Figure 1. A building renovated for team teaching. An artist’s rendering of Boston University College of Basic Studies.
College of General Studies February 2021 Boston University Letter from the Editor
On behalf of the College of General Studies (CGS), I am so excited to present to you the Retrospective -- a reflective dive into the history of CGS, featuring a collection of selected work from our treasured CGS Literary Magazines. I hope you can grab a cup of something warm to drink, settle into your favorite reading spot and enjoy combing through these pages.
The Retrospective is a gift to our students – for the many gifts you have given us over the years. And to our former students whose work we have included in this book, it was great to reconnect with you all, let’s keep in touch!
This book would not be possible without the help of so many individuals. I have to start by thanking my awesome student arts intern, Jo Nichols. From day one you have patiently listened to long-winded brainstorms and watched sketches get drawn on whiteboards erratically – like the most chaotic game of Pictionary there ever was. But you always came back to our next meeting with organized to-do lists and visual mock ups of our previous conversations. This book would not be a book without you. I think you rock. This book is dedicated to our past, current and future student artists, writers and contributors. You inspire us. Having an idea comes from inspiration, so I especially want to thank Dean Natalie McKnight and Professor Regina Hansen for embracing the arts and embedding it into the fabric of our culture at the College. You both have given so much to our students over the years by way of the Literary Magazine and the CGS Art Show and Coffee House. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to get involved and help out – please know that every year I secretly hope we have a no-show performer so that either of you might get on the open mic at our annual show to sing a little ditty.
A very special thank you to the Retrospective Committee Members Stephanie Byttebier, Rick Cole, Chelsea Feinstein, Lynn O’Brian-Hallstein and Megan Sullivan. Although trapped in a Zoom world, it was incredibly important that you all were a part of this creative process every step of the way. Your help and input, feedback and expertise, and the giving of your time made everything possible. I am also thankful for the friendly banter that brought a sense of normalcy and connectivity so absent from this year.
Finally, to those who have been a part of remembering the details: Jessica Angotti, Donna Conner, Katherine DeForest, Michaela Gill, Kirsten Lundeen, and Andrew Thurston. And to our beloved “timeline quoters,” thank you for sharing your memories.
Is that warm cup in your hand yet? Are you relaxed in your chair just right? Dig in friends, and enjoy! TABLE OF CONTENTS
CGS Historic Timeline 2012 The Chimaerid “I am a cup that used to be filled with love” by Gunita 30 1988 Avenue Singh 31 The Mirror by Ben Price 1 fences by Melissa Papalcure 32 The Seating Order by Elise Werner Currie 2 Artwork by Sarah Noyes Untitled Photo by Artist Unknown 3 2013 The Chimaerid 33 1996 Leoth A Runner’s Day by Adam Vevang 35 Pearl Driver by Kaity Wu 4 Acquiesce of Adoration by Jacob Addington 37 (my words waste their time) by Kirsten Lewis 5 Untitled Photo by Katriona Fahy Untitled Photo by Tamara Charles 6 2014 The Chimaerid 1997 Leoth A Monologue Performed at the End of the Golden Gate 38 The Chosen One by Jennifer Cannavo 7 Bridge by Sheridan Aspinwall Hallways by Frank Possemato 9 A Treatise Advocating the Practicality of Windpws in 39 Self-Portrait by Rich Cormier 11 Modern America by Jimmy King Patient by Daisy Ruiz 41 1998 echo Beautiful by Leticia De Muello Bueno 12 2015 The Chimaerid Garbage of n.y.c. by Melody Comrie 13 El Oceano Pacifico by Nicki Williams 42 Hand by Emmanuel Abrishami 14 Letter to My Thirteen-Year-Old Self by Sarah Mensch 43 Artwork by Sarah Iwany 45 1999 Dirty Laundry Peacock of the Reich by Khaled Al-Omar 15 2016 The Chimaerid Hand by Ian Bernard 16 Happy Hollis Days by Myles Hollis 46 2 Faces by Maria Woehr 18 Organ of Love by Jennifer Gonzales 47 Untitled Photo by Ellen Clouse 48 2003 Ellipsis Carriage of the Moon by Cornelia Raluca Opera 19 2017 The Chimaerid Untitled Photo by Lindsay Arthur 20 Ashburnham Road by Luciano Cesta 49 Bricks by Sigrid Nasser 21 Photo by Giancarlo Lobo 50 Stained Identities by Jill Lattimore 51 2010 The Chimaerid If Only by Julia Garofalo 23 2018 The Chimaerid Newspaper Clippings by Ann Powers 24 History of How I Was Born by Moriah Mikhail 52 Untitled Photo by Yuki Fujita 25 “A Blip is Not and Explanation” by Marie Klepacz 53 Artwork by Nicholas Mohler 54 2011 The Chimaerid winter is love to me by Isabel Spence 26 2019 The Chimaerid Untitled Photo by Mathis Baucher 27 A Glass of Arnold Palmer by Sarah Garsten 55 Window Box by Sara Shilling 29 Photos by Lauren Moghavem 57 The Mirror by Alexis Pinchuck 58 “Our hope for the relaunch was that the students would learn to value themselves as 1961 “I am proud our college was a leader creative people. This hope The Chimaerid in the mid 20th-century movement has been repaid over and (K-EYE-MI-RID) to expand college education from over. I’ve heard so many the elite to the majority of young students comment that The Chimaeridae Americans, helping make possible seeing their work in print Professor are a group of fish, The Award would go on to name the transformation of the United allowed them to think of named after the the following recipients: Charles Fogg States to our post-industrial political themselves as ‘real’ writers Greek mythological Samuel Stern (1979), becomes the economy, our knowledge-based or artists, sometimes for the beast the chimaera, a Robert Wexelblatt (1983), first recipient society of the 21st century.” first time.” Dean’s Hosts are sophomore student monster put together Thomas Underwood (1997), of the Metcalf from the parts of leaders who are selected to help Peter Busher (2009) Cup and Prize many animals. Robert Oresick, Regina Hansen, engage first-year students and act as for Excellence Former Associate Master Lecturer, Rhetoric a resource throughout the year with in Teaching for Dean of the College prospective student events his work at the College Horatio La Fauci serves as first Dean of the College
The first annual Utopia Project re- Art Show and Coffee House imagined into the “When I joined the CGS faculty in is held Capstone Project 1980, I was immediately drawn to the spirit of place, the central mission of connection among faculty, students, and the history of ideas. Becoming Dean in 2000 “The Capstone Project replaced the gave me the opportunity to extend short-lived City Planning Project which the spirit of place by designing had replaced the long-lived Utopia pleasing spaces that fostered Project. Capstone was an experiment connections.” that has worked, evolved, and endured.” Linda Wells, Former Dean of the College Robert Wexelblatt, and Professor of Humanities Professor of Humanities Book Title, Year # # 2009Book Title, Year Following their first semester on campus, 2005 “From its inception CITL was imagined as both “The 60th anniversary of the CGS students and an aspirational space and an occasion to ‘roll up College of General Studies gave faculty continue their one’s shirtsleeves’. It was aspirational in its desire us all a chance to pause and studies in London for to elevate and educate others about the value of reflect on the significant impact six weeks in summer interdisciplinary general education; it was ‘roll up that the College has had on all of one’s shirtsleeves’ in its promise to support faculty, our lives and the BU community. students and staff become the best educators, I am so happy to be a part of its advisors and learners they could be.” history – years later the students are still just as amazing as they Megan Sullivan, were 30 years ago when Former Associate Dean and Director of CITL I started.”
Stacy Godnick, CITL annual conferences Associate Dean and sponsored events for Student Academic Life CGS adds new study The Center for have included: The Art Show and space for students Interdisciplinary The Boston-London Coffee House Program is established with the opening of Teaching & Learning CGS celebrates its celebrates its at the College The Gilbane Lounge (CITL) is established 60th Anniversary 20th anniversary
The CGS Writing Center Natalie McKnight 4th floor renovations complete is redesigned and named Dean Natural Science Suite, student dedicated in memory study area, and living roof of Dean Robert Emery “When I started teaching at “Asking questions, CGS in January 1990, my experimentation, analysis and “The CGS Writing Center is a welcoming place goal was to give students communication allow students to that’s here to help you during any stage of the the best education I could; better understand our writing process. We will help you become a now, 31 years later, that is world and they carry these tools better writer—and a better thinker.” still my goal. But if you’d told with them as they continue to me back then that some day contribute to society.” Paul Thur, I’d be Dean, I wouldn’t have Writing Center Director believed you!” Peter Busher, Former Chair of Natural Sciences Natalie McKnight, (NS) & Mathematics Current Dean of the College, Professor of Humanities Book Title, Year # # 2020Book Title, Year AVENUE BEN PRICE ELISE WERNER CURRIE
1988 The Mirror The Seating Order
Its surface was silver. Pure silver that was as deep as the mind could imagine. It I tilted my head sideways went down and down onto infinity. It was a full length mirror with a carved wooden edge to see a row of grim profiles whose sculpturing came from another era. It was quite an antique. I used to stare at it for carelessly lifting wine glasses hours on end, admiring its serenity. When my girlfriend came over we would sometimes to the health just sit in front of it staring at ourselves in its face. It seemed to me that it had a sort of of unrelated relatives. intelligence. Whenever I looked at it, it seemed as if the mirror observed everything that went on in the world. Maybe it was just an illusion created by the mirror’s depth and quiet restful nature. Whenever I was tense or frustrated I could look at the mirror and then I the red dress wanted a refill could relax. the blue suit feigned indifference the youngest refused a second helping I loved that mirror so that I took every precaution to make sure it was preserved. while giving the dog her first helping I polished its surface almost everyday. Then one day I was getting dressed in the mirror the oldest wanted to know why. and as I was putting on my pants, I tripped and fell towards the mirror. As I was falling my only thoughts were prayers that the mirror would remain unbroken. I hit the mirror Forks were piously held and closed my eyes as I waited to hear the crash when we hit the floor. After about a while elbows were pressed to the sides. minute I opened my eyes in puzzlement. Why hadn’t the mirror broken? Then I saw that The red dress held a glass covered in lipstick I was standing suspended in space. I was surrounded by darkness. Above my head was a the youngest defiantly left the table window. I could see my room through it. It then dawned on me that the window was my mirror, but I could not pass through it. My mind reeled, I knew that it was not possible, the oldest wanted to know why. but there I was. I swam up to the mirror but I could not pass back through. My girlfriend opened the door of my apartment angrily, I could see that she was upset that I was late. The oldest was reprimanded Then she spotted the mirror on the floor and her expression changed. She went to it and for knowing the answers. I saw her standing directly above it. She frowned and picked it up and set it properly in place. I tried calling her but she could not hear me. Hysterically I began pounding to my side, but it did nothing. I cried, my tears evaporating as they hit the nothingness of space. After searching the apartment, my girlfriend left.
I have been inside the mirror for about two months. There is an island here in space, floating like a small planet. There is a cave on the island. About the cave there is a small stream and a few fig trees. Inside the cave I found some old bones. Above the bones is written ‘John Derringer 1842.’ I have added my name below his.
Ten weeks ago I bought a mirror at a garage sale. It is a beautiful mirror, a real antique. I polish it almost every day. Its surface is beautifully placid, yet occassionally it seems to me that I see a man floating around in it trying to get out...
1 2 Avenue, 1988 LEOTH KAITY WU
1996 Pearl Diver
Out here it clears to a hum, another world begins where waters divide, a sea collects where skies collapse, the wind stirs sand in figure eights. There is nothing but gray, over and over.
Near the edge of this seascape, a woman balances along the rock pier, salt in her hair, the sun, a burden at her shoulder, red and furious.
Glass and paper outline the beach in a series of knots. I follow the shore and eye the moon in its starless-safety, black hush. Fires redden by night.
I imagine the dawn of Isle Bay, clear and backlit by silver, their fingers mine the sea. It is beauty they are after, the single jewel iridescent in the early morning, their bodies sink deeper, slipping like stones, closer to purity.
At night, seas converge with sky. I look for Andromeda, I enter the water.
Untitled Photo August 21, 1994
Avenue, 1988 3 4 KIRSTEN LEWIS TAMARA CHARLES
(my words waste their time)
What armies of Massive philanthropists are going to serve when all Hell Breaks loose? will hell break loose?
are diamonds able to shine when all else is absent in light - then if there is light, will it vacuum out wetness from my eyes: leaving me blind, untouched, unknowing, un…
why is it a flower dies so quickly? Why can’t it just be allowed to remain in its natural peak of splendor?
Gorgeous flower, amazing in its delica…. wait
Stop. Don’t Turn Away… my arm y isn ‘t read dy y et
all has been said, but not a mortal can do what I have in myself from you
my little tap dancer you deserve all the miles and miles of cloudy starry dreamland you can take into your own Untitled Photo
Leoth, 1996 5 6 Leoth, 1996 LEOTH JENNIFER CANNAVO
1997 The Chosen One
YOU don’t cry, YOU have silent tears, Your pain is dry, cries no one hears. YOU don’t cry because YOU never feel hurt inside, YOU must believe YOU are the best, YOU the Chosen One--tears decrease pride. YOU are the Chosen One--YOU are not like the rest.
YOU are the strong one--the one to shelter us from the storm, Yes, I am the chosen one, this I have been shown. Your arms protect us all--YOU must keep us warm. I never wanted to be the one, but I have always known. YOU can’t be weak, YOU have to support us all, You think I am so brave, confident, never shed a tear, YOU are the Chosen One--YOU must never fall. Never knowing what it is to worry, feel weakness, live in fear. You think I am so strong yet this is a misconception. YOU are the next in line--YOU must be a success, You think I have the answer to all you question. YOU must fulfill our expectations and be nothing less. You think I am so fearless yet I am not so brave, YOU must become someone to be so admired, Sometimes I am lost myself and need to be saved. YOU are the Chosen One--of YOU this is desired. I can’t always lead you, or show you the way, Sometimes I’m afraid of my next step and want to turn away. YOU are the fearless, always on the crusade, Yes I am the chosen one in your mind, YOU are never intimidated, your bravery shall never fade. but here is one thing about me you have failed to find. YOU have invisible power, YOU were born to lead, The “Chosen One”--the leader, the mold, the best friend, YOU are the Chosen One--through YOU we will be freed. Is nothing more than a frightened little girl playing pretend.
YOU are our mold, YOU will be our indication, YOU are shaping us, YOU are our inspiration.
7 8 Leoth, 1997 FRANK POSSEMATO
Hallways
My friend John Lee, and I but the end we’ll all be cut down a bottom-dweller just like me, I’ve been an evangelist is so ridiculously by the daily struggles and trage- to calm the long-life misery a collector, a thief out of sight dies watches his chances come and go a player mostly small mostly go a stranger in the alley Sweet Lady a brother, we could be married in the spring but keep the sight We met on Cemetery Hill a son you’re in waiting keep the day light in the neighborhood just like me, we’re both chasing the same that I live still and if I can’t win you we could keep the brightness of living thing, where the darkness with my self-destructive smile always from the backyard of the dimly lit existence then you just caught me to the boulevard never ceases in the rain season but that’s just the best intention every hour to kill it will all be clear getting in the way and every cent, when I come back to all the put-off things so I’ll choke on nostalgia to walk deliberately Here in this place mostly never or exaggerate it out of existence and not to walk alone of many places but when you look at me mostly forever. inspiration gets too long bu when restlessness is all you know like you’re the only one who can stop in the heavy-eyed gas station lights with that ragged, start-over the flood where thoughts go through your head feeling in your throat again what else can I do mostly unsaid pretend The meanwhile confusion can put to John will take his stand with your fictional friends, death by the runway that the distance can be measured in our short-sleeve dreams one open-ended night miles leave only the bleak but until then sand hills and dust fields the best life leaves you with reason to think is one you can walk away from
Leoth, 1997 9 10 Leoth, 1997 RICH CORMIER ECHO LETICIA DE MUELLO BUENO
1998 Self-Portrait Beautiful
Beautiful You evoke images of coffee Silk -- French Silk -- Ice cream Jazz. Horn. Low. Playing Soft. Slow Warm scents Honey notes Tea leaves soaked by the rain Pressed against my body Hat like Miles, Confidence like Wynton Dark brown, black, gold constellations Soften anything with your eyes Numbing Entrancing voice Melting Me
Leoth, 1997 11 12 MELODY COMRIE
Garbage of n.y.c.
Garbage men in n.y.c. dumped a baby this morning along with the milk cartons and rotten eggs, an unwanted baby. It was
a tiny one wrapped in plastic put in a shiny garbage can. I’m sure as she stood by the window on the first floor watching it being dumped into the dirty truck,
until her brown eyes filled with tears she stood remotely silent, it was as if a knife was chipping little by little at her heart.
As she puts on her school uniform it becomes a cross which she has to bear. Her “mistake” is being tucked away with the trash. It will now be
a speck of waste in a dump, in n.y.c. Chapel prayer at St. Ignatius does its best to erase this sin, but Hand she will never forget her baby in the n.y.c. trash bin.
EMMANUEL ABRISHAMI
Echo, 1998 13 14 Echo, 1998 DIRTY LAUNDRY KHALED AL-OMAR IAN BERNARD
1999 Peacock of the Reich
Basking in the evening sun Which swamped the courtyard, The peacock is a Fascist. In its pagan pomp and circumstance It eerily resembles a Nuremberg maiden In its flawless perfection. No way I can compete with it. My black hair is not a crown On my head. My scarred skin, brown, Lacks the coloration of Its complex Mein Kampf feathers. The walk, arrogant And full of grandeur Blows my pathetic slouch Out of proportion. Aryan in its peck, Crushing my Jewish ego Like a discarded seed, Then comes its majestic tail, Bigger than life, Glistening in the sun it covers, Tickling my own, impotent tail bone. How can I ever compete? Untitled Photo
15 16 Dirty Laundry, 1999 MARIA WOEHR
2 Faces
The moon had two faces Last night Bubble down my esophagus One was cratered, marigold, And silently slit my jugular The other silk-lily white Handcuff the melancholy neurons Palm olive slippery I was That anguish for catharsis Ridged finger nubs breaking fine gold hair roots all of a sudden My green irises caught some moon dust just then, while those frustrated crescent tips In the shadows my bloated pupils stared covered in saliva lay on the carpet Flushed cheek-skin slapping the icy ceramic tile piercing the dustballs. Creeping fingers clawing its gritty molding Brave hallucinations. Toothslits on my thumb. Tulip veins rip ped like thin paper Regurgitated poison dangles from my tongue. Let the translucent liquid s The clouds cleared. p i The moon had two faces l last night l one was cratered marigold sticky on those frayed red cuticles the other silky-lily white and papercut-smarts
Words By steel tongues are often lapped up by bruised minds The incoherent muttering rain sobs pelted against the storm window So I reached for the blinds.
Dirty Laundry, 1999 17 18 Dirty Laundry, 1999 ELLIPSIS LINDSAY ARTHUR
2003
CORNELIA RALUCA OPERA
Carriage of the Moon
God, the sea has rabies! Then, why do I still love it? A woman loves the masked man And she is friends with what’s beneath it. I wish I could be Selene To reach out of the sky And make you sleep, my sweet Endymion
Untitled Photo
19 20 Ellipsis, 2003 SIGRID NASSER
Bricks
She glanced out the window of the large red brick building for a second. An A long chain of golden memories that had been tied around her feeble wrist was escape, sort of, from the fogginess of the beer infested room. The rust of antique memories suddeny made visible, and she remembered. She remembered how the thick, wonderful clung to the bulk of bottle bearing souls who shared it with her and was making her sick. breeze felt on her fingertips, helping to chip away the remnants of the Malboro Red nail “Why am I here?” she thought. “This isn’t my place anymore.” polish she bore. She remembered foolishly offering herself to the road on the way to buy a toothbrush with her sister, her first run-in with the rent-a-cop at school, as well as strutting “Putting off the future once in a while for a quick pit stop to reminisce on the past down the street with stiletto heels and the coolest pair of Jackie-O sunglasses ever invent- never hurt anyone, right?” She pondered the thought for a while and even set aside time ed. She remembered the feeling of indestructability - the first feeling of indestructability, for a despicable attempt to convince herself of this. with him.
“Everyone and I, I and everyone... doesn’t seem to piece together as well as it For years she had treaded through life dwelling on a single, fatal blow that had used to,” she quickly concluded, and laid back with a sigh as the weight of the cigarette drop kicked her right in the stomach. She had built her life on top of it, and was now smoke began to bear down on her slowly. surrounded by an endless pile of black bricks, desperately grasping for sky, yet never quite reaching it. She hated him. No, she loathed him. He looked so happy now, so indescribably pathetic. A “family man” now was the word around the hubbub of a community to which “How could he,” she asked. “How could he ever think that it was going to be all she was in debt tafter a wonderful pleasant childhood -- before the misleading and super- right after that?” On her way out, after distributing her farewells as she saw fit, she dragge ficial clash with “The Best Years of Her Life,” of course. dher heavy feet to the door rather slowly, and shook off temptation one last glance in his direction. There was a faint echo of glass getting acquainted to the apparently very ne- glected tile in the distance, but it soon faded. They were drifting further and further away “No, no, you are stronger than that,” she tried again to convince herself. “Much now. Or was it the other way around? No one paid too much attention to her in the room stronger than him.” except for him. She hated him even more for that. But just as she reached the door, for a second -- one quick second -- she gazed at “Family man huh?” she thought as another sigh broke its way through her him once more, then escaped into the night just as the dismal winter began embedding clenched jaw. “Oh God, oh God.” itself steadily throughout the city.
Ellipsis, 2003 21 22 Ellipsis, 2003 CHIMAERID JULIA GAROFALO ANN POWERS
2010 If Only Newspaper Clippings
Focus on the little things Savagery, bloodlust, morality, empathy These are writ deep in our genes Free as a bird still attached to its strings, With all things noble and terrible If only a marionette could breath and sing But our conscience is clear. Then the world would awake as the sun does rise, If only, if only they could see through his lies. Ask someone why they love Taking a moment to flounder Triumphant as a trumpet yet twice as bereft, And they will say If only a heart did not bear such a heft, It’s a better play in the long run Then the world would awake as the sun does rise, Savor it, it speaks for itself If only, if only He could hear their cries. And let’s you leave everything else behind.
Subtle and sweet but rebellious as Cade, With no lone star, If only a soul in advance could be paid, He understands amazing awaits Then the world would awake as the sun does rise, In this crazy little thing called hate If only, if only there weren’t such ties. He’s seen what makes us good and evil Learned the green romance and Abstract in existence Van Gogh akin, Knows why there’s no bible on your hotel bedside table. If only the mind wasn’t conquered by Yin, Then the world would awake as the sun does rise, At the heart of it, timing is everything If only, if only the mind were as wise. So he has the roots and everything else shipped And like a low-flying superman The logo is there to tell you Freedom begins here.
23 24 The Chimaerid, 2010 CHIMAERID ISABEL SPENCE
2011 YUKI FUJITA winter is love to me
In one moment your breath froze on the glass And in that Your breath, you were so perfect You belonged to the eternity of the ice And all I was Your witness.
Untitled Photo
The Chimaerid, 2010 25 26 MATHIS BAUCHER SARA SHILLING
Window Box
In kindergarten we did a project where we made a book. I made mine about how much I wanted a cat and how I would be able to take care of it and I deserved it. It opened on the wrong side and had more spelling mistakes than words but it convinced my par- ents. The owner of a nearby pet store had a cat who had just had kittens. There he was, the last kitten left of the litter. We brought him home and he fell asleep in my arms and I was in a really uncomfortable position, but I stayed that way because if I moved I was afraid I would wake him up. We still have pictures from that day; my mom took more pictures that day than she did at my high school graduation. I am wearing my tie-dye t-shirt and magenta leggings and my big round glasses, smiling bigger than anything and holding my new cat up for the camera; except in the one where he is sleeping in my arms. In that one I am as still as statue because I don’t want to wake him up. My dad told me that if he let me get a cat he would have to be the one to name it. He chooses Nick.
When I was six, I dressed him up in my doll clothes and wheeled him around in my doll’s stroller; and he would let me. He looked so cute in the little dresses and bonnets and my six year old self could not get enough of it. He wasn’t like most cats. He loved people and was really more like a dog than a cat. Even my dad, who was so opposed to the idea of having a cat came to love him.
Then I came home from college for Thanksgiving. It’s the the first time I’d been home since I left. I see Nicky and pick him up and he is so skinny, he hardly weighs anything. Then I see how he is not eating as much and he is acting kind of funny too. I ask my parents what is wrong and they tell me how they haven’t noticed. I guess its like when our best friend gets a haircut and you don’t notice, but when the kid in your class that you never talk to gets one, you can’t help but notice. Untitled Photo I had never cried over death before that day. I guess I had never seen the death of someone who was closer to me than my cat. We got him when he was just a baby and he had been a part of my life longer than he hadn’t. That cat was always there for me, as silly as it sounds. I guess I liked how he couldn’t judge me like people could.
I’m trying so so hard not to cry while we are at the vet, but it’s happening anyway. The vet is putting the shots in and once he puts the last one in I know that will be it. It was this moment where he would be alive and then this next moment he would be dead. I could never see him again. I would only have memories and that was so scary and now I was crying.
The Chimaerid, 2011 27 28 The Chimaerid, 2011 CHIMAERID GUNITA SINGH
2012 “I am a cup that used to be filled with love” I couldn’t believe I was crying over an animal. A cat, it’s just a cat I kept telling myself. How could I be crying over a cat. I felt ridiculous. I am holding his little paw and petting his face methodically with rhythm to try and stay calm. The last shot was pumped into him and I hated how there was no going back. I was trying to keep my cry silent but my mom is standing there blubbering louder than everything. I start wondering if the people out in the waiting room can hear us. I kiss his head for the last time and then we I am a cup that used to be filled with love, filled with hope. Filled with ease, filled have to leave. with calm.
After it was over we’re ushered back into the waiting room with all the people waiting Most of the contact I’ve had over the years has been with serrated edges: objects there with their live animals; it’s just a normal day for them. I run through there with my too hard and sharp for my delicacy. head down so nobody can see me crying and I pull my mom along with me, because I can feel her lagging behind and I feel people staring, especially the little kids. We get to the Consequently my once smooth edges have cracked - at the base, at the rim, parking lot and my mom just stands there and she is crying so loud and she just shouts inside and outside, making me brittle. All this hope and love and ease and calm his name out. This is the first time in my life that I realized I need to comfort my mom and slipped right through. It began gradually, but soon these elements gushed right not the other way around. It was so difficult and weird to me. It was a foreign experience. I have never seen my mom cry like this. I try to put my arms around her in a semi-half hug through my fractures to find a new, less broken home. and tell her it will be OK, even though I was having a hard time believing in what I was saying and we just stood there in the parking lot crying together and for the next few I sat on my dish patiently. I stopped waiting for sweet contents to pour back into weeks I can’t talk about him without holding back tears. I try to remind myself how he was me because I accepted that sweetness deserved a safe and elegant chalice. I, just a cat. I feel so silly crying like this over a cat. I just don’t believe that I could be this at- however, was neither of these. Thus, I sought bitterness and acidity. These would tached to a cat, so attached to something that I have never even had a conversation with. settle for a dreadful thing like me.
A few weeks later we got this little box in the mail. It was Nicky. His ten pound Time passed and I became more worn down and anything and everything I once frame, his emerald eyes and his striped fur had been transformed into this little bag of accommodated has depleted. Left empty and utterly irreparable, I once more sat what ironically, looked like cat litter, inside this tiny three by five wooden box. All I’m alone. thinking is where are we going to put this? My dad puts the little box on the window sill where he usedto sit because it gets lots of sun. He is half joking about it being there and I right away start listing reasons why it can’t stay there but after a while I realize, that even Then came You: harboring no intentions of piecing me back together with adhe- though this little box looks all out of place there, and yes it is a little weird; actually it’s a lot sive - weird, but I like it. Because You found me perfect just as I am.
The Chimaerid, 2011 29 30 MELISSA PAPALCURE SARAH NOYES
fences
they boarded up the fields and planted rows of trees they boxed up the new grass hid away each trodden path beware of dog - beware of brick, Mrs. Abbott’s pies were sniffed for dread tossed to mewing feline squadrons and coons with daylight nausea the doorbell rings? quick get your gun we share a plot of land, split down the middle by a big white fence, we tipped the builder, we’ll start with lemonade, vodka bathed and our hammock is forever stained by dirt and rain.
Untitled Artwork
The Chimaerid, 2012 31 32 The Chimaerid, 2012 Safe, You don’t want to need these heroes, CHIMAERID ADAM VEVANG Searching for answers, But it is reassuring to know they exist, 2013 You were a mile away, So when you ask, A decision away, “Is the world a bad place?” A Runner’s Day You chose to eat quickly, before heading to The heroes answer, with a loud voice, the finish line, No. You chose Starbucks five minutes before The anticipation, the excitement, Your phone beeps three times... the first explosion. While one person has ruined a city and its The stories and the smiles, Call failed, proudest day, thousands rise, All come on Sunday. “The wireless customer is not available.” Tuesday morning, Bostonians are prouder than ever, Tears flood my eyes, as I hear my cousins voice Universities reopen, Bostonians with an open room, an open We wake up early, echo through my head, Business resumes. couch, Look at the weather, Will I hear that beautiful voice again? But no more answers, An open door. Look at the sky, Call again, and again. Just higher numbers. Beautiful, Nobody is a mind reader, I have never seen more love, Perfect, “Hello?” Yet everyone is today, What a beautiful sight. A ‘Runner’s day.’ Your heart begins to beat normally. “Colin is fine, we’re all resting.” Thought bubbles appear above everyone’s As I walk the streets now, We drank a little, A beautiful sight. head, A siren brings tears to my eyes, We hugged some more, But it isn’t a carton, A helicopter overhead causes only sadness, We took pictures to remember, 3:00 It is real life -- I pass people, quiet as they walk to class. And we smiled. Your phone rings constantly, buzzes constantly, Rather, surreal life -- I am not a mind reader, Parents and friends, who can only wonder, We can’t help but ask, But today I know everyone’s thoughts. Mile 24 Pray, “Is the world falling apart?” Runners fading, At the same time, No... In this city’s incredible resilience, I reach for a high five, You call your Boston friends, I have a flashback, I offer words, confidence or inspiration, “Are you safe?” It’s coming together. I hear just one thing, 2.2 miles left You hope to hear their voice again, Boston Police Department, Jack Buck, as the first St. Louis Cardinals game What a beautiful sight. See their face again, Boston Fire Department, after 9/11 Hug them. And the government aid, Soldiers in full uniform carry flags as ...But all you get is a voicemail. Then the unsung heroes, “I don’t know about you, but as for me, the they run, Citizens who ran to, not away from the blast. question has already been answered. Should Inciting U-S-A chants as they pass, With phones to their ears, we be here? Yes!” Bringing together a great nation, Your group doesn’t talk, The runners, What a beautiful sight. You pray for a voice on the other line, After 26.2 miles, The relief when someone yells, Who kept running, 2:30 “Andrew’s ok!” To give blood to the injured, Kenmore Square fills as the Red Sox ...But the process hasn’t ended. And the doctors, game ends Working around the clock to save lives. Sox fans flood Brookline Avenue to But what will tomorrow be like? watch, You lie in bed, A beautiful event, In one piece,
33 34 The Chimaerid, 2013 JACOB ADDINGTON
Acquiesce of Adoration
Well I was a boy then Is this the ending but a man now or the beginning And they say grown men have jobs or the ending of the beginning So I think my first job will be in construction or the beginning of the ending Picking up what I broke and building it back up our feelings are still pending and I do not know if there will be any mending I just hope you hire me But I do know that every moment I lose without you I fight interference between my head And while I’m busy picking up your little priceless pieces you are busy selling them to and my heart others for nickels and dimes Well I’d shut up Oh my - and pack up I’m going to have to buy them all back from others that never deserved them and get up But that’s quite alright my Dear and get out if I’ve got a lot of making up to do. I knew that someday I could come back And I know you don’t usually like to dance, but Darling, we are doing a waltz with our dismay You crushed all I’ve ever known You leave me cliff Crushed my bones when you left for the unknown hanging But it’s my fault you’ve taken off so who am I to talk off the side of the tallest mountain with your foot crushing my fingers that cling to the You say you don’t really want to talk but talking is the only thing I do well edge. as you can see I’m rambling to your disdain right now. And honestly this is all BULLSH- So let’s shut our mouths and have a conversation with our fingers and our skin. Shh shh I want to show you how I feel with my body but our bed is like a calculator Everything will be alright multiplying our problems. I hope. Well these are all just words and what are words worth? Well I’m trying real hard worthless compared to actions real hard but I don’t even know what I’m trying to do Darling, we all know actions speak louder than words These words are meant for you and so I can only hope that my actions deafen your thoughts of distrust only you I can only hope that my actions leave a lovely ringing in your ears You’re the only one who will never hear them that remains for all our years You have a heart like a stained glass window And after all our words are said - And I will not lie when we first met I needed to break something maybe they’ll write your name beside mine
The Chimaerid, 2013 35 36 The Chimaerid, 2013 KATRIONA FAHY CHIMAERID SHERIDAN ASPINWALL
2014 A Monologue Performed at the End of the Golden Gate Bridge
Evolutionary evidence suggests that all life on Earth began under water– that, at some point, we crawled, all warm stick and ocean ooze, out of the seas onto sand and land. This is something we’d like to forget, and it’s an ignorance nature has allowed– she has since packed away our ocean, the webbed and sticky parts of ourselves, deep inside the body, wrapping up the whole in soft human skin. This is the place from which we begin, the ocean, and it is woven into us in a way that is inescapable– our blood rushes and retreats, a red sea all its own; our slick jellyfish hearts are somehow always stinging. And you. Your ocean is something I have never seen before. You come from the darkness, the unexplored ninety-nine percent, the trench volcano. You are a new kind of sea. The first time I saw you, you were sitting on the ocean floor, hands dug into sand and soaking in the quiet. But nature and time have scooped the sea like ice cream twice out of you, leaving pockets of air needing always to be replenished. You came up again, lungs bursting to be filled with the land and the new, and you hated them for it– I could tell. And I know that sometimes it feels like something’s tearing at your throat, like the warm ocean squish from deep inside is pushing out; your gills are trying desperately to sprout anew. But you cannot move backward in time. And I know that you want to, that the simple days of saltwater blindness and slippery instinct are so compelling, because sometimes the words in your head hurl themselves like glass bottles against your skull, and you’re screaming out for quiet– my darling, I know. But the future holds its blessings, too. Your fins have branched out into arms and legs, your puckered fish mouth has learned three languages; your scales have smoothed over into something soft and beautiful, something only the sun could nourish and the grass worship properly. You are real, you are real, and you are everything– every wrecked pirate ship, every briny urchin, every grain of salt. You are the ocean. But you cannot go back. And jumping from the bridge won’t change that. The water is no longer your home. Untitled Photo Come. Step back over the railing. Put on your shoes. I brought you some dry socks.
The Chimaerid, 2013 37 38 JIMMY KING
A Treatise Advocating the Practicality not seem to realize or consider it significant who heard them, for they alone populated the Great House. The entire block seemed to collapse of Windows in Modern America whenever my family’s Great House was in turmoil. The neighborhood was now in a state of ruin, as all of the children had fled their houses in search of some refuge. It was getting frigid outside, but the gas-fired I froze at the window pane, my face pressed against the glass, heater in my parents’ house let the row proceed. The sun continued to immobile. The frost on the thick glass obscured my view, but I could see dip down, the distant horizon losing effort to hold its eyelid aloft. the outline of the horror well enough. My twelfth birthday had passed since I left, and I shuddered to imagine what had become of The Great My Mother was donning a lavish dress that was creased at the House in my absence. We had, up to this point, known two leaders of the seems from her fixation to Great Hall’s armchair. Her face was eerily Great Household: the Mother and the Father. Their differences met in fixated and twisted from prolonged immobility and strenuous talking perfect balance and harmony, holding order in our conflicted world. Now that it seemed chiseled out of stone. She was a self-made gargoyle the two sat, aged and bitter, turned away from each other in the Hall in occupying a queen’s throne. separate chairs. They were ready to face of once again over a much-repeated debate well-known to the House: what to eat for dinner. My Mother commenced her monotone tirade without looking at my As the sun set outside, I grew colder and suffered. I had not eaten Father, “Oh, it pains me so to see you children starved and famished as anything in days; my parents had assured me that my wellbeing required you are–" Her speech was interrupted by one of her button’s popping it. I sat outside of the window and watched my parents, fearing what off. might be my consequences of their argument. Flustered, she resumed speaking, “–But it is very clear that your The Father, wearing his faded suit and clouded eyeglasses, faced Father’s arrogance and refusal to compromise is responsible for the away from the Mother, and bellowed robustly, “My children and fellow eighty-seventh consecutive postponing of dinner. There is but one clear family members, your mother has yet again insisted that we have turkey and logically sound solution to our woes: our Turkey Dinner Initiative. tonight. Having turkey for dinner would have so many dangerous The Turkey Dinner Initiative will efficiently collect all food from our repercussions to the health of this household, I need not enumerate children, remove half, and then hide it in the forest for the children to them. To begin with, it does not taste good… She is an aggressor unto the safety of her find. This will be the greatest stride in efficiently cooking dinner in since own kin, and if law did not bind her, she would do well the construction of the Great House. Your father’s refusal to agree to to resign from her position. But there is hope, members of the Great such a clear-cut, flawless program is abhorrent. Therefore, I will note Suburban Commonwealth! I will stand firm, and will not bend to the that it has been decided intercept and withhold for inspection all malicious will of your mother. It is only standard procedure that we again children’s food, to protect the standard of living of the children.” postpone dinner until your mother comes to her senses.” With that, he glared indignantly at his wife and resumed his I pressed my nose against the window, as ice hardened around my contemptuous face to bind it to the glass. The sun had finally finished setting, and the silence. The streets outside the house were strewn with debris and black night gave a strange, solemn peacefulness to the neighborhood. remains from the fights between my parents. On one occasion my Then I saw something astonishing: my Mother had risen from her chair, parents had smashed our household appliances and set fire to the city and was moving towards the door! I was struck with awe and hope that block surrounding us during a particularly passionate debate over how one of the two had finally, by some method unknown to me, understood best to maintain the tranquility of the Great Household. Unfortunately, no our plight. I then saw her reach the door, and effortlessly flick on the such pro-activity had befallen this squabble. My Mother and Father did light switch, so the two could carry on.
The Chimaerid, 2014 39 40 The Chimaerid, 2014 DAISY RUIZ CHIMAERID NICKI WILLIAMS
2015 Patient El Oceano Pacifico
Vivo cerca de la costa sólo una media milla de distancia, y por eso casi todas de mis memorias son sobre este océano.
El Pacífico me hace sentir feliz, y me siento relajada cuando puedo probar el aire fresco y salado en mi lengua, un sabor familiar.
Con un gran respiro, puedo oler las olas que están llenos de algas, el dulce coco de mi protector solar, y un pizca de pescado.
El océano Pacífico suena de choques fuertes y suaves al mismo tiempo. Suena de la gozosa risa de los niños, tranquillo y calmante.
Cuando camino, puedo sentir la arena crujiente en los pies, frío, mojado.
A través de mis gafas del sol puedo ver el sol cegamiento, las gaviotas grises, los surfistas bronceados. El océano Pacífico es lo más echo de menos, cuando estoy en Boston para el año escolar. Pero sé que en unos meses, puedo verlo otra vez.
The Chimaerid, 2014 41 42 SARAH MENSCH
Letter to My Thirteen-Year-Old Self
Dear Thirteen-Year-Old Self, Dear Thirteen-Year-Old Self, I want you to know that I’m writing everything now you wanted to read then. Your mom knows you sneak mascara at school. The stories that tell you the truth you’ve so clearly earned, Dear Thirteen-Year-Old Self, the ones that tell you what to do It’ll happen when you let it. after you put your head on his shoulder You know what I’m talking about. Do not and before your parents find you two that way; force yourself, the ones that let you know getting it over with shortens the timeline, he wishes he had a story like that too. lets you put one more finger down in Never Have I Ever, Dear Thirteen-Year-Old Self, but that is all it will do. ‘Wannabe hipster’ is not a good look for you. And trust me, Dear Thirteen-Year-Old Self, thirteen-year-old self, Her bandana’s going to slip. at seventeen, You’ll hear about how much of herself she left you will not be alone. on the bathroom sink, Dear Thirteen-Year-Old Self, see the formica stained red, You can’t paint your nails blue for a year just because you like Rent. days later. Dear Thirteen-Year-Old Self, The image in your head will never stop, Hear me when I say this: but she will, there is nothing you can do about those outside things. someday. Go write that poem because damn, girl, you write ‘em well for thirteen. Dear Thirteen-Year-Old Self, Write them for eleven year old us Write your parents a goddamn letter this summer. like I write for thirteen year old you. Dear Thirteen-Year-Old Self, Dear Thirteen-Year-Old Self, Look me in the eye. Don’t carry the world on your shoulders, Tell me honestly you’re not relieved it’s in their hands now. Older hands than yours, wiser, too, and you know it. And let me remind you that experience is nice, but there were no hands kinder or more selfless than yours the night they tapped on the telephone, ten numbers, the best eight hundred number you’ll ever call.
The Chimaerid, 2015 43 44 The Chimaerid, 2015 SARAH IWANY CHIMAERID MYLES HOLLIS
2016 Happy Hollis Days
Much like my adolescent bed, I felt used, abused, and soiled. If it wasn’t my sociopathic bed-wetting then it was my bloody lacerations sustained from squabbles with our father who art in tandem with his feelings towards homosexuals.
Shout shout scream he echoes in my dream or rather a nightmare because life isn’t fair.
“I pushed you too hard” your job isn’t to push me “I pushed you too hard” you were supposed to protect me “I pushed you too hard” Mom please divorce him he’s hurting me.
What is a schoolyard bully, an insecure 45 year old black man from the Southside of Chicago? HE in all of his wisdom hath made a covenant with HER in her glory to raise a child of mixed races and faces to only bleed disgraces.
The Chimaerid, 2015 45 46 The Chimaerid, 2016
JENNIFER GONZALES ELLEN CLOUSE
Organ of Love
She’s an Organ of Love Accustomed to Abandonment Springing to life with the Slightest of Strokes to her strings- which Are Tauter from disuse Than a ships rigging- the hands that Break the spell of silence Will undoubtedly render her Silent- A return to Wooden solitude. She’ll sing with uncertainty The strokes that silence Will create the most melancholy of music
The Chimaerid, 2016 47 # Untitled Photo Untitled CHIMAERID LUCIANO CESTA GIANCARLO LOBO
2017 Ashburnham Road
Untitled Photo I Nose and forehead against the window. Breath fogging the glass. He’s probably dreaming of the ice-cream truck, With its twinkling music and sweet confections.
II Power lines buzzing, The stifling humidity broken by breeze From inside the house, the smell of tomato sauce and dust, Which floats through the air illuminated through stained glass.
III My brother and on the Super Nintendo, He wins, but of course I try, (but maybe I’m not even playing). The rectangular controller in my hand, And victory in my head.
IV Up on the balcony, We towered over the city up on our little escapement. Faded stars straight over our heads, Planes shooting through, red and green.
49 50 The Chimaerid, 2017 JILL LATTIMORE CHIMAERID MORIAH MIKHAIL
2018 Stained Identities History of How I Was Born
We walk around wearing masks I was born in a city Hiding our true selves beneath delicate clay My mother and sisters swaddled me Leading our developing identity astray In the Egyptian cotton their And failing to tell the truth when one asks… Black brothers had picked from the plantations of my white ancestors My father floated me down the Nile River How are you feeling today? Where the sub burnt my skin golden olive We squeeze the paint on in thick globs Under my eyes grew the baggage of my people’s struggles Brushing gold sunshine over blue sobs The Nile brought my to the rivers of Jamaica Stroking orange smiles that should be gray. My hair curled with the waves of the waterfall Where I fell Yet, if our acrylic colors revealed what is true Back to the city I was born Cracked china with no color code See, my blood is older than this skin A pigmented mess smothering our mold Coursing through generations of We’d have less concealing to do Struggle, family, war and love Into this body If courage strikes us to wash our disguise Mixed isn’t as black and white as black and white We’d uncover stains of emotionless lie Many rivers flow through these veins So ask me again my ethnicity And with firm humility I will recount to you the history Of how I was born
The Chimaerid, 2017 51 52 MARIE KLEPACZ NICHOLAS MOHLER
“A Blip is Not an Explanation”
A mistake is a word mispronounced it rolls off a thoughful tongue in a careless wave prefaced by nothing, a mistake is an inconsistent blip in a calculated mind It’s a shoelace tripped on and a drink spilled on a counter It’s when you speak too loudly in a quiet room but it’s not the words you say when you do A mistake is not an answer or an explanation for the time you decided what you had wasn’t enough of what you wanted You can’t tell your intentions a mistake, and you can’t call a person one either A mistake is not the time you spent holding someone’s hand and it is not the time you fell in love with a person who made you weak Because even though you may try to replace the word decision with mistake they are not interchangeable lyrics in the song you sing and decisions are not pieces of paer you crumble up when they don’t look quite right Decisions are the composite of honesty and choice impossible to scratch off of the tree you etched them into When people tell you that they made a mistake it should be a word mispronounced or spoken too loudly a shoelace tripped on and a drink spilled on the counter It should not be the way they looked at you the words they spoke to you or the reason they left you
The Chimaerid, 2018 53 54 The Chimaerid, 2018 CHIMAERID SARAH GARSTEN
2019 A Glass of Arnold Palmer
I am here today to explain to you the power of an Arnold Palmer. Just as I had planned, my friends were quick to forget that running through the core of this ice tea, disguised by its autumn tones was one quarter lemonade. I had my first Arnold Palmer at the age of 8. I was in a small town along the The sweetness (or frankly the Minute Maid corn syrup) the driving force of my Central Coast of California where in a cream-colored craftsman there resided a precocious nature; sugar high, I excelled. sandwich shop along a golf course. At this age, I was adamantly defending myself against An Arnold Palmer, my perfect guise. the condescension of various adults asking me “Do you like animals? What’s your favorite animal?” Followed by a the arduous task of choosing between the lion, giraffe, and hippopotamus conveniently filling my paper placemat. I will not pretend that working to appear more knowledgeable or more perceptive than I am is something that I do not aspire to anymore. However, Annoyed, I scanned the menu deliberating what to drink, full of disdain slowly I find myself growing more and more comfortable with who I am. I for being treated differently from the adults. “Hey Sarah, Do you want juice? find the wisdom that I so long hoped for, to be more and more reflective of They have apple juice and oran–” NO. I was not in the mood for this again. I characteristics I truly hold. had to pick something that didn’t emphasize my youth. I needed to assert my intellectual capacity, my equality. I recalled my Aunt drinking something with a Today, I take my Arnold Palmers as they are meant to be. 3 parts strong mature name the day prior. Through a quick aside with her, I made my choice. tea, 1 part real lemonade. I admire the beautiful divide in color, the dark reddish It was perfect. 3 fourths ice tea, one fourth lemonade. brown gently blending into a friendly lemon base. 3 parts adult. 1 part child. The golfer too reflected this ratio in his life. He played golf even though It had not one, but two beverages in it; it was sophisticated. I sipped enjoying the he was from a blue collar family and made the sport accessible to the world. He bitterness of the ice tea blend so overcame a fear of flying, by learning how to fly a plane himself. He disguised a beautifully with the mild sweetness of the pulpy lemonade. To this day it is my favorite game as profession and he excelled. Through every act, there is a semblance of working drink. Over the years my appreciation for the drink has varied. Through my past the present tribulations, a drive toward improvement, blended with a small facet of teens, the golfer’s signature order distinguished me from my friends. I was childhood. someone who enjoyed a “grandpa drink” because only a grandpa could actually enjoy iced tea. I was someone who could in fact, through the power of this The power in the Arnold Palmer resides far beyond the bitter caffeinated beverage, approach their own grandparents at their 14th birthday parties and tea and the sugar infused concoction; the power is in the perspective it discern facts about lives of these 80 year olds that their own relatives probably provides. Look, act, and succeed as an adult, but remember that you don’t know would never know. I was an “old soul.” everything. Work to prove yourself. Find joy as you do it. I know I do.
55 56 The Chimaerid, 2019 LAUREN MOGHAVEM ALEXIS PINCHUCK
lost and found
There’s a part Comparing life in stars, of you sand, and pixie dust. that wants You can wash around to be lost your glass of whiskey and there’s and leave my lip stick stain, a part and I can keep of me our framed photos that wants lined up against the to be found. bedroom wall. So we can chase And somewhere stars that died in the middle, out before Cleopatra our paths will cross. roamed the pyramids But then, and God made Adam and Eve. all will Pretend that Jesus saw commence. And, each of our souls you will be found. as Stars I will be lost. while he was nailed to the cross. That’s why stars die out. We can lie on trillions of grains of sand, holding fistfuls of ocean breezes and seaside secrets.
The Chimaerid, 2019 57 58 The Chimaerid, 2019 Contributors
Luciano Cesta (CGS ‘17 CAS ‘19 COM ‘22): Luciano is currently in their first semesters Jillian Lattimore : After graduating BU, Jillian became a Verizon Adfellow, to pursue a of the M.S. in Journalism program at Boston University! career in advertising, completing an 8-month immersive apprenticeship. From Sept 2019 - May 2020, Jillian rotated between 4 partner companies of Verizon (in PR, Advertising, Tamara Charles (CGS ‘97 QST ‘99) : Tamara is a Director at Fidelity Investments Marketing and brand side) learning account, strategy and creative positions. After where they have worked for the past five years. During this time, she has worked as a lead graduating Verizon Adfellows, Jillian was hired as a project coordinator by the creative ad project manager for several large scale firm initiatives. Prior to working at Fidelity, Tamara agency, Rauxa, located in the financial district of Manhattan. (For the time being, she is worked at UBS and JP Morgan Chase. Her passion is education and as a result, Tamara working remotely from my apartment in Brooklyn.) sits on the board of a charter school in Brooklyn, NY. She truly believes that the pathway for success for many children in low to moderate income communities is obtaining a Frank Possemato (CGS ‘95 CAS ‘99): Born in Boston, Frank teaches English at the good education. Prior to COVID, Tamara enjoyed travelling the world and of course community college level. His writing has appeared in a variety of publications including visiting her favorite islands in the Caribbean, St. Vincent and the Grenadines. Hobart, Underground Voices, and Five on Fifth. He started writing poetry in earnest as a CGS student and never stopped. Jennifer Gonzales (CGS ’17 CAS ’20): Jennifer served as Co-Editor-in-Chief of The Chimaerid (2016-2017). She has had poems published in Z Publishing House’s student Sara Shilling (CGS ‘11 SAR ‘13): Sara currently resides in Durham, North Carolina but anthology Dream of a World Waking Up, as well The Beacon published two of her short visits Boston as often as she can. She is finishing a master’s degree in social work and stories “Sloppy Sutures” and “The Shining Path to Heartbreak.” She is currently serving her although she doesn’t write as much now, creative writing is still near to her heart. Sara is second term as an AmeriCorps Legal Advocate of Massachusetts at Project Citizenship honored to be included in the Retrospective edition of the magazine. She wishes to thank and has plans to attend law school this fall. CGS Professor Meg Tyler, “Professor Tyler was one of the first people who made me feel like I was not merely someone who liked to write, but that I was a writer with something Myles Hollis (CGS ‘17 CAS ‘19): Myles is newly commissioned in the United States worth sharing. It made a difference.”. Air Force as a 2nd Lieutenant Pilot in training. He just moved to Northern California after completion of Officer Training School. Myles is looking to start a masters program Gunita Singh (CGS ‘12 CAS ‘14): Gunita is a graduate of Georgetown Law and is in criminal justice as soon as he is settled. Myles still writes poetry and is gearing up for currently an attorney at the Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press where she spoken word events in their immediate area if/when it is permitted to gather in larger litigates cases for journalists seeking to obtain government documents. She lives in groups. Washington, D.C.
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