panic built up as if she had dived deep down into this new environment, and as she swam towards the surface it appeared to grow farther and farther away, forcing her to struggle desperately. She could no longer able to hold her breath, it escaped her lungs and ascended to the surface in front of her very eyes, bursting on contact with the air. Her heart hammering away as though the pressure change were too much, and it would give away at a second’s notice, going faster and faster. “Help,” she croaked, her voice in search of something to hold onto, to keep her afloat. “Please, anyone?” Her cries fell on deaf ears, and the salty beginnings of tears reached her eyes as she gave up. As she allowed her voice to fade away into the vast sea of silence, she decided that she was alone in this place, and she alone would have to find out what was going on. Either she could just accept this new life that had been thrust upon her or attempt to find out the truth. She fumbled through her pockets for hints as to who she might be, pulling out her wallet, an ID would at least offer some general information. She was an organ donor, but beyond her address nothing really seemed important. It all made sense, at the very least, but no matter how hard she stared at her name she could not read it. The letters appeared to disintegrate the moment they entered her field of view and then swirl around each other in a whirl of ink, and deciphering it would be impossible. Her hands began to tremble at the sight, so she shoved it back into her pocket to avoid throwing it away from herself. It was all too strange. She wasn’t able to fully remember what her life was like before all of this, but she knew that this wasn’t right based on the unsettling feeling which she was unable to shake. Her home address seemed right, it felt as though it were the only true thing she could hold onto. She looked for street signs, and as she read their names the fuzziest memory came into focus, it was downtown, the white on green street signs were familiar, and they grew more familiar as she walked. She could find her way home, and maybe that’s all she needed, to find her way. Her pace sped up as memories poured back, her mind’s eye filled with

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 40 5/12/17 3:23 PM the sights, sounds and smell of the city, the traffic filled streets, the clamor of millions of people rushing to be in different places all at once, restaurant doors spread open filling the air with aromas of freshly cooked meats of all kinds and spices from around the world, all meshed into one city block constantly assaulting the senses. The feeling of belonging that was brought on by these memories harshly contrasted by the silent gloom of the city presently. As she walked down the middle of the road, avoiding the crowds solemnly shuffling along the sidewalk. She briefly wondered why not a single car or bus came into sight. The road was clear for miles in any direction, yet, the sidewalk remained filled with traffic. As she neared her apartment, anxiety built up, not fear of returning home but what may be waiting for her. Memories returned to her at a dizzy- ing pace--searching for an apartment, job hunts, leaks in the ceiling, the first night being spent in a fortress of moving boxes, cheap coffee, her husband, smiling, early mornings, late nights, love. If he had joined in as a part of the mindless parade on the sidewalk she wouldn’t know what to do, and with that her anxiety turned into action. She burst forward, navigating the streets with ease. Faces and costumes along the sidewalk became a blur. A half hour later and her apartment finally came into view. Her lungs felt empty, no matter how quickly her chest rose and fell, her legs trapped in burning flames, her heart beating so desperately it felt as though it was tearing itself apart, and she paused for a moment to rest before facing whatever might be awaiting her. The moment her hands pulled open the door of her apartment building all her aches and pains vanished, and she took the stairs two at a time. Reaching her apartment, she flung open the door expectantly. Her bravado faded as each of her footsteps echoed on the hardwood flooring, the apartment (though fully furnished) felt hollow. Looking at the small apartment with its beige walls, hardwood floors, heavy leather furniture, spotless and complement- ed by the faint scent of wood varnish, it was not just a place to live, it was a home. Along the walls were photographs of her and her husband, holding one another fondly, smiling recklessly. Tender moments with her husband, late nights finishing work, cold nights holding each other tightly to save on the energy bill. She sank into the nearest seat as she could not only see but feel the emptiness within the apartment. Unsure of recent events and her memory loss, she did what any rational adult faced with a stressful situation would do: she crawled into bed and took a nap. The sun slid through the smallest of gaps in the curtains and its prying rays found her eyes. The distant sound of a bus leaving its stop lightly graced her ears, forcing her eyes to snap open at the realization that the entire time she had been here she hadn’t seen a single vehicle. She takes off running, flying down the stairs, attempting to force her way through the endless crowd of people milling about. Just as she is close enough to the street to see anything,

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 41 5/12/17 3:23 PM the red bus vanishes around a corner, and she trips over a man dressed in knight’s armor. Falling onto the pavement she grazes her palms and knees. The immediate stinging pain feeling warm and burning. Angry, she runs towards the metal-plated zombie, kicking him in the shins, sending herself into yet another bout of pain as her toe collides with the unforgiving plate armor. She feels the reverberation deep in her bones. Disappointed, she returns to her apartment, slamming her door, and sinking down into the armchair yet again. After sulking for about an hour slowly she walks towards the window in the living room and pulls back the curtains to view the same inconsistently dressed people shuffling along the sidewalks aimlessly. Returning to the com- fort of her armchair, she stares at the ceiling, her mind swimming with confu- sion. Looking around the room she sees nothing but reminders of the absence she could not replace, her husband. This weird reality filled with strange people was too much to bear, yet she was alone with no one to share the burden, and insanely bored. She changed into jeans and tennis shoes because there appeared no reason not to explore. Especially if no one remained to arrest or stop her from seeing the inside of a bank vault or what the president might keep in his desk. Her first few ideas for entertainment included attempting to trip the people shuffling along the sidewalks but that was quickly shut dow, as they seemed to just continually move forward in whichever direction no matter what. Being quite the believer in the scientific method, she pulled a small, thin branch from a nearby tree and jabbed at the passerbys attempting to get a reaction out of them. They moved on, unscathed, possibly because she feared hurting them. Then came the next logical step, a professional maneuver which many practitioners of science honed at Buckingham Palace, “Hey, Fuckface, look at me!” she screamed. Sitting on the staircase, she began to see how many times she could get a pebble to bounce off the heads of the endless sea of pedestrians as she planned out her day. She was determined to make a change, and so she would. Setting down her pebbles and affixing her gaze on the sky, she searched for the highest skyscraper. Her legs felt ache-free, and she allowed herself to wonder what might be the cause of all of this, it could be a number of things, a plague that only she was immune to, the consequences of agreeing to terms and conditions without actually reading them or more likely she was dead. She hated to admit it but she could no longer force the concept towards the back of her mind. There was no other clear explanation for anything. Perhaps everyone else was dead too, but that didn’t explain why she was the only sentient one there. Her breath quickened, and the dropping feeling she felt in her stomach led to her body being racked by dry heaves, as she realized the entire time she had been self aware she hadn’t eaten anything. Staggering to stand properly, she

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 42 5/12/17 3:23 PM wiped her hands on her jeans and kept walking, eventually reaching the base of the tallest skyscraper she could find, its reflective glass and steel combination looked as though it were the center jewel for the intricate necklace the sky wore made up of a string of skyscrapers, all unique in style and length yet representing the same thing, wealth. As she stood at it’s base, gazing up, she felt almost ashamed that she would be jumping off of it to commit suicide. “You can’t die twice, so technically it’s not… that wrong,” she muttered. Grabbing onto the handle to the pristine glass doors facing the lobby she slowly entered the marble lobby of the building. As she walked toward the el- evator she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She turned and looked about the room to see an old man in the waiting area sprawled out asleep on the couch. He was wearing clothes as dated as he was, a worn wool sweater and slacks with loafers that lived up to their name. She ran up to the snoring shadow of a man and grabbed him by his shoulders shaking him awake. He gave a startled yelp and sat up quickly, raising his fists as though prepared for an attacker. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” “You’re real, you’re not like one of them,” she said, quickly. “You must be new, so what do you think is going on, zombies, plague, mind control?” “I think I’m dead,” she said, her excitement fading. “You are, and you’re actually the first person I’ve met who caught on so quickly,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “So why is everything like this?” she said “A lot of people die, it just takes a while to realize you’re dead, look around you, some people are older than you could imagine and they still can’t figure it out,” he said, while tugging at an errant strand of thread from his sweater. “So is this it? Are we stuck here? Why did I have to die?” she said, her voice drying suddenly. “Listen young lady, I don’t know why you died. I just know you’re dead. If you figured out why you died you wouldn’t be here.” “What do you mean by that?” “Anyone I’ve met that figures out how they died disappears, simple as that,” he said, looking at the ceiling. “I lost some close friends like that, in fact, you see when you’re here you’re not really here, you see the place where you died, everyone else sees their own place of death. It’s rare but you might run into someone else who knows they’re dead, and you follow these bread crumbs. Your memories find their way back to you with more that you find out about yourself. Anyway, I had a cowboy friend named Buck. He’d been dead since before Billy the Kid was in diapers. We walked around for quite a while before he followed the trail of his last cattle drive and remembered that

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 43 5/12/17 3:23 PM on one faithful morning he forgot to check his boots,” His eyes seemed to frost over as he recanted the tale. “Right then he was gone, like nothing, no sound, no flashing light, just gone. I couldn’t believe my eyes, I still don’t. In fact, I wonder if he was real at all, or if you are.” “How can I know you’re real?” she replied. “You can’t, don’t they teach Descartes in whatever time you’re from?” he said, testily. “Well, yeah but that doesn’t really help us does it?” she began to shift her weight and cross her arms. “Okay, but that doesn’t put me at ease,” he said. “For an old dead guy you’re pretty sensitive.” “For someone who wants my help you’re very rude.” He began to walk towards the front door. “What makes you think I want your help?” “The fact that you’re following me.” She stood quietly for a moment before proceeding to follow after him. They walked silently side by side down the street, suddenly turning into an alley lacking in light but having a surplus of nooks and crannies, a place where no living person would walk through confidently, but the dead did. As they walked, the alleyways grew more decrepit and old, places forgotten by city planners, and all but the homeless who once inhabited it. “Why are we here?” she asked. “I’m here because I want to know how I died, you’re here because you don’t have anything better to do than bother me,” he said continuing to search deeper into the labyrinth of alleys. “Why do you think you died in an alley?” “It’s an alley, you don’t get mugged in an office building, and I just know it was in one of these, they’ve always been dangerous.” “Well wouldn’t it be close to your home?” “I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been home ,and I’m not going home,” he said, his pace increasing. “Why not, wouldn’t that be the first place to look if you’re dead?” “I trust my home. It’s the people outside of it I can’t trust. I must have gone outside to pick something up to eat and been mugged. People are dangerous, that’s how my wife died, mugged in an alley on her way home.” “You don’t seem too hung up about that do you?” From that moment on they continued to walk in silence, their footsteps echoing. They searched and searched in silence, for there was nothing to do, becoming deeply lost within the clusterfuck of streets and alleyways. Their silent marching resembled that which she had just escaped and to avoid panic setting in she struck up conversation, what could have been minutes or hours later.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 44 5/12/17 3:23 PM “So how did you know Buck’s name? I tried reading mine from my ID, but I couldn’t read it at all, the letters kept moving around,” she said as she stopped walking. Turning his head he said, “I know it’s odd, but you won’t ever be able to read your own name. Buck had letters in his saddle bags from his wife, he let me read them and I told him his name,” he paused and exhaled. “Sadly, I don’t carry anything that tells me my name, other than the newspaper clipping from my wife’s death, so just call me Monroe, no first name.” She quickly produced her wallet from her pocket and tore through it searching for her ID then thrusting it in front of Monroe without a word, just holding it before him wide eyed as though it were an offering. Squinting and putting the rectangular bit of plastic reassurance close to his face he said matter of factly, ”Your name is Alice Springs.” She paused looking down then smiling, “It’s funny, I thought knowing my name would change something, Monroe, but to be honest I feel the same.” At this he chuckled, and continued walking a bit further before pausing at an intersection, slowly taking in the sight of the crowd flowing along the sidewalk as usual. He slowly turned back down the alley without a word. “Why are we walking back?” asked Alice. “I’ve already been through everything here twice and still haven’t figured out how I died. I must have missed something again” “Monroe, you’re saying you’ve been through this whole city twice? Where haven’t you been?” “Home.” “Maybe it’s time to check out your home then?” Monroe exhaled through his nose and scratched the back of his head, then slowly rubbed his face with his hands pulling them away as though they had been stuck to his face. “Yeah sure, you know what, Buck told me the same thing, that’s probably why I’m still here and he’s not.” He led the way with ease, instinctually, stopping only due to the sudden flashes of memory that Alice had herself experienced. They stood in front of a condemned building, complete with boarded windows, a surrounding chain link fence and though there were no roaches present it gave the impression that it would be coated in generations of them, had dead insects and animals come to this place after death. Looking at the disgust on Alice’s face, Monroe explained, possibly to himself, “I put up the condemned signs and fence myself, it was to keep teenagers and squatters away. I kept this newspaper clipping of my wife’s death in my pocket at all times just as a reminder of how unsafe the outside was. Let’s go inside, it’s nice to see the old rat hole after all this time.” Entering the building was like walking into a Y2K shelter, the walls were lined with canned goods, health supplies and water. The walls might have had

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 45 5/12/17 3:23 PM paint, but no one would ever know as they were all plastered with newspaper stories detailing crimes within the city, grisly murders, atrocious acts and everything else listed in the Law and Order intro. Aside from the survival supplies the living room was only furnished by a singular metal chair, a pile of books and a shotgun resting atop the literature. “Monroe, you didn’t. . . .” “No, I would never, I’m Jewish. It’s not necessarily seen as wrong, but it is looked down upon.” “You’re Jewish?” “Why do you say it like you’re surprised, sorry, Sweetheart we don’t wear stars on our clothing anymore.” “I didn’t mean it like that--it’s just I’m Christian, so if we’re both dead and in the same place . . .” she began to squint her eyes and rub her temples. “But I believe in Jesus.” “We actually do too. We just don’t consider him the messiah. Maybe read a book sometime? Listen, we’re dead, if anything we’ll find out what actually happens, that’s a little terrifying to be honest.” He looked up the staircase as though he were looking into the abyss, “and that’s probably why I didn’t want to come home.” With that he put his foot down on the first wooden step. Alice followed him silently curious as to what would happen next. Inside Monroe’s bedroom was a single mattress with no sheets, just a comforter and a single pillow. Monroe opened the closet door where anything which had some form of sentiment had been hidden away, he began to choke back tears, struggling to speak he said. “I remember now. I hid this all away the day she died, then got rid of anything else, anything she touched, I couldn’t live with just her memory.” He opened a photo album which was adorned in white lace and frills, filled with pictures of a young happy couple. “It was the tenth anniversary of her death, she was only 60. I knew we weren’t going to live forever, but it felt like eternity without her. I had to look, I had to remember.” His body seemed to shrink and the pages were victim to a torrential downpour of tears the further he ventured through them. “I just missed her, my heart decided it was time, my chest burned, my veins felt like they were fighting each other and suddenly--” With that, Monroe was no more, Alice saw nothing, her vision blurred, her mind felt as though it rejected the very concept of someone disappearing into thin air. She stood quietly unsure of what to do next attempting to comprehend what she had just borne witness to. After moments of attempting to comprehend she understood it as better to just accept it for what it was. As she walked away from the apartment it sank in that she once more was alone. She returned to the sidewalk and walked along with the rest of the dead. Eventually finding a familiar street she decided to head home, and

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 46 5/12/17 3:23 PM as she came across an intersection she was suddenly submerged into her own memory of walking along that very sidewalk. Pouring rain, people rushing into taxis and to their cars, not being able to see beyond the crowd. Rushing, moving as fast as the crowd would allow, trying to escape, stepping off the curb and right as she did the light from the bus illuminated her entirely and like that she was gone, no puff of smoke, no flashing light, nothing. He couldn’t bear it any longer, he wasn’t a fragile man, but Alice’s death shattered him as though he was. The pain he felt he wore in the bags beneath his eyes, his wrinkled clothing and messy hair, he was partially ashamed that she might see him like this soon enough. The rope chafed his skin but who was he to complain, it wouldn’t chafe much longer, he kicked the stool from beneath his legs and with that his suffering was over, looking down he saw his shoes dangling, then kicking, then walking. How long had he been walking for? In fact, where was he even going?

Untitled (1), Brian Delgado

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 47 5/12/17 3:23 PM The Rabbit Hole Paris Razor

The pasture was green and the flowers were vibrant. We dropped the casket down the 6-foot hole. Alice was finally going to Wonderland.

*First Place Award, Fiction, Sigma Tau Delta Writing Contest 2017

Medieval Alleys, Odette Lopez

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 48 5/12/17 3:23 PM A Simple Life Destiny Ricks

It happened again. They would never learn. Margaret watched from her bedroom window as another was dragged into the street, knowing what was to come and the fate of the poor soul. It was so unfortunate. Margaret was in a dreamless sleep when she heard the noise that came from her open window. Maybe this would be a lesson to close her window at night; she hoped this didn’t become a common occurrence. But Margaret was wishing for too much. Her mother, Lady Olivia Benjamin, burst into her room, with all of the grace and elegance Margaret wished she possessed herself. Her mother was an interesting woman to say the least; she only accepted to be called ‘Mother’ by Margaret, not ‘mom’, ‘mommy’, or ‘momma’. She was strict, regal, and held herself as high as the Queen herself. Some even said higher. Glancing at her mother, noting her upturned nose and arched eyebrows, Margaret knew that it was. “Can you believe the audacity?” Lady Olivia scoffed, coming to stand by the window. “They always repeat the same mistakes. They’ll never learn.” “What did he do this time, Mother? What was the grave mistake that led to his humiliation?” Margaret turned her blank eyes to her ladyship, already bored with the conversation. Lady Olivia sniffed proudly. “I cannot divulge details with you, Margaret. You know that. These are sensitive matters.” Margaret rolled her eyes. Of course, her mother would dramatically enter her room, her hair and makeup already immaculately done before seven in the morning and claim not to be able to ‘divulge details’ with her daughter. She probably didn’t know what happened either. She continued to watch the defiant man be led in the streets by the leash around his neck, almost like a disobedient puppy. Seemed a bit extreme to Margaret, but these were the times they lived in. “The Greatest of Times,” according to her Ladyship. Well, of course, she would say that. Lady Olivia Benjamin was the ap- pointed General of Social Order, second only to the leader of their nation, her Grace, Isabella Dalton. It was the poorest of times, if you were a man. Men fell very low on the totem pole and, of course, were given certain “obediences” to follow. If they did that, they could lead a simple life, a happy life—in her Ladyship’s own words, albeit, but that’s neither here nor there. Margaret once sat down with her signature cup of tea and lemon pound

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 49 5/12/17 3:23 PM cake for a fine day of reading, partaking in “The Obedience’s,” a book written by her own mother. It detailed the rules that men were to live by to lead the life they wanted, with restrictions. Margaret was only a third into the book, when she closed it out of sheer boredom. She was happy she had no brothers who would constantly complain about their “limitations” in society. But then again, Margaret had no siblings to speak with—she was an only child. “…I was having such a peaceful afternoon and then this had to happen. There is always someone out there, determined to spoil my day.” Her ladyship paced back and forth in the small space of Margaret’s bedroom. Surveying her room, she noted the white wallpaper and carpet, the bland paintings, and the lack of family portraits. The Benjamins were one of the wealthiest families in the nation; one would think Margaret would get a bigger room and some better décor. Such is life, she supposed. She couldn’t have everything. “One day, you will have to take the mantle as General and only then, will you truly understand my stress.” Lady Olivia placed a pale hand upon her forehead and dramatically sat down on Margaret’s bed. “I find that hard to believe as you refuse to tell me the inner workings of our government.” Margaret brought her mother a cool kerchief, which she took gratefully. “I apologize, Margaret, but you never seemed eager to learn about laws and policies and the reasons behind them.” “What are the reasons behind them?” “Well, this is the way it has always been and we continue to thrive. I would like to keep it that way.” Lady Olivia gave her daughter a pointed look while raising one eyebrow. Margaret knew her mother would haunt her from her grave if she made any major changes to “The Obedience’s”. She would rather not live with the ghost of her mother over her shoulder for the rest of her life. Margaret cleared her throat and straightened her back, trying to exude as much confidence as possible. “Mother—your Ladyship, I think it is time I learn my family legacy. I have come of age and neither of us is getting any younger.” Maybe addressing her mother by her formal title would appeal to her sensibilities. Olivia Benjamin continued to pat the kerchief on her face and neck, merely glancing at her daughter. Margaret casually waited for her mother to “calm down.” Finally, Olivia let out a long-bearing sigh. “Well, I suppose you can come along with me to the detention center. I will not allow you to interact directly with the criminals, but observation is one of the best ways to learn.” Olivia Benjamin stood regally, almost flowing out of the room. Before she exited, she turned back to Margaret.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 50 5/12/17 3:23 PM “And please do put on your best, sweetheart. Even in the worst of times, one must look their very best.” With an arrogant sniff towards Margaret’s pink nightgown, Olivia closed the door with a sharp tug. The slam of the door echoed throughout the empty, white room. Margaret huffed, looking down at her clothes. “What does that woman expect me to wear to bed, a parka?” Margaret huffed, turning to her closet. A lady should always dress to impress when visiting criminals, she supposed. Lady Olivia and Margaret Benjamin stiffly walked into the detention center later that day. Margaret remembered to keep her shoulders back and her head high, trying to copy her mother’s composed posture. Margaret wrinkled her nose at the smell; it was a mixture of disinfectant and just plain sadness. Happiness did not thrive here, but Margaret expected nothing less from a center designed by Lady Olivia. The Center for Disrup- tive Individuals was a detention center where all the unruly men and women—mostly men—came to be corrected. The CDI was actually less than what Margaret expected. With the white walls, white floors, and lack of decoration it depressingly resembled her house, just without the horrid smell. “Now, remember Margaret, you are here to observe and nothing more. Do not get too involved. You may ask a few questions, if you like. Oh, if only I remembered to bring a journal and a pen. It would have been great if you could take notes; another time, then. If there will be another time.” Lady Olivia waved a dismissive hand in the air, saving that topic for later. “As I was saying, you are merely here to observe our traditions that you have studied for years. Now, you can see those traditions in front of your very eyes. As you know, I am very proud of everything that we have accomplished here…” Margaret sighed, tuning out her mother as they continued to weave from hallway to hallway. She was curious if Olivia knew she never finished reading “The Obedience’s” and really had no interest in tradition. She was only curious why things were the way they were. And Margaret wanted to experience firsthand the ongoing operations. Olivia and Margaret finally came to a stop before a large white double door. Before entering, Olivia turned to her daughter. “One last thing, do not make direct eye contact with the criminal. We have learned he is unpredictable and it would be best not to antagonize him.” Margaret nodded firmly. Accepting her daughter’s nod, Olivia pushed open the door to reveal another white room, of course. Margaret wasn’t sure if her mother just loved the color white, both in life and in work, or if white was necessary to the design of the detention center. Probably a mixture of both. Knowing her mother’s philosophy, she didn’t want people being too happy in a place for punishment

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 51 5/12/17 3:23 PM and absence of color is usually a good way to start. Margaret cautiously stepped into the room, noting the female assistants scurrying around the room and immediately taking notice of the large one-way mirror on the opposite wall. Walking closer, she noticed the man from earlier before now sitting in a wooden chair. The leash had not been taken off of his neck and the man stared sullenly at the glass mirror in front of him. “Can he see us?” Margaret asked the closest assistant. “No, we can only see him. That is what’s best, right now.” “Why?” “Men are often subjected to hysterics, especially in this stage,” Olivia interjected, coming to stand by Margaret. “They are often uncontrollable and that is why the… restraint is necessary.” “What stage is he in?” Margaret questioned. “Men in the late teens and early 20s have a higher level of hormones and often act on their desires without thinking.” Another nurse came into the conversation. “We have rules to prevent such situations, but there will always be some that will break those boundaries, without thought. Some call it human nature.” “I call it idiocy,” Olivia stated. “And what was his crime?” “Matthew Branson was seen out rightly flirting with a lady above his station and was seeking to fulfill his desires before he was discovered by the lady’s mother. This occurred at five thirty this very morning,” the blonde assistant recited from the notes on her clipboard. She looked up at the Olivia, who gave a short nod of approval. “It is said that he intended to marry the lady, but did not have the approval of his mother or the lady’s mother. This is an offensive crime.” “That is a grave crime?” Margaret racked her brain of the little reading she did of “The Obedience’s”, but she couldn’t remember flirting being seen as an offensive crime. “Well, of course, sweetheart.” Olivia gave her daughter a patronizing look. “Seeking relations without the approval of one’s mother and also trying to act on those desires goes against the very foundation of this society. We must follow tradition. Right?” Lady Olivia raised an eyebrow at the assistants, waiting for the answer she wanted. “Yes, Lady Olivia,” they all chorused together, before scampering off to find something to occupy themselves. Olivia gave a pleased nod. “And what has happened to the woman? Is she here, too?” Margaret inquired, glancing around as if the mystery woman would appear before her very eyes. “No, of course not. She cannot be blamed for being subjected to the wiles

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 52 5/12/17 3:23 PM of a male. What would we come to?” Margaret thought her mother’s logic was faulty, but it usually was. “And his punishment?” “Oh, nothing too severe. He didn’t finish with his actions, so he will only be kept under surveillance for a week or so before he can prove he is ready for society again,” Olivia stated. “During that time, maybe his mother will find him a match. That could solve all of our problems. Once he is married, the black mark on his ledger will be erased.” “The black mark?” Olivia glanced at Margaret, realizing that she may have not studied as much as she once thought. “Yes,” the blonde piped up once more. “Whenever a male commits a grave offence, there will be a black mark on his ledger. Until he is married, he is required to visit the CDI for evaluations. To see if he is fit for society, of course.” Thinking about it now, Margaret wasn’t sure if she was fit for the job of General. There seemed to be too many laws and contingencies, that not only she had to remember, but had to get other people to follow. Olivia thrived at this job, she liked telling people what to do and how to do it, even if she was wrong. Margaret wasn’t quite so sure how she would fare. Margaret gazed at Matthew through the one-way mirror. His eyes were furiously piercing through the glass, almost as if he could see them. A simple life, a happy life; his current situation currently did not resemble that. For a second, Margaret wondered what her life would be like if she were a man, subjected to constant rules and regulations. Men born higher in society received a bit more freedom than men of lower station, but not much. Looking at Matthew, Margaret knew she was happy to be born a woman. How pitiful, to be born a man. “I hoped you learned something today,” Olivia said to her daughter as they arrived at their home. White floors and white walls. Even white curtains. How could one woman love so much white? It was miserable how similar their home was to the detention center where they kept criminals. What could she possibly have learned from going to the detention center? Margaret definitely needed to read more. How was she to take over the position of the General of Social Order, if she didn’t know what the laws were? She guessed she never questioned the ways things were. When she did, her mother only responded that they had always been that way. Why was the man, Matthew Branson, punished rather than the woman? Margaret could only imagine that woman was now comfortable in her lush mansion, sipping chamomile tea and reading The Daily Times, while Matthew sat in a room encompassed entirely of white, unknowingly be watched day in and day out. Or maybe he did know. Men were constantly being monitored to make sure they kept a sense of propriety. “Margaret, I hope you’re listening to me.” Olivia arched an eyebrow at

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 53 5/12/17 3:23 PM her daughter, who stood staring off into the distance, contemplating. Margaret jumped to attention at the sound of her mother’s sharp, stern voice. “Of course, Mother. I was actually thinking of doing some more studying. Refresh my memory.” “Good. I can only imagine the great things you’ll do as General, following my legacy.” Olivia sighed dreamily as she imagined the possibilities. Margaret raised an eyebrow at her mother. What great things would she do? Uphold the legacy, the tradition? Margaret never considered the possibility of adding or taking out any laws. It never seemed like an option. But Olivia would be gone, no longer breathing down Margaret’s neck or upturning her nose at her daughter’s choices. Margaret would finally have power. As Margaret slowly walked to her bedroom, she considered the laws she could make as General. Maybe she could take away restrictions from the men, allow more freedom. It almost seemed blasphemous, but she would have power. A simple life, a happy life. She could make that happen—for everyone, rather than just a few. Stepping into her room, she looked at the white walls, white carpet, and the white curtains. So dismal. Actually, the first rule she would make as General: no more white.

Lion Façade, Odette Lopez

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 54 5/12/17 3:23 PM The Light Cristina Roca

It felt sticky, blistering, and bright. In the distance, children squealed and laughed playing in the surf. I sat high in the lighthouse. Watching and waiting. The sun set. As it got darker, my time came near, and so my job began. I was the lightkeeper. A beacon of hope that made the night clear. Helping those out at sea steer. Helping them navigate through the channel. Away from the dangers of sharp rocks. I couldn’t stop staring out at the different ships wondering if this was going to be the one that brought him home. “It’s almost sunrise. Let me take the last shift. Go rest, Jose.” I turned my attention to my sister Karina. I looked at the beaten mug in her stretched-out arms and took it in, thankful. The hot bitter taste of coffee making me realize just how late it really was. I turned my attention back to the ocean. Watching boats and ships alike pass through the channels. “Do you think he can see our light? Maybe from the bow of his ship?” she asked, as she sat next to me. “He is far, Kari, but we turn on the light so he can find his way back to us.” “Papa will return. I have hope,” I told her, hugging her tightly. “That’s what the light is. It’s hope. We can’t let it go out.” With that, I rose and left her watching the sunrise. I went to bed. Nightmares of shipwrecks and Gilligan’s island plagued me. I clenched my fist and grinded my teeth in frustration. Why hasn’t he called? Where was he now? When would he be back? I tried calling him again, and just like the other twelve times, I left a message. The bills on the table were starting to pile up, and the money in the tin above the fridge was running low. If he didn’t come soon I’d have to start skipping school and going out on the skiff on my own to see what I could catch and sell in the market. My teacher was getting suspicious, sending home forms to have a parent-teacher conference, and all we had to eat was coffee and oatmeal. If this is adulthood, I’m afraid of what turning seventeen will be like. As days turned into weeks, I found us falling into a familiar pattern. I worked the lighthouse through the night, and when morning came, I’d wake Kari and rush her to school. After setting out a lukewarm bowl of oats for her, I’d walk her to school. About a block away from school I’d hand her a stained and crumpled piece of paper. “Don’t forget to leave that in the front office for me,” I motioned to the note, and I watched as she slipped the note into her pocket. “Do you think they’ll know–” “No. They won’t have a doubt in their minds that Papa wrote that note.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 55 5/12/17 3:23 PM As long as you don’t say anything,” I said roughly. Kari stiffened and nodded at me. I nudged her encouragingly towards the school and stood watching as she turned to leave. She looked back and hugged me fiercely. “Have hope, hermano. He’s been gone this long before. We’ll get by.” Karina always knew what to say, and I guess that’s what siblings were for, to hope. I stayed until she was safely past the entrance gate. The walk home took longer than expected. A package on the front step of our weather-beaten porch surprised me. Knots formed in my stomach, and I hesitated to open it. Once inside I set it gently on the kitchen table, afraid of what might come rushing out of it. Pushing through my anxiety, I found a knife in the drawer closest to me and used the adrenaline pumping through me to tear the seam of perfect tape. Inside it, I found something that caused me bittersweet relief: A postcard from Juneau, Alaska, a trinket for Kari, and enough money to last us another month. Papa wasn’t one for words, but this told me enough. He was okay, but we would be alone another month or more.

Wash, Hannah LeBlanc

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 56 5/12/17 3:23 PM Fallando Liana Rodriguez

“Hey, Karen.” I tried to ignore her. What kind of person tries to talk to you when you have headphones on? I focused harder on the incline. “Karen?” she asked, but I knew she knew it was me. She knew I knew. I finally yanked out my headphones and tried to look surprised. “Oh, hey! How are you?” “I thought that was you! How have you been?” In that moment, I wanted to die. More than ever. More than that night with Derek. “I’m doing good.” “You look good! You’ve lost weight.” There it is. There’s the kicker, the punchline, the elephant in the room. “Yeah… I’ve been working out.” “Wow, that’s great. It must be hard…with the kids and all…ever since….” Why couldn’t she have been at a loss words before she decided to talk to me? “The separation.” “What?” “Ever since the separation, you mean?” “Yes, yes, that.” I would have liked her more if she just took out a knife and shanked the shit out of me right there. “I mean, we haven’t even heard from you since the whole thing, me and the girls. We’ve been getting all of our updates from your mom. Your poor mom. She’s so worried about you.” “Yeah. Everyone has their ups and downs, I guess.” “I suppose. Well, it was nice seeing you, dear.” She walked away with her little towel and her little Louis Vuitton track- suit and her big entitlement complex. And I just stood there with my worn out trainers and my failed marriage.

*First Place Award, Fiction, Sigma Tau Delta Writing Contest 2016

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22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 72 5/12/17 3:23 PM PTSD in Noncombat Service Personnel Patricia Martinez

War is never a pleasant undertaking. People die; many more are wound- ed, and almost all who participate are changed by the experience. As doc- umented, veterans often suffer from the stress they incurred during their service long after discharge. It is logical that people who have to kill others or experience bombings or witness the maiming and deaths of their friends would have deep emotional trauma; however, some soldiers who serve in noncombat roles such as working in the cafeteria or post office often experience similar mental health issues as their combat cohorts. One of the most discussed of these issues is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). PTSD was first included in DSM-III diagnoses in 1980, although terms such as shell shock and war trauma have been used to identify PTSD and PTSD-like mental health issues for decades (Hines et al., 469). With increased awareness of mental health issues, it is now both more widely recognized and reported, leading to both increased interest and expanded research into the disorder. This paper will investigate PTSD in noncombat soldiers and argue that they can suffer from PTSD without having experienced the trauma of combat, even if its onset is after their military service. In 2007, I failed my first semester of college so my father refused to pay for any more classes, and I needed both a job and a way to pay for my own college. The military was not my first career choice. I joined the Army just as Operation Iraqi Freedom was in full swing, and spent two years in Germany, followed by a year in Iraq and a year in Georgia. My job was a 42A, which is classified as a human resource specialist, but I worked at the post office. As such, I would not be expected to suffer from any particular trauma; post office worker jokes aside, it is not that stressful to deliver the mail. I did have to ride on helicopters and in Humvees twice a month while in Iraq to go to other small bases that had no post offices for mail delivery and pickup, but I did not experience any traumatic events during my trips. Our base did go on lock down one time because a missile hit a helicopter full of soldiers, but I did not know the people on board. Traveling did require being on high alert, but I do not recall any strong feelings of fear. I, of course, experienced some anxiety, but I do not think I realized the danger I was in. At least, I did not think about it. When I transferred to Germany, I had my first anxiety attack. We were released for the day and did not have to report until the next morning, so my platoon and I went out to eat and had a great time. I was perfectly fine. The next morning when I woke up, I had my first panic attack. It was horrible. I have struggled with anxiety every day since then. I have been back home for

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 73 5/12/17 3:23 PM five years and I still suffer from anxiety. I undertook this research to explore how I developed PTSD and how I could better address and heal from it. Lazarus describes Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PSTD) as a response to “toxic shame,” caused by either a severe traumatic experience or real or perceived traumatic stressors (131). Toxic shame is characterized by the inability of sufferers to live up to their own expectations, based in part by an unrealistic ideal of their limitations and a resulting belief that they are defec- tive (Lazarus 133). Yehuda et al. supports this finding, arguing that a growing body of research indicates that PTSD incurred through military service may not be the result of a specific traumatic event, but can also be caused by shame from involvement in conflict or survivors’ guilt (6). Simply being involved in the killing or others or feeling unworthy to be alive when other soldiers have died creates a negative or toxic emotional state. Because these soldiers are unable to process and work through this shame, the theoretical proposition contends, they internalize their negative feelings, which then surface in the form of fear, anxiety, anger, and/or aggression, often at a debilitating level (Ye- huda et al. 6). While the explicit causes of PTSD remain a topic of debate and research, individual vulnerabilities, social risk factors, and common life circumstances have been identified through empirical research. Xueet al. conclude that, “it has become increasingly accepted that individual vulnerability factors contrib- ute to the development of PTSD beyond the traumatic event itself” (2). Those suffering from PTSD typically have a combination of vulnerability factors from their past that increase their likelihood of experiencing the disorder, which combine with a trigger event that leads to onset of the disorder (Jones et al. 1709). Biological factors may also increase the likelihood of experiencing PTSD, with the identification of biomarkers a topic of many recent research studies (Yehuda et al. 6). Xue et al. report that “neurobiological research has indicated that PTSD has distinct mechanisms that are different from the general stress response” and other stress-related mental conditions, including issues related to mass of certain types of brain tissue, chemical imbalance, and atypical immunology (2). If findings from this and other early research in this area proves valid, Yehuda et al. suggest that it “would facilitate engagement in treatment early on in the progression of the disease” and may keep symptoms from having such a great impact on the sufferer’s interpersonal life (4). A number of social risk factors are also linked to predisposition for PTSD. Xue et al presents a summarization of thirty-eight studies of PTSD sufferers. This summary identified a family history of mental health issues and lower education attainment, among other things, as pre-trauma factors associated with PTSD (3). Jones et al similarly found that vulnerability factors for PTSD include racial minority status, lower socioeconomic group, childhood adversity, and low education level (Jones et al. 1703-1704). These researchers

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 74 5/12/17 3:23 PM theorize that growing up in portions of the population with fewer resources and more hardships create a stressful childhood environment, laying the foundation for severe response to later trauma. PTSD sufferers also shared a number of common life circumstances such as childhood abuse of some kind, negative or overly controlling parenting, and little social support (Xue et al. 3). Jones et al report finding lower rank, one or more serious accidents pre-onset of PTSD, and difficulties in childhood “were consistently associated with PTSD regardless of deployment status” (Jones et al. 1709). One other area of vulnerability has been identified. Hines and her research team examined how different subgroups of service personnel were affected by PTSD. They found a correlation between whether a person voluntarily entered the active military, as opposed to someone who felt forced to enlist or originally enlisted anticipating a noncombat role and was then deployed in a combat role. They found that reservists and National Guard members called into active duties and stationed in combat zones had higher rates of PTSD than those of voluntary active soldiers. In addition, “rates of PTSD among reserve and National Guard personnel increase significantly during the year after their return from deployment, above the increases that have been found in regular personnel” (Hines et al. 473). They theorize that those who enter as active duty soldiers are more willing and more prepared to experience combat zones, and that this preparedness increases their mental protection from trauma stress. Finally, there is some debate on whether noncombat personnel develop PTSD because of service, or because of issues not directly related to their personal military experience. Researchers have noted that noncombat soldiers suffering from delayed onset of PTSD could actually find the cause of their illness in an earlier abuse, accident, or trauma (Yehuda et al. 3). . They argue these people could also have experienced trauma in service not directly related to their own combat participation, such as “thread of death from a hostile population,” or knowledge of the deaths of their fellow soldiers (Jones et al. 1703-1704). In individuals who have these pre-onset vulnerabilities, almost any incident experienced as severely traumatic to the individual can trigger PTSD. Sexual assault, accidents, and experiencing natural disaster have all been identified as examples of classic traumas leading to PTSD onset, but actual first-hand experience of the trauma is not required; even watching a traumatic incident can trigger the disorder (Jones et al. 1704). While this is the long-standing understanding, recent research indicates that long-term exposure to high stress levels can also act as both a pre-onset vulnerability and a trigger (Lazarus 131). Stressor magnitude increased both the likelihood of PTSD and its severity, while mitigating factors such as preparation for the event, immediacy of treatment, and social support had similar but opposite in-

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 75 5/12/17 3:23 PM fluences (Xueet al. 3). This has been offered to explain why some people may experience PTSD but, remarkably, others do not even when they have similar experiences of trauma. Attitude also plays a role in PTSD, but it can cut both ways. Yehuda and her fellow researchers explain that there is a difference between those who choose voluntarily to serve and reservists. People wanted to be active duty from the beginning have more difficulty separating from the military. They find separating from the structure and camaraderie of service a stressor in itself. As voluntary active-duty service personnel are more likely to “embrace both the larger principals of duty to country and the day-to-day regimens that result in a deep connection and loyalty to fellow service members” (Yehuda et al. 2). They conclude that trauma can occur from leaving the battle environment and returning to a safer one, even if they welcome the return (Yehuda et al. 2). Similarly, Jones et al. found that leaving service or deployment has been shown as a trigger for PTSD (1710). The Brewin researchers also specu- lated that delayed-onset PTSD may be caused in part by leaving the structure provided by military service and near-combat zones, which actually increased the stress levels in these soldiers (Brewin et al. 2125). For these soldiers, leaving service or transferring to a less-structured or lower-alert form of service can serve as a trigger. Symptoms of PTSD include withdrawal from social situations, family and friends, particularly those that might trigger memories of the initiating trauma. Sufferers report emotional hyper-arousal, anxiety, irritability, and being easily startled. Additional symptoms include “intrusive thoughts in the form of flashbacks, nightmares, and vivid imagery” (Lazarus 131). ehudaY et al. note symptoms such as mental and physical disability (including neuro- chemical and neuroendocrine system dysfunction), loss of job and other pro- ductivity, social withdraw, and emotional suffering (1). Anxiety attacks are a common facet of PTSD, where sufferers become agitated and may experience increased heart rates, sweating, shortness of breath, and emotional distress (Lazarus 131). These symptoms can prevent returning soldiers from living productive lives and are directly related to the deterioration of relationships some veterans experience upon returning to civilian life. An ongoing question in research and for those suffering from PTSD who did not serve in combat is how someone who works in a support position and may have a life very similar to the one he experienced as a civilian contract PTSD. For many years, soldiers who did not serve in combat yet experienced symptoms of PTSD convinced themselves that their service-related PTSD was either a sign of personal weakness or not real (Yehuda et al. 4). Serving in combat was “not explanatory of PTSD in those deployed elsewhere and those who did not deploy” (Jones et al. 1709). However, the researchers now recognize that noncombat personnel may also experience combat environ-

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 76 5/12/17 3:23 PM ments, such as those serving in support positions near combat zones. (Jones et al. 1709). In fact, four to six percent of combat personnel and three to five percent of noncombat personnel who served during the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan showed symptoms of PTSD after leaving service, both of which exceed the averages of the general population (Jones et al. 1710). While the percentage is understandably lower for noncombat positions, it is still much higher than that for the general population. A possible explanation has been presented for this issue. Yehuda and her research team question whether PTSD from combat or non-combat war-related service is similar to that precipitated by other trauma events and a resulting “extreme fear response” (6). Basically, noncombat personnel can experience an ongoing fear even if not directly in combat. This may be exacerbated by hearing of wounding or death of other soldiers. Although not as traumatic as combat, over time this fear can cause immune responses and emotional distress similar to a short, excessively traumatic event (Yehuda et al. 6). For example, children growing up in a violent area of the inner city or afraid of potential abuse, perhaps because a family member is being abused, may be traumatized by the possibility of an event, even though the event never actually occurs. This continued exposure to high stress and potentially traumatic environment first creates vulnerability. If the person, after being free of that environment for some time, then returns to it or experiences a similar situation, the return can also act as a trigger (Lazarus 131). In these cases, potential for trauma becomes as impacting as actual trauma. Reporting on various research findings, Hales notes that Somali peacekeeping forces were more likely to develop PTSD if they served under heightened stress, such as situations in which the rules of engagement changed or where the peacekeepers were required to maintain constant restraint (143). Those peacekeepers that developed PTSD after the end of their peacekeeping assignment typically experienced a return to a similar experience of heightened danger and stress, even if only briefly (Hales 144). Another topic worth exploring is why some experience the disorder immediately after trauma and some months or years later. This is significant for discharged service members, who may not have access to appropriate care after leaving the military. However, Brewin’s research team notes that although “delayed-onset PTSD is a significant problem in military populations,” it rare- ly comes on without some indicators (2119). For some people, these indicators appear gradually, reducing the likelihood they will be noticed or recognized; they may also be dismissed as simply stress or getting weary from dealing with the inconveniences of being in combat areas. The researchers contend that in service members, PTSD can be acquired steadily over the course of their military service, with more severe symptoms surfacing at a later traumatic event

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 77 5/12/17 3:23 PM or after discharge from service (Brewin et al. 2120). Hines similarly finds that PTSD is a prevalent post-discharge issue for both combat personnel and those in support positions, as this seems to exacerbate the intensity of symptoms and a decrease in the soldier’s coping abilities (Hines et al. 471). Treatments for PTSD have had varying effectiveness in both veteran and civilian populations. Notably, there appears to be difference in how these two groups respond to various treatments. For example, “randomized clinical trials often have better outcomes in civilians than in combat veterans” (Yehuda et al. 5). The reasons for these differences is not clear, but can be quite frustrating for veterans who are refereed to various therapies and medications, only to find none alleviate their symptoms. For example, exposure-based therapy, a foundational treatment in non-military PTSD, has not been as effective with returning service members, particularly those who also report experience of guilt or shame related to their service or who experience of loss revolves around separation from their comrades upon return to civilian life (Yehuda et al. 5). Hales explains that this is because these treatments focused on identifying past trauma events and linking them to the current symptoms (144). He notes that soldiers may be unwilling to admit being traumatized by their service and that long-term stress as a trauma is not addressed in this type of therapy. There is also evidence that short-term therapy may be as or more effective than a more moderate approach; Lazarus found that “ cognitive therapy for PTSD delivered in¬tensively over little more than a week may be as effective as cognitive therapy delivered over three months” (Lazarus 133). In general, it is more effective to treat the presenting symptoms in noncombat service personnel than try to identify a traumatic event, particularly if the sufferer is not able to readily identify one (Hales 144). Anti-anxiety medications can be prescribed for PTSD symptoms, but have been shown to have limited effectiveness and unpleasant side effects in both civilian and veteran populations. There will most likely never be a concrete answer as to how PTSD comes to life, but it is very much alive – in both combat and noncombat soldiers. Researchers continue to find a resolution to the unanswered questions about PTSD.

Works Cited Brewin, C.R., B. Andrews, J. Hejdenberg and L. Stewart. “Objective predictors of delayed-onset post-traumatic stress disorder occurring after military discharge.” Psychological Medicine (2012), 42: 2119–2126. Web. 30 Jan 2016.

Hales, Robert E., Douglas F. Zatzick. “What is PTSD?” The American Journal of Psychiatry, (1997), 154(2):143-144. Web. 30 Jan 2016.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 78 5/12/17 3:23 PM Hines, Lindsey A., Josefin Sundin, Roberto J Rona, Simon Wessely, Nicola T Fear. “Posttraumatic Stress Disorder Post Iraq and Afghanistan: Prevalence Among Military Subgroups.” Canadian Journal of Psychiatry (2014), 59(9):468–479. Web. 30 Jan 2016.

Jones, M., J. Sundin, L. Goodwin, L. Hull, N. T. Fear,, S. Wessely and R. J. Rona. “What explains post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) in UK service personnel: deployment or something else?” Psychological Medicine, (2013), 43:1703–1712. Web. 30 Jan 2016.

Lazarus, Arthur. “Traumatized by Practice: PTSD in Physicians.” Medical Practice Management, September/October (2014): 131-134. Web. 30 Jan 2016.

Xue, Chen, Yang Ge, Bihan Tang, Yuan Liu, Peng Kang, Meng Wang and Lulu Zhang. “A Meta-Analysis of Risk Factors for Combat-Related PTSD among Military Personnel and Veterans.” Plos One, (20 Mar 2016). Web. 30 Jan 2016.

Yehuda, Rachel, Eric Vermetten, Alexander C. McFarlane and Amy Lehrner. “PTSD in the military: special considerations for understanding prevalence, pathophysiology and treatment following deployment.” European Journal of Psychotraumatology, (2014), 5:1-7. Web. 30 Jan 2016.

*First Place Award, Essay, Sigma Tau Delta Writing Contest 2016

Clarity in the City, Hannah LeBlanc 70

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 79 5/12/17 3:23 PM Themes and Horror Conventions in The Exorcist Destiny Ricks

The Exorcist is a 1971 novel written by William Peter Blatty and adapted for the Silver Screen in 1973 by Blatty himself, serving as the screenwriter. The novel was met with instant success and was placed on the New York Times’ Bestseller List, while Blatty received an Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay. The Exorcist, the 1973 film, was directed by William Friedkin and released on December 26, 1973. Both Stanley Kubrick and Arthur Penn were offered the directing job, yet they turned it down. Both the novel and the film are very similar. Usually, the movie studio will take liberties when adapting a novel or a play, because not everything translates well from one genre to another, but since Blatty adapted his novel, there are few minor differences between the film and the novel. Both the novel and the film follow traditional gothic horror conventions, while also exploring new themes. The Exorcist forces readers and viewers to consider other possible realities and theories. The novel and the film cannot be compared and contrasted outright because of the film’s faithfulness to the novel, but themes and analysis from both the novel and the film will be explored. The Exorcist utilizes the first ‘stream of horror’ as defined by David Hartwell in The Dark Descent, which is moral allegorical, “…the intrusion of supernatural evil or forces into consensus reality in order to stage the battle between good and evil” (Hartwell 8). In an understated way, The Exorcist also follows the gothic horror convention of a young, innocent woman helpless and defenseless against a seemingly all-powerful villain. Regan MacNeil, the young girl possessed by the demon, is an innocent twelve-year-old attacked by the demon. Her own body is her imprisonment; often the demon is in control and Regan is subjected to his will. The Exorcist exploits gendered notions of female hysteria. When introduced to the demon, Pazuzu, who would later terrorize Regan in the novel, the statue is described as having, “A bulbous, jutting, stubby penis and a mouth stretched taut in feral grin” (Blatty 5). There is no male figure in the MacNeil household and Chris MacNeil, Regan’s mother, suspects that Re- gan’s odd behavior is because of her father’s absence. There is also the associa- tion of puberty with female hysteria; in The Exorcist, Regan turns twelve years old. This is around the time that most girls will go into puberty, and irritable behavior is explained by hormones. Regan starts to exhibit strange behavior after playing with the Ouija board and after her birthday. On Regan’s twelfth birthday, Chris is shown frustratingly trying to reach her ex-husband by phone so he can talk to Regan on her birthday. But Chris is never successful. On the night of her birthday,

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 80 5/12/17 3:23 PM Regan sleeps in her mother’s bed because her bed was ‘shaking’. Neither doctors nor psychiatrists can explain Regan’s condition. At first, the doctors diagnose Regan with hyper-kinetic personality disorder and prescribe her to take Librium. But the situation is continually getting worse. At her mother’s party, she tells one of the party guests, “You’re going to die up there,” and she urinates on the floor. When visiting the doctor, the demon’s voice comes from Regan, which is deeper and more vulgar. Regan curses at her doctors, and one of the first curses she says is “goddamn,” which represents the demon forsak- ing God. After several medical treatments that have turned up no answers to Regan’s fits and behavior, a psychiatrist tells Chris that, “Possession is loosely related to hysteria insofar as the origin of the syndrome is almost always au- tosuggestive” (Blatty 181). In the film as well, the psychiatrists suggest Chris find someone to perform an exorcism because Regan herself believes she is possessed. If she is ‘exorcised’, she will no longer have this force inside of her. The psychiatrists believe that Regan’s symptoms are manifesting because of her beliefs, not because she is actually sick or ‘disturbed’. The doctors and the psychiatrists create a patronizing atmosphere towards Chris as well; Chris is seen as the hysterical mother, with no husband by her side to guide her. Interestingly, The Exorcist has a sexual undertone in its themes, sometimes playing into the theme of male and female roles. As stated before, the introduction to the demon, Pazuzu, immediately draws attention to the ‘stubby penis’ of his statue. In the first third of the novel, it is noted that there were several desecrations of the church, possibly because of the Black Mass, an inversion of the traditional Catholic Mass. On page 68 of the novel, it is stated that, “In the first of the incidents, the elderly sacristan of the church had discovered a mound of human excrement on the altar cloth… a massive phallus sculpted in clay had been found glued firmly to a statue of Christ on the left side altar.” In most religions, it is not accepted to be overtly sexual and blatant about sexuality. To suggest sex, something that seems dirty in some religions, in relation to a divine figure is blasphemous. Sex is a clear way to disrespect Christ himself. It is also stated that, “A statue of the Virgin Mary at the left side altar of the church had been painted over and made to look like a har- lot… ersatz text… in fluent and intelligible Latin and described in vivid, erotic detail an imagined homosexual encounter involving Mary Magdalene and the Blessed Virgin Mary” (Blatty 96). Homosexuality is a topic not accepted in most religions and the demon wanted to cause major disrespect and disruption in regard to the Virgin Mary, Jesus’ mother. In the film version, the viewer only sees a quick glimpse of a statue of the Virgin Mary desecrated with spikes coming through in her breasts and her crotch. Clearly, The Exorcist, both the novel and the film, are interested in different types of religion. There are both small and blatant actions made by the

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 81 5/12/17 3:23 PM characters, connecting to religion. In the beginning of the film, Regan claims to want a horse. While her request could be seen as an innocent request, horses are a symbol that are seen as beautiful and majestic. Later in the film, Father Merrin refers to the ‘majestic Christ’ during the exorcism. This alludes to Revelation 19:11, “Then I saw heaven open, and behold, a white horse! The one sitting on it is called Faithful and True, and it righteousness he judges and makes war,” where the apostle John tells of Jesus’ return. In relation to religion, The Exorcist also addresses the theme of doubt from two different perspectives. Chris MacNeil is a straight-forward actress who has never really believed in God. Once all of the doctors and psychiatrists fail her, she reaches out to Father Karras to save her daughter. Father Karras is a younger priest, who is mourning his mother who recently passed away. He is doubting his faith in God throughout the novel and throughout the film. Karras’ self-sacrifice at the end of the film is the ultimate reclamation for his character. As stated before, the film and the novel have only a few minimal differences, and overall the film is very loyal to the novel. Yet, the book has more opportunities to really establish the horror of what is going on with Regan MacNeil rather than rushing through the timeframe in the little over 2-hour timeframe of The Exorcist. The on-goings with Regan and her fits happen over a period of months and the reader will feel that more than the viewer of the film will feel. Also, in some iconic scenes, just the description can instill more fear and shock. For example, the famous ‘spider crawl scene,’ “Gliding spid- erlike, rapidly, close behind Sharon, her body arched backward in a bow with her head almost touching her feet, was Regan, her tongue flicking quickly in and out of her mouth while she sibilantly hissed and moved her head very slightly back and forth like a cobra” (Blatty 126). In the film, this shocking sequence is accompanied by high-pitched music and a close-up of Chris’ fearful expression which hints at the horrifying sequence. Narratively, The Exorcist is not just about Regan, the young girl that is possessed by the malicious demon. It is also about Father Karras and his grief for his mother; it also deals with his doubt of continuing to be a priest, as he has lost faith in God over time. There is the smaller story of Father Merrin who the audience is first introduced to in a short prologue. Father Merrin is shown in Iraq, finding an important amulet that alludes to the malicious spirit that the audience will see later, both in the novel and in the film. There is also a smaller frame story of the ‘whodunnit’, with Lieutenant Kinderman, investi- gating the circumstances of Mr. Dennings’ death. In The Exorcist, the film uses several ways to build suspense and foreshad- ow what is to come. The film begins with Chris hearing “rats in the attic,” strange noises coming from above that she presumes to be the pesky animal. There is also foreshadowing when Chris pulls out an Ouija board, which Re-

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 82 5/12/17 3:23 PM gan admits to playing with. Regan even names her imaginary friend, Captain Howdy. It is revealed that her father’s name is Howard; this could be an intentional misdirect as it makes the audience think Regan is missing her father severely and it explains her later behavior. Another night, Chris goes up to investigate the “rats” a second time. The director uses the common cinematic technique of almost complete darkness to create suspense as the scene continues. The audience can only see Chris’ face because of the torch she is holding; everything else is in darkness. Suddenly, Chris hears a strange noise and turns to investigate. The audience waits with a bated breath to see if the demon will appear, but suddenly Karl appears at the latch door, startling Chris and the audience alike. The Exorcist often utilizes this strategy of creating suspense and keeping the viewer on the edge of their seat for as long as possible. Another use of suspense was the lights flickering in and out when Chris returns home from the doctor’s office. The house is going in and out of darkness. Suspense builds as the lights flicker as the viewer of the film will continually expect something to jump out from the shadows. The scare will end up coming later when Regan does the spider walk down the stairs. All of the cinematic devices used in the film come together for the climax of the film with the exorcism scene. Before Father Karras can perform the exorcism, he has to prove to the Catholic Church that it is a real demonic possession and not a farce. Karras records Regan speaking English backwards and once the words ‘help me’ appear on her skin, Karras is convinced. The Catholic Church calls Father Merrin in, the priest from the prologue of the film and the novel. It is revealed that Father Merrin has exorcised a demon before, but nearly lost his life in the process. In the film, when Father Merrin arrives on the MacNeil’s doorstep, his face is covered in darkness before he steps into the light. The darkness on Father Merrin’s face is a foreshadowing for what is to come. While Father Merrin is not a dark force or evil and darkness is a visual representation of that, the darkness is a bad omen for the fate of Father Merrin later in the film. In the bedroom where the exorcism is taking place, it is mostly dark with only two lamps providing light. There is still an eerie feeling to the setting because the lamps in the room only provided limited light and they are a strange blue-grey tint. Tension rises as the lights flicker in and out and the demon’s true faces comes through for a small moment. A high moment of tension is when Regan’s body floats above the bed while both Father Merrin and Father Karras shout, “The power of Christ compels you!” This is a moment of high suspense in the film as the audience waits for something to happen, whether for the demon to finally reveal itself or for Regan to come through, there is a level of mystery and uncertainty that prevails during this scene. The exorcism scene is not a quick solution for Regan’s possession. After Regan’s flotation, Father Merrin and Father Karras take a break to start the exorcism again

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 83 5/12/17 3:23 PM later. Both priests, young and old, are physically tired from their experience. Throughout the film and the novel, there are smaller themes that are the undertone, but are not necessarily prominent. There is the theme of self-sacrifice. At the end of the novel and the film, Father Karras tells the demon to take him, but commits suicide and jumps out of the bedroom window before Pazuzu can make him harm Regan. Father Karras, the man who was feeling doubt throughout the novel and the film, sacrifices himself for another younger, innocent life. While this is a resolution, it is not a neat, wrapped-in-a- bow solution that some audiences may have expected. There is also the theme of Chris’ maternal love for Regan and willingness to do anything to get her daughter back. The theme of faith goes along with the idea of medicine, the doctors, and the psychiatrists failing Chris and Regan in their time of need. Chris takes a leap of faith, contacting Father Karras to inquire about exor- cisms when medicine and science have failed her. The release date of the film is also very interesting. The film was released December 26, 1973, the day after Christmas. Some considered Christmas as the day of Christ, Jesus Christ’s birthday, or both. It is not clear whether the release date was intentional by the studio or the director, William Friedkin, but if so, it has many implications. The theme of religion in the novel and the film are very strong. The demon’s disrespect and disregard for religion was very controversial when the film was first released, especially since the demon was speaking through an innocent twelve-year-old girl. To release the film the day after Christmas, whether intentional or unintentional makes a statement to the audience at the time about the potential message of the film. Both the novel and the film consider the idea of evil and what is evil versus what is good. The Exorcist also considers how evil can exist when God exists as well. That contributes strongly to Father Karras’ doubts about being a priest any longer. After his mother’s death, he begins to lose his faith in not only God, but his religion and himself. It is also interesting to note that while William Peter Blatty, the author of the novel, is Roman Catholic, William Friedkin, the director of the film is agnostic. Neither the film nor the novel truly answers the questions of evil and good; no answers are received because in reality, in religion, no true answers are really given. People have religion because they have faith to believe and Father Karras lost that faith over time. Between the book and the film, the book has more opportunity to expand on the themes because it has more room than a two-hour movie, although, the film and William Peter Blatty should be given credit for being able to take his novel and turn it into a screenplay. It is difficult to change mediums when writing. The book gives the demon more of a voice, especially when he is taunting the two priests as they try to exorcise him out of Regan. Overall, both the novel and the film present interesting themes about good and evil, gender roles, faith, and religion. While the filmThe Exorcist is a

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 84 5/12/17 3:23 PM good scare with its cinematic devices and techniques, it also presents a truly terrifying story where an unknown force takes control of a young girl’s body. What is even more terrifying is that the demon never presents a true reason why or a plan that he was trying to achieve. The demon, Pazuzu, simply took control of Regan’s body and terrorized her and the priests because he had the power to do so. The film presents a story with no true resolution or clear-cut answers, but at the same time, it still leaves the viewer shaken.

Works Cited Blatty, William Peter. The Exorcist. Londres: Corgi, 1974. Print. Hartwell, David G. The Dark Descent. N.p.: Grafton, 1992. Print.

*Dr. Helen Connell Film Essay Award 2017

Untitled (2), Brian Delgado

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 85 5/12/17 3:23 PM Keeping Up with the Untalented Matthew Block

After a diligent study and most careful deliberation, I have finally arrived at the solution for all our financial and social troubles. Contrary to standard business operations, just for today, I am going to share my discovery with everyone, and nobody will have to send me three payments of only $19.95 for the instructional DVDs. In fact, I’m going to go over my moment of enlight- enment with you, my dear readers, at this very instant. Just follow these few easy steps, and we will soon be basking in the same glory of all of America’s favorite reality TV stars. Needless to say, we won’t even be required to attend acting lessons. It’s that simple—provided each and every one of us has what it takes to be admitted into the Olympus of the worshiped ranks of the social gods. Now pay attention, I’m only going to go over this once free of charge. The next time anyone sees me, I will most probably be on public access television selling my “Get Rich and Famous Quick” program, which will come accompanied with a very nice set knives which are sharp enough to slice through a tin can. Good stuff. Notepads and pencils ready? Here we go. Step One: Get yourself a boyfriend or a girlfriend, preferably a very good looking one. If you already have one, then ignore this step and move onto to step two. Step Two: This step is easy, and may be a true pleasure to some. Make a sex-tape—preferably one with a bit of mystery to it. Since the whole Blair Witch Project night-vision recording has already been overused and exhaust- ed. May I kindly recommend other settings for your cameras, such as infra- red or a wide-angle blue lens? Step Three: There is no Step Three. Really, that’s it. That’s all it takes. Of course by now, my dear readers, you must have realized that I have bamboozled you from the moment I began writing this nonsense. It was all utter malarkey. You have surely realized by now that making and releasing a sex-tape only makes those who are already rich and famous, more rich and famous. The harsh reality is that the vast majority of us would have a hard time selling our sex-tapes to the lowliest internet smut dealer; and even if they decided to take the tape off our hands for a six-pack of (insert your favorite drink) we would probably be one of the eight viewers who actually watched our own tape nationwide. Please don’t do that—that’s just sad. But I wasn’t lying entirely. Those were the only two steps that some of the larger-than-life socialites had to take in order to be where they are today. Let’s look at it like a witch’s brew (Please bear with me).

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 86 5/12/17 3:23 PM Legends say that for witches to conjure up the grandest and greatest concoctions, they required a list of ingredients for their boiling pots. Ninety percent of said ingredients were mostly mundane things, such as some special roots, some peculiar mushrooms, and the eye of some hapless lizard. However, in order for the spell to work at all, the final ingredient had to be burglarized from a fiery griffin’s nest, or from a unicorn that needed to be slain and -de horned, or from a quest to steal a Phoenix’s egg. Sadly, for most of us, it would be easier to acquire the egg of some myth- ical creature than to be born heir to a gargantuan string of international five- star hotels, or to be the offspring of a high-flying lawyer who defended in one of the most televised trials in American history. Truth be told, the chances of being born rich are extremely low— and the chances of being born filthy rich and filthy famous are infinitesimal. So what’s my point? I don’t have one. I am surprised, my dear readers, that you kept reading this after I hoodwinked you from the very start. However, if you have it your hearts to forgive my hoax, and if you would be kind enough to read on; I do now, in all seriousness, wish to express my concern about what American society has adopted as a prominent modern value. Is all which I have described above what Americans truly yearn for? The money part, I can understand. We all like money, whether we like to admit to it or not, but do Americans truly admire people who were born, made a sex- tape, released it, and then ran around showing it to everyone? I can do that, although I have the decency and self-respect to choose not to. The truth is, any of us can. We just wouldn’t get the same results. Hence, the vast majority of us are condemned to hold measly jobs—such as writing bogus advertisements for phony “Get Rich and Famous Quick” programs. Apparently, in America, dreams and hopes seem to be geared towards releasing a sex-tape that other Americans would pay money to watch. Talk about shooting for the stars.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 87 5/12/17 3:23 PM Monarca of Nature, Brian Delgado

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 88 5/12/17 3:23 PM Bob Marley Historiography Christopher Berman

Legacies of renown, inspiring men transcend their mortality. They are remembered, studied, and continue to move people in today’s world. The memory of their lives’ work and journey still continues to influence people to aspire for the same level of greatness achieved by them. Some of these “great men” are known for their heroism in war, their contributions to politics, their leadership skills in ruling a nation, or inventing something that changes the world. Although many of these men are known for their actions, one particular man’s legacy was established with his words. This man’s name will forever echo among the ears of future generations. His songs will preserve his memory. His contributions to humanity include peace, love, and unity. The tool he used to carry out his life’s mission was music. His verses are endeared within the hearts of people everywhere, reverberating his message within them. This excerpt, from the song “War,” exemplifies just how this man’s words achieved his memory’s immortality.

“Until the philosophy which hold one race superior and another inferi- or is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned...Everything is war. Me say war. That until the’re no longer 1st class and 2nd class citizens of any nation...Until the color of a man’s skin is of no more significance than the color of his eyes, me say war. That until the basic human rights are equally guaranteed to all without regard to race me say war!”1

- Bob Marley

The role of music in the field of historical academia dates back to hundreds, if not thousands of years ago. The diversity of roles music has played is also numerous. Some of these functions of music include its use in politics, as an instrument of change, to provide a voice for the oppressed, its use among cultural traditions, or simply just for entertainment. In African American history, music has been a part of the Movement for Civil Rights and racial equality. Although many different forms of music are a part of the African American society, the impact of reggae music has arguably been the most influential of genres among this topic in history. Throughout most educational institutions, the academic agendas of historians and their history departments have often neglected the significance of music and mass media in the development of society. This paper addresses that issue and examines the role of music among the course of African Ameri- can history through the analysis Bob Marley’s life and legacy.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 89 5/12/17 3:23 PM Reggae music probably can trace its roots back to the 1960’s. It was this decade when the term “reggae” was first coined in Jamaica. It was used to label a grungy genre of dance music that had branched off of the New Orle- ans-styled rhythm and blues genre.2 Reggae quickly transformed into a kind of music that incorporated a somewhat “wailing” style of chanting and focused on the rhythm of the beat. Reggae music quickly developed as an aspect of the Rastafarianism culture through its lyrics and “Africanized” tone. Although he was not the first reggae artist, Bob Marley is credited with the genre’s popu- larization and international appeal.3 One of the earliest and most acclaimed biographies on the life of Bob Marley is Timothy White’s Catch a Fire (1983).4 White’s preface well-estab- lishes credibility by noting his sources from Jamaica’s Daily Gleaner, research from the Institute of Jamaica in Kingston, the Research Institute for the Study of Man in New York City, and his own personal interviews with Bob, his family, friends, the Wailers, and numerous other people who have con- tributed to Jamaican music.5 White presents Marley as a Jamaican spiritual leader whose lyrics merged concepts of the social and the spiritual revolu- tionary. The entire book is woven with Rastafarian, religious motifs. White describes many supernatural and bizarre events, which he highly regarded in their influence to the world of Marley.6 When discussing the chapters about Haile Selassie and other paranormal coincidences, White explains his opinion on their relevance. He said, “Whether the reader wants to believe that such “supernatural” events are credible is his or her decision. My point in attempting to tell this story from the subjective viewpoint of its protagonists is to convey the fact that the people around Haile Selassie and Bob Marley, past and present, indeed believed in “magic” and lived their lives in accordance with these beliefs.”7 Although Catch a Fire is among the elite biographical sources of Bob Marley, some other historians tend to disagree with White’s heavily religious opinion about how Marley’s memory should be preserved. Reggae historian, writer, and lecturer, Klive Walker, thought of White’s book as being overly focused on the shaman perspective of Marley. In Walker’s essay, “Tuff Gong Lost: In Search of Bob Marley,” he talks about one of Bob’s closest friend’s opinion about Catch a Fire. Walker claimed, “Neville Garrick, the man respon- sible for the artwork on some of Marley’s albums and for lighting the Wailer’s concerts, was close to Marley. Several years ago, I asked Garrick what he thought about White’s book. He remarked that White was cool, but the book was too heavy on the shaman perspective. He said that to him Bob was a man and his ‘bredrin.’”8 Walker also explored the work of a Jamaican-American writer, Garnette Cadogan. In Cadogan’s 2007 essay, “Reggae Messiah,” the author critiques the majority of present-day Marley biographies, saying “You should be forgiv-

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 90 5/12/17 3:23 PM en if you read a Bob Marley biography and feel moved to pray to him rather than listen to his music...Survey the literature on Marley and you’ll find few biographers but many evangelists. Awash in sentimentality and hero-worship, the books and articles fail to provide what’s truly necessary: a portrait of a musician, with an oeuvre marked by an extraordinary mix of spirituality, protest, and desire.”9 Robert Nesta Marley was born on February 6, 1945 in St. Ann, Jamaica. His mother was a native, black Jamaican named Cedella Malcolm. His father was a white, British -Jamaican man, Captain Norval Sinclair Marley.10 When Robert was about 14 years old, his mother relocated them to Trenchtown, Jamaica in hopes of finding work in the nearby city of Kingston.11 Robert’s un- conventional heritage, being a child of white and black skin color, made him an easy target for ridicule among his childhood peers. During an interview featured in the documentary, Marley, he said, “People called me a half-caste or whatever. I was neither on black man side nor the white man side, I’m on God’s side.”12 Other aspects of his childhood hardships included the violence of Trenchtown slums, consistent poverty, and often going to bed hungry. Marley persisted through his early struggles and was able to meet one of the most influential people of his life, Neville ‘Bunny’ Livingston in renchT - town.13 Neville was able to give Marley a ‘way out’ from the pain in his life through music. Robert began his legendary, musical journey with his new instrument of choice, a guitar. Robert and Neville also befriended another music-advocate who would complete the trio that would soon become “The Wailers.” Their group’s name came to symbolize adversities of Trenchtown, as they saw themselves as “ghetto sufferers,” born into this world “wailing.”14 When Marley was around 16 years old, he recorded his first song, “Judge Not.”15 This song set the foundations of Marley’s future rhetoric and career by its use of “heavy” diction and messages about his individual rights. That same year, Jamaica gained its independence from Britain. In 1963, The Wailers released their first hit-single, “Simmer Down.” Their song was produced in response to the hostile conflicts arising between the Rastas and Jamaican authorities in the ghettos. The message of “Simmer Down” was for everyone, on both sides of these conflicts, to “cool off.”16 It also proved to be The Wail- ers’ first song to transcend the cultural boundaries of Jamaican popularity, effectively launching their internationally acclaimed careers. Bob Marley and The Wailers music continued to overcome obstacles of racial strife across the world, appeal to vastly, diverse audiences on a scale unheard of at the time, and inspire political factions with their societies across the world with messages of peace, love, and unity. David Moskowitz offers a more recent biography on Bob Marley, titled The Words and Music of Bob Marley (2007).17 With credentials like his Ph.D in Musicology, Moskowitz’s book examines the life of Marley in relation to the

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 91 5/12/17 3:23 PM production of music. His book goes in depth to discuss the musical themes, structure, and recording dynamics that influenced Marley’s work. A great example of this kind of musical analysis comes from this book’s discussion of the album Survival.18 Moskowitz explains, “the content of the Survival album con- sisted completely of politically oriented songs, with no love songs that might dilute the serious nature of the message.”19 Overall, Moskowitz’s perspective of the reggae icon’s life was that Bob was a leader. In the book’s conclusion, Moskowitz stated, “Bob Marley wanted to lead people; specifically, he wanted to lead his people to Zion and out of their Babylonian captivity. Most important, he wanted to lead people through his music.”20 Moskowitz described his interpretation of what he believed to be Marley’s goal for the last three albums of his career; “...to provide a plan for the changes that he believed that members of the African diaspora had to make.”21 The role of Marley as a leader is further emphasized in the work of Robin Denselow. As a journalist, author, and broadcaster, Denselow has specialized his work in the studies of politics and music. His publication in The Guardian and The Observer’s List of 50 Key Events in the History of World and Folk Music provided a descriptive account of just how well Marley was able to use his music to lead people. The extent of political influencing-power, held by the music of Bob Marley, is famously remembered by the One Love Peace Concert in Jamaica on April 22, 1978.22 The concert signified a monumental period in Jamaican politics. Jamaica’s cities had become divided and damaged by shoot-outs between the gangs of several notorious gang rivals, Bucky Marshall and Claude Massop.23 The two gangs sided with the different sides of Jamaica’s new political parties. Marshall aligned with Michael Manley’s People’s National Party (PNP), whom also held the current power in government, and Massop aligned with Edward Seaga’s opposing side, Jamaica Labour Party (JLP).24 Also, this was the first concert that Bob was going to perform in his home country after an assassination attempt was made on his life almost a year and a half prior. Affiliates of the JLP were suspected of carrying out the attempt. Gunmen shot Marley inside of his home, wounding his chest and arm. The assailants’ alleged motive was that Bob’s appearance at the Smile Jamaica Free Concert which had been planned by Michael Manley, signified the reggae icon’s public support of the PNP.25 Manley had actually intended the Smile Jamaica Free Concert to be aimed at suppressing the street violence between Marshall and Massop’s gangs. The One Love Peace Concert was designed to target very similar issues as the Smile Jamaica Free Concert. This time though, the political gang leaders themselves had organized it.26 Marshall and Massop labeled their newfound alliance as a “peace committee,” with the collective goal of recuper- ating and improving the slums of Kingston. The One Love Peace Concert’s

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 92 5/12/17 3:23 PM proceedings were to be used for the funding of their goal.27 The concert went down in a seemingly graceful fashion with no real trou- ble. Bob Marley was the headlining act, preaching unity and love. His grand finale was an emotionally moving event in and of itself. While he was impro- vising the words of “Jamming,” he exclaimed, “Could we have here on stage the presence of Mr Michael Manley and Mr Edward Seaga? I just wanna shake hands and show the people that we’re gonna unite.”28 At that moment, opposing politicians, Rasta, gunmen, gang members, and everyone among the crowd embraced each other.29 The true magnitude of Marley’s music became visible. Bob eased this moment into his last song of the set, “One Love.” This concert was instantly reveled as one of the most remarkable moments in human history.30 In the 1995 book, Bob Marley: Songs of Freedom, authors Adrian Boot and Chris Salewicz intricately recount Bob’s life.31 Their book explores the inspi- rational impact of Bob’s music and how he was able to, as author Eric Levin put it, “infuse this gentle, insinuating music with moral fervor and a utopian vision.”32 The extent of Marley’s inspiration is easily seen during Songs of Freedom’s description of the 1980 Zimbabwe concert in Africa. A 2011 publication in the Rastafari Times by Ras T. Henry revisits this concert description contained in Salewicz and Boots’s book.33 One of the most powerful impacts of Marley’s music was the rise of a “black consciousness,” which resonated among his fans across the entire con- tinent of Africa.34 In 1980, Bob Marley performed the song, “Zimbabwe,” for an audience of 100,000 fans during the celebration ceremony of Zimbabwe’s independence.35 This song has been referred to as “his most important single composition,” as its performance endured through a massive riot.36 In the time- slot immediately before Bob and The Wailers’ performance, the Zimbabwean government had scheduled the country’s independence ceremonies to take place.37 As citizens and Marley fans amassed at the gates of the stadium, an unforeseen energy-mass of anger and excitement, among the crowds, began to swell. When Marley and his band’s set kicked off, mayhem erupted as the massive crowds busted open the gates and rushed into the concert grounds.38 Zimbabwean authorities instantly fired shells of teargas within the crowd, clouding the entire stadium and the stage itself.39 As Bob’s band cleared the stage, he actually continued performing through the agony of the teargas as he appeared to have had entered a “transcendent state.”40 Soon thereafter, Bob returned from his state of mind, opened his eyes, and rejoined his band offstage.41 About thirty minutes later, he and Wailers retook the stage and ended their set with their tribute-song, “Zimbabwe.”42 In one of the most moving statements made by Bob as he came offstage after the concert, he looked upon a fellow reggae artist, Judy Mowatt, as she and her singers reentered the sta-

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 93 5/12/17 3:23 PM dium and said, “Hah,” he looked at them with a half-grin, “now I know who the real revolutionaries are.”43 This concert was monumental in the continued inspiration to Marley to fuel his fight for the unification of Africa, Africans across the world, and the rights of blacks. It also became a source of musical inspiration for all artists who followed in Marley’s footsteps. To account for every moment of Bob’s life in which he brought light into a world of darkness would take years of work. Documentaries, biographies, stories, and other means of relaying this man’s memory still continue to be produced simply due to the vast amount of contributions he gave to humanity. Contextualizing Bob Marley within the 20th century reveals just how perfect the timing was for him to live his life. As the Civil Rights movement in Amer- ica pressed on during the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s, his messages of equality, unity, and love could not have better ensured that movement’s eventual success. Marley’s music unified the international community on a level that is arguably, unrivaled by any other musician to this day. The legacy of Bob Marley will forever be an ever-burning flame of love, peace, and genuine magnificence, which embodies the soul and nature of the human race. During the induction of Marley into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Robert Palmer best described his legendary memory. He said, “No one in rock and roll has left a musical legacy that matters more or one that matters in such fundamental ways.”44

End Notes 1 Bob Marley and The Wailers. War. Island Records, 1976. Vinyl recording. 2 Scaruffi, Piero. A History of Popular Music Before Rock Music. London: Omniware, 2007. Print. 3 Ibid. 4 Timothy White, Catch a Fire: The Life of Bob Marley. Holt Rinehart and Winston, 1983. 5 Ibid. 15. 6 Ibid. 17. 7 Ibid. 18. 8 Klive Walker (2010) Essay: “Tuff Gong Lost: In Search of Bob Marley,” Review: Literature and Arts of the Americas, 43:2. 174. 9 Garnette Cadogan, “Reggae Messiah,” The Caribbean Review of Books 11 (2007). 5. 10 Marley. Dir. Kevin Macdonald. Perf. Bob Marley himself. Magnolia Pictures, 2012. Film. 11 Ibid. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid. 15 Ibid. 16 Timothy White, Catch a Fire: The Life of Bob Marley Holt Rinehart and Winston, 1983. 65 17 Moskowitz, David V. 2007. The Words and Music of Bob Marley. Westport, Conn: Praeger, 2007. eBook Collection (EBSCOhost), EBSCOhost (accessed April 19, 2014).

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 94 5/12/17 3:23 PM 18 Ibid. 96. 19 Ibid. 20 Ibid. 132. 21 Ibid. 22 Denselow, Robin. “Bob Marley presides over the Peace Concert.” The History of World and Folk Music 36 (2011) The Guardian. Web. 15 Apr. 2014. 23 Ibid. 24 Ibid. 25 Ibid. 26 Ibid. 27 Ibid. 28 Ibid. 29 Ibid. 30 Ibid. 31 Boot, Adrian, Chris Salewicz, and Rita Marley. 1995. Bob Marley: songs of freedom. London: Bloomsbury. 32 Levin, Eric. 1995. “Bob Marley: Spirit Dancer.” People 43, no. 9: 31. Academic Search Complete, EBSCO host (accessed April 20, 2014). 33 Henry, Ras T.. “When Bob Marley caused Riot inna Africa .” Rasta Times 30 Sept. 2011: n. pag. Rastafari Times. Web. 16 Apr. 2014. 34 Ibid. 35 Ibid. 36 Ibid. 37 Ibid. 38 Ibid. 39 Ibid. 40 Ibid. 41 Ibid. 42 Ibid. 43 Ibid. 44 Palmer, Robert. “The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame + Museum.” Bob Marley Biography. Web. 18 Apr. 2014. .

Bibliography Bob Marley and The Wailers. War. Island Records, 1976. Vinyl recording. Boot, Adrian, Salewicz, Chris, and Marley, Rita. 1995. Bob Marley: Songs of Freedom. London: Bloomsbury.

Denselow, Robin. “Bob Marley presides over the Peace Concert.” The History of World and Folk Music 36 (2011): n.p. The Guardian. Web. 15 Apr. 2014.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 95 5/12/17 3:23 PM Dorsey, Greg M.. “The Man and the Legend.” Dread Library 1 (1998): n.p. Dread Library. Web. 16 Apr. 2014.

Garnette Cadogan, “Reggae Messiah,” The Caribbean Review of Books 11 (2007). 5.

Henry, Ras T. “When Bob Marley caused Riot inna Africa .” Rasta Times 30 Sept. 2011: n.p. Web. 16 Apr. 2014.

Klive Walker (2010) “Tuff Gong Lost: In Search of Bob Marley,” Review: Literature and Arts of the Americas, 43:2. 174.

Levin, Eric. 1995. “Bob Marley: Spirit Dancer.” People 43, no. 9: 31. Academ- ic Search Complete, EBSCO host (accessed April 20, 2014).

Marley. Dir. Kevin Macdonald. Perf. Bob Marley himself. Magnolia Pictures, 2012. Film.

Moskowitz, David V. 2007. The Words and Music of Bob Marley. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2007. eBook Collection (EBSCOhost), EBSCOhost (accessed April 19, 2014).

Palmer, Robert. “The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame + Museum.” Bob Marley Biography. n.p. Web. 18 Apr. 2014. .

Scaruffi, Piero. 2007.A History of Popular Music Before Rock Music. London: Omniware. Print.

White, Timothy. Catch a Fire: The Life of Bob Marley. Holt Rinehart and Win- ston, 1983.

*Honorable Mention, Essay, Sigma Tau Delta Writing Contest 2017

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 96 5/12/17 3:23 PM Birth of Fibonacci, Yanni De Melo

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 97 5/12/17 3:23 PM Impact of Autonomous Aerial Vehicles in Modern Warfare Julian Dasilva

With the advancement of technology, drone usage in the military and civilian world has grown exponentially. Drones have started to replace elite special force squadrons on search and destroy missions. They provide aerial reconnaissance eliminating the need for multiple scout regiments, and they allow for precise elimination of high priority targets in varied environments. As with every technology, drones can be a double-edged sword, in that they have been shown to be ineffective in quelling rebellion, and in fact may strengthen insurgencies. The focal point of waging war has always been quite simple: defeat our enemies, and minimize losses. As the saying goes, easier said than done. With the availability of powerful weapons, machinery, and the simplicity of bomb mechanisms that target United States soldiers abroad, it can become quite difficult to prevent all of our soldiers from coming home unscathed. Beyond this point, we also have the moral obligation to protect non-combatants (civilians) in the countries in which we wage war. The difficulty of this arises in that the war is being fought by a well-organized, yet unmarked enemy. In many areas of Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Iraq it is difficult to distinguish friend or foe, as attacks can come from an individual wearing a Nike t-shirt and flip flops. This can be seen in that the number of civilians killed depends on where the report is originating from. The Pakistani media will report 700 civilians killed, while the U.S may only report 30 (Bergen and Tiedemann). Drones have aided the United States in making great strides in these particular areas. “A systematic analysis of the data reveals that drone strikes have succeeded in curbing deadly terrorist attacks within the targeted territory in Pakistan” (Johnston and Sabahi 3). By lowering the terrorist activity in an area, it creates an opportunity for foot soldiers to more safely collect ground intel on the various villages and towns containing sects of terrorist organizations. By having constant drone surveillance monitoring them from the sky with the capability to accurately and effectively dispatch difficult to see targets, soldiers are given a type of aerial cover without alerting the enemy. Due to the precise nature of the targeting systems on modern drones, collateral damage is greatly reduced. When soldiers enter a village, they struggle to distinguish insurgents from civilians, and inevitably this causes collateral damage. Often times, they are forced to react quickly forcing them into a shoot first, ask questions later scenario. Drones fortunately do not suffer from this same limitation. Using the drone, aerial data can be safely gathered and analyzed at a command center. Once a target has been identified the drone

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 98 5/12/17 3:23 PM can neutralize the target with minimal collateral damage by waiting for an opportune moment. Bergen and Tiedemann touch on two particular cases, one in South Waziristan and another in Miran Shah where drone strikes were effective in neutralizing high priority targets without any civilian casualties. These are two in a list of many, but they highlight the effectiveness for drones to identify, neutralize, and minimize threats. In many locations, terrorist organizations are the only armed actors, but the pressures of drone surveillance and possible attacks diminishes the ability for these terrorists to effectively gain control in these areas (Johnston and Sarbahi 10). Terrorist organizations tend to try to occupy remote areas, as they are easier to secure and use as a base of operations. This also means that it becomes increasingly difficult as time goes on to send ground troops to neutralize these remote camps. With drones, we can quickly access and identify these remote locations without the need to mobilize excessive resources. The presence of a drone threat is sometimes enough to disband these camps and liberate villages without the need to send a single ground troop. According to Bergan and Tiedemann this tactic as well as the development of better drone technology has increased the accuracy of drone strikes in the middle-east causing President Obama to increase the drone presence in these areas. While drones are seemingly helpful in many ways, to the point that our nation has continually increased our usage of them in military combat and surveillance. Generally, the media, as well as government officials avoid talking about another important subject: the cost of this technology. While collateral damage is considered by officials to be “minimal,” and many studies such as the one mentioned in this paper have shown that drone presence decreases short-term and sometimes long-term terrorist activity in an area, they are reluctant to mention figures of this “minimal” collateral damage, or touch on the long-term effects that occur in areas being targeted by drones. On June 21, 2010 a Pakistani American Fiasal Shahzad claims that he committed a terrorist act because of the drone occupation of Afghanistan and Iraq, stating that, “Well, the drone hits in Afghanistan and Iraq, they don’t see children, they don’t see anybody. They kill everything” (Boyle 1). This is usually a selling point that the drone opposition have, and here in this case, there is confirmation of the idea that a drone presence can actually increase terrorist activity in the long run, and that the killing of civilians by machines can spark outrage that helps increase recruitment for terrorist organizations. Michael Boyle touches on the many reasons already mentioned above as to why drones are overwhelmingly viewed as a positive tool, however, he sheds light on two powerful arguments: The fact of how the United States classifies militants and the government policies which attempt to cripple terrorist groups by attacking social targets in regions with terrorist activities. The United States considers any male that is of age to serve as a militant in combat zones. This

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 99 5/12/17 3:23 PM naturally skews the numbers that are then reported by the media. On top of this, the key component of the drone strikes is not only to effectively neutralize particular targets, but also to disorganize and disrupt the daily operations of terrorist organizations. This means that social functions such as religious worship are targeted, as well as previously attacked targets where civilians are helping with the recovery effort. This in an attempt to throw off the terrorist organizations ability to predict when they will be targeted or how often they are targeted to enable the successful expulsion of the terrorist organization from an area. This practice in itself causes many civilians to be endangered and commonly killed in the collateral damage of disrupting these functions. Civilians in combat zones tend to have a different view of being attacked by drone strikes as opposed to ground troops. This difference can be seen in the psychological response of the civilians. In the case mentioned above the targeting by drones specifically is the reason why Fiasal Shahzad decided to target innocents in New York. This can also occur with survivors in the middle-east. Take the scenario of a drone strike, where accidentally a child’s father or mother is killed in an attack. This child then grows up with resent towards the United States which eventually leads him to become a loyal member of a terrorist organization. Along the way he has influence on friends, and family thus increasing the power of the terrorist organizations message in an area creating more insurgence. By increasing recruitment and creating dissent amongst civilians, this increases the overall terrorist presence in the middle-east. In theory, while one village is being liberated of a terrorist presence, three new villages are joining the oppositions cause. Some of this opposition could be resolved with more transparency and cooperation with the Pakistani government in the hopes of potentially showing the Pakistani Public that there is some validity and reason for the increased use of drones (Bergan and Tiedemann). When talking about drone usage, there is an elephant in the room that needs to be answered. Do drones cause more harm than they do good? The mountain of statistics and facts surrounding drone usage in the middle-east (even though some of these statistics are skewed) point to the simple fact that drones are saving the United States Military a lot of money, but more im- portantly saving a lot of American lives. The usefulness for surveillance and effective target neutralization is seemingly unmatched by any other method implemented in these combat environments. Though with that being said, we must also address the fact that there are always going to be downsides to the decisions we make in warfare, but by tackling the controversial topics surrounding drone warfare, the United States Government could increase national support for not only the drone program, but the acceptance of this new age of technology that is inevitably going to show its presence on the commercial, civilian, and military stage.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 100 5/12/17 3:23 PM Works Cited Bergen, Peter., and Tiedemann Katherine. “Washington’s Phantom War: The Effects of the U.S Drone Program in Pakistan.” Foreign Affairs. 2011.

Boyle, Michael J. “The Costs and Consequences of Drone Warfare.” University of Pennsylvania Law School. 15 January 2013.

Johnston, Patrick B., and Sarbahi K. Anoop. “The Impact of US Drone Strikes on Terrorism in Pakistan and Afghanistan.” Rand Corporation – Political Science Division. 3 Jan. 2013.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 101 5/12/17 3:23 PM No Hablo Español Rachel Tellez

No, I cannot translate that Spanish conversation for you. No, I cannot teach you how to speak Spanish. Why, yes, I am Hispanic. Yes, both of my parents are fluent in Spanish. Yes, I do live in Miami. No, I do not actually speak Spanish. Here’s the dilemma: our nation is struggling to decide between embracing foreign languages and wanting everyone to speak English or “American”— whatever that means. For us Hispanic Millennials, we are caught right in the crossroads of “Hello, we’re in America… speak English,” and “Oh you’re His- panic but don’t know how to speak Spanish? That’s not good… you should learn.” Hey America, make up your mind! As a second generation Hispanic born and raised in the States, I was able to get away without being able to speak Spanish because well… we’re in America. Unfortunately for me, that excuse doesn’t apply everywhere. “Con- gratulations on your acceptance into [a university in Miami],” Damn it. What made me think that I would get away with moving to Miami— a city with nearly 70% of the population identifying as Hispanic or Latino— and still not speak Spanish? People ask me all the time “Why don’t you just learn it?” Wow, thanks. I’d never thought to do that before! Believe it or not, learning a new language, as an adult, is a lot easier said than done. Trust me, I’ve tried; it was probably the longest two hours of my life. Where I was raised, there were not enough Hispanic people for me to feel the immediate need to learn Spanish; my parents, apparently, never thought so either. So, I never learned it. Although my parents always told me that it would come in handy to know Spanish one day— ya know, like balancing a checkbook or changing a flat tire— I still didn’t think that “one day” would’ve come so soon. Even though my parents were both born in the states, they grew up hearing their parents speak only Spanish and everyone else speaking English, so now they’re able to communicate in both languages. Good for them, right? Well, tough luck for me because I ended up with the short end of that stick. So, here we are: I am a three-year Miamian and still fall victim to 21 questions from white people, black people, and especially my fellow Hispanic people about why or how I don’t speak Spanish. But here’s the thing: Miami is so culturally diverse that even if I did learn Spanish from my family (Mexican and Puerto Rican dialects) it would not have made too much of a difference with Miami’s version of “Spanish.” It’s all just a combination of Cuban, Do- minican, Portuguese, Colombian, “Spanglish,” and a race of who can talk the fastest. Yes, there are distinguishable variations in dialects between the Span-

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 102 5/12/17 3:23 PM ish languages. And just how Americans use many slang and Americanized words, other Hispanic countries do the same in their own languages, which make it a little more difficult for others to translate. Fortunately, I have learned to pick up on many keywords and phrases used by Hispanics such as “Habla español?” If you’re a non-Spanish speaker like me, the answer to this is always “No.” I say “always” because even if you think you have the slightest chance at being able to translate, you don’t. Trust me. The moment you say “yes,” you’re automatically seen as one of their own— a native Spanish speaker ready to help them with whatever they need. And once they start… good luck trying to tell them never mind. So, what do I do when this happens? Well, from habit of always looking to my mom or dad for translation help, I now just turn to my boyfriend for answers. In other words, I turn to the white, Midwesterner to come to my rescue. Why? Because he just happens to be a member of a mostly Cuban baseball team. I guess I just figure that he’d know more than me at this point, which is true in most cases. Being a Hispanic in Miami is tough if you don’t know how to speak Span- ish. The whole “No hablo español” thing doesn’t get any less embarrassing when you say it to someone who doesn’t know any English. But, if you’re not confi- dent about translating, it’s okay to say no. It’s better to take the easy way out than to hear them ramble for a couple minutes in a different language, while smiling and nodding your head, and then telling them no. Believe it or not, it’s becoming more common that Hispanic Millennials are growing up speaking mostly English— I mean; we are in America, after all. We’re all in this together, right? So, if you’re like me, don’t worry. There is hope to surviving Miami as a Hispanic who doesn’t speak Spanish.

*First Place Award, Essay, Sigma Tau Delta Writing Contest 2017

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 103 5/12/17 3:23 PM Maria Fiore, Odette Lopez

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 104 5/12/17 3:23 PM Biographies

Julia Barona believes that writing allows her to convey certain emotions and ideas that she otherwise may not be able to express. She enjoys the perma- nence of the written word and its ability to move readers.

Christopher Berman enjoys writing historical pieces, and he relishes the opportunities to encapsulate the past into his own words. He believes that it is truly a marvelous feeling to see someone with a look of awe in his or her eyes, while simply stating, “Wow,” after finishing with one of his historical pieces. To him, that experience is the most gratifying aspect of writing historical prose.

Matthew P. Block is a graduate of Barry University. He decided to return to school after spending over ten years in the construction industry’s workforce. Instead of succumbing to grief, Matthew saw an opportunity after he lost his employment in 2012 due to the economic recession. He joined Barry Universi- ty and he couldn’t be happier. He now writes about what he knows.

Julian-Alecssandre Dasilva finds that his interest in writing is for anything touched by technology. He enjoys researching and writing about the field of computer science because it can so easily intertwine with other disciplines. He is fascinated by the intersection of human interaction and technology, and it inspires his writing.

Brian Delgado is from Peru, but he currently resides in North Miami. He started as a ballet dancer at a young age, and moved on to his passion--photography. Pursuing his Bachelor’s of Fine Arts, his work is mainly about emotions, atmosphere, narrative, and mood.

Yanni De Melo has had a passion for imagery and photography. With the omnipresent inspiration of world art, traveling to the East and around the world, and experiencing life through a spiritual focus, he continues to capture images through the heart of inspiration. De Melo acknowledges that he is merely a vessel to capture the defining moment within a person.

Melissa Diaz is a senior at Barry University majoring in English with a specialization in Professional Writing. Melissa has a passion for writing short stories, flash fiction, and screenplays. As president of Sigma Tau Delta, she is proud of this year’s edition.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 105 5/12/17 3:23 PM Jonathan Ali Gonzalez has been passionate about writing since the age of fifteen. Gonzalez enjoys writing fictional stories about authentic characters with real flaws, fears, and complex personalities. Gonzalez is a sophomore majoring in English with specialization in Professional Writing and a minor in Music.

Anissa Hester is an artist and writer from Durham, North Carolina. She enjoys writing post-modernism fiction, and her art is inspired by anime/manga, blended with a touch of her own style.

Hannah LeBlanc is a 19 year-old First-Year student at Barry University. She fell in love with photography when she was fifteen and realized she had the capability to freeze a moment in time forever. She especially loves photo- graphing nature, because every angle is a unique picture.

Ingrid Lopez Lorenzo is currently pursuing a second Bachelor’s degree and teaching her dog how to bark when How to Get Away with Murder comes back from commercial break. In her free time, she likes to plan for world domina- tion.

Jesus Lopez is a 23-year-old forensic photography major. He transferred to Barry from Miami Dade College. He chose photography because he likes the idea of being able to capture a moment and keep it even long after that moment has been forgotten.

Odette Lopez is a senior at Barry University. She was born in Miami, Florida and is studying to receive a B.A. in Art History. She is an avid writer, painter, and photographer. She has a deep interest in Japanese culture, art and anima- tion, and she aspires to complete a Masters in Asian Art History.

Patricia Martinez was born and raised in South Florida, although she did move away for four years when she enlisted in the U.S. Army. She is currently attending law school in hopes of fulfilling her dream of one day making a difference in this world.

Presler Maxius started writing when life got painful. He found that he writes to keep his memories. He writes to share his story and thoughts with others.

Joseph Medrano is majoring in Sports Management, with a Minor in Busi- ness. He has been writing poetry for some time now.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 106 5/12/17 3:23 PM Veronica Moreno has always been writing since she could remember. She likes the peace and serenity it gives her. Poetry is the way she can voice her thoughts when she’s too nervous to say them out loud.

Victoria Newell grew up in Bandung, Indonesia, where she found her love for the creative and commercial industry. From model to make-up artist to photographer, she has been involved in printed works since she was fourteen. Lugging her camera to places as far as Chiang Mai, Bali, Guangzhou, Sin- gapore, Tokyo, Miami, and New York, she insists on changing the world’s perspective on the idea of beauty.

Eduardo Ortiz always loved to read, so, naturally, he decided to write.

Jessa Potter believes that writing has always been a tool for escaping daily troubles. This is her first attempt at a graphic novel, and she believes that this project has reignited her passion for writing.

Paris Razor is a sophomore at Barry University who studies English with a minor in Spanish. In the future, she hopes to write a novel.

Destiny Ricks was inspired by her mother who fostered a love for education, reading, and writing. Throughout her life, she has applied herself to growing her skills in writing through practice and study. She is not only interested in creative writing; She is interested in many writing styles including creative, journalistic, and essay writing.

Cristina Roca is a senior at Barry University. She is majoring in English with a specialization in Professional Writing.

Liana Rodriguez has varied writing interests, including: short fiction, play- writing, screenwriting, and experimental haiku.

Kahelia Smellie is a writer whose poetry focuses on the thematic issues re- garding black womanhood. The beauty, pain, struggles, thoughts and perceptions of the world she inhabits.

Rachel Tellez is a Barry student living in Miami for the past three years. She has become more inspired than ever before to use writing as a creative outlet. She’s learned that she can use her writing and creative ideas to help others in her community reach their goals and pursue their own dreams. After gradu- ating, she plans to work with local entrepreneurs and small organizations to help spread their message and reach their audiences.

22131 - CAS - What Oft Thought Book Inside 05.12.indd 107 5/12/17 3:23 PM Steffane Wharton began writing after she was injured in a car accident. She found that she lost the ability to verbally communicate her ideas, so she turned to expressing her feelings through writing.

Edward Wilding enjoys the craft of writing. He believes writing holds itself in this juxtaposition of having all the time in the world to make endless correc- tions, and yet once it is written, the whole perception is left in the hands of the reader. Perceptions of imperfections are, in essence, the life we live and those parallels fascinate him.

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