Prairie Voices 2026

A Collection of College of Lake County Student Writing and Art 2026

Editorial Staff

Editor: Nicholas Schevera

Assistant Editors: Susan Daugherty, Lee-Ann Frega, Alexandra Swanson

Art Editor: Robert C. Lossmann

Front Cover Art: Mike White

Back Cover Art: Dan Dungan

Design and Production: Maddy Asma, College of Lake County Public Relations and Marketing

Prairie Voices is a collection of student writing and art which is published annually in April. It represents the diverse voices of the student community of the College of Lake County. We accept creative nonfiction, including essays, as well as creative fiction, including short stories and poetry. Please type, proofread, and double-space each submission, and submit via e-mail as a MS Word attachment to assist us in the editing process. Include your name, address, and phone number, along with a brief autobiographical sketch relating information about your family, interests, hobbies, and career goals.

For orders or inquiries, contact:

Prairie Voices

Nicholas Schevera

Communication/Arts Division College of Lake County 19351 W. Washington St., Room B265 Grayslake, IL 60030 (847) 543-2959 Email: com409@clcillinois.edu

Complimentary copies are available in the Communication/Arts Division Office – B213

Copyright 2026 by Prairie Voices

List of Writers

List of Artists

Fem/False

Sarah Scherer

I remember in this instant

Trying to tell my stepdad what it all meant.

My good father. My kind and honest father.

A man of the church and a man of God.

He asked me if what I felt was in my soul,

If I was a man in my soul,

If it was just the body that did not fit.

The body is not matching.

I was so caught off guard that I didn’t answer,

Because yes,

My god it is in the soul.

How did I hide it for so long?

How did nobody notice?

I couldn’t help it, this fragile, crumbling part of me

Broke down in front of him.

Such a horror to realize

Nobody has known my soul,

I’ve hid it with a false body, and nobody has known my soul.

Dear Loveliest Pen,

Saffa Sakhi

Ireach out to you before all others, putting my wholehearted trust into you. From the moment an idea sparks, filling my brain with the desire to document, my heart guides me to choose you. I sift through my useless pencil case, as if I would willingly choose a pen other than you, to find your shining black ink twinkling, as if begging to be utilized. I carefully pick you up, push the cap down, and begin to let my imagination flow. With ink flowing as smoothly as butter, my thoughts have nothing to stumble upon, easily traveling from my brain through my beloved pen.

I begin to create. Whether I am taking notes, doodling, making a list, or playing a simple game of tic-tac-toe, your presence makes any experience come alive. Thanks to you, when I am overwhelmed with ideas to draw, my hand is able to keep up with my brain. Like a gust of wind, I’m able to soar, illustrating every little detail into a flower on the margins of my notes, or maybe a fish, depending on how you look at it. No matter how artistically challenged I may be, you never let me feel ashamed of putting my little doodles across the margins; in fact, you encourage it. Specifically, you never seem to run out of ink. You appear as endless as the universe spans, ensuring my confidence to make whatever my heart desires.

myself, with my flaws and imperfections, and inspire me to grow.

My growth is encouraged by the fact that I can always look back on old journal entries, drawings, and notes to see a version of myself forever preserved. I can reflect on my handwriting, extremely messy when stressed, but slightly more legible when calm. The permanence of the ink is like a portal back in time. I can revisit my past self, my past perspective, my past interests.

As I continue to grow and change, I know I will always have one stable item: my best pen. I know that thanks to you, even as my mindset, perspective, and ideas change, I can document them in the same simple way. Carefully sifting through my pencil case to not drop you, I finally find you. Ink twinkling the same as the first time I ever wrote with my favorite pen. I push the cap down and continue to write.

You inspire me to be carefree. To go as I please. To take careful risks, even if ink is permanent, because little risks can prove to be the most rewarding.

You inspire me to be carefree. To go as I please. To take careful risks, even if ink is permanent, because little risks can prove to be the most rewarding. Like writing a classmate a birthday card, unaware if they know yours, just for the sake of spreading joy, which proved to be a monumental source of happiness for both of you. Even something as small as writing your name on a piece of paper, to take pride in the work you complete, regardless of its flaws and errors and mishaps. With such, you push me to not just take pride in my writing, but to love

Even though typing is easier and quicker, the satisfaction I receive by writing by hand is like no other. Being able to feel each pen stroke, each letter form, makes my writing much more intentional. Of course, I still fumble, but the ink makes my decisions more calculated. Writing with my pen teaches me to work with what I have, to make the most out of any situation. The words I once considered not good enough for my work I am able to transform into a better, fluid piece of literature. Every single letter. Every single word. Every single sentence. My work comes together, ever transformed and ever improved by my consciousness in the action.

Though the content might have changed, my penmanship altered, and the quality of doodles improved, I know you will always be there for my weakest and best moments, and for that, I am forever grateful.

It Wasn’t Just a Pebble to Me

Dona Bell

Dear Dearest Martha,

You may not know it, or you may not like it, but your letters meant the world to me. They gave me hope, and I thought you’d like to know that, even though I’m pretty sure you don’t like the war I’m in. Of course, you never said that, but you never mentioned the war at all, just saying “Jimmy, take care of yourself.” But it’s ok; your letters kept me going just the same. I kept your letters wrapped in plastic, so they wouldn’t be destroyed in this green, damp, hot jungle, and I would read them over and over again in the last light of the day before sleeping (unless we were on patrol or ambush, which we often were). There are lots of nasty things and people here that can kill me, and I’m sure you can understand I’m trying to avoid that. Plus, I have to consider my men. And there are so many times I’ve used your letters to take me away (like Calgon, ha-ha)—because I’d rather be anywhere else but here.

he was off to take a pee, and he got shot in the face. I’m sure he didn’t suffer a lot; it was too quick, and none of us could do anything about it. He dropped like a rock, or a wet bag of sand. Alive—then dead. We joked about Lavender because he was always taking tranquilizers to stay calm. Boy, is he ever calm now, we said, once he dropped like a stone. I know that’s not really funny to joke about, but you do what you got to do to stay sane. Humor helps take the edge off, and it’s a sharp, sharp edge that never goes dull. Believe me, I’m so glad you and everyone else I know from home don’t have to be here to see the things I’ve seen in this hellhole.

I know that’s not really funny to joke about, but you do what you got to do to stay sane. Humor helps take the edge off, and it’s a sharp, sharp edge that never goes dull.

I’d like to hang out with you on that beach, or on a camping trip in the mountains, and I wish I had your writing skills to describe how those daydreams made it easier to be there for my men and forget what I was here for. You would probably make a fancy poem out of describing the jungle I have here, and the beaches, school, roommates, professors, and midterms you have back stateside. That’s what we call it, anyway. Stateside, where there are bonfires and marshmallows instead of flamethrowers and napalm, good friends instead of random guys you made it through boot camp with and are now here in charge of keeping them alive. In case you’re wondering, Nam is more like a midterm—no, a final— it’s so hard that it tortures you and you think that it will never end. I hope it does end soon, though. And not in a final way for me, if you know what I mean. Speaking of that, maybe you don’t like hearing it, but one of my men was killed. It was very sudden;

But enough of that. I loved the pictures you sent me of you. But I always hoped that it would be far better to be the guy taking the picture of you in front of the brick wall (it’s ok, I could see his shadow; it’s not like we’re an item and I know that) than the guy in this bug-infested ditch with people trying to kill him all day long. I miss stateside; I miss you. Here, we are like pack horses and one thing that’s true is we will never run out of things to hump (what you would call a hike—like in the cool mountains by a bubbling stream). But our humps are hot, dangerous, dull, wet, long, all of those adjectives (see, I remembered an English term), but never are they cool or invigorating. Plus, humps never really seem to get us anywhere. Nowhere good, that is; just to the next village which is probably full of Viet Cong (the nasty buggers that want to kill us all). I like physical activity, but I’d much prefer to play volleyball with you, like in the action shot you sent. Or, I could just cheer you on from the stand and watch while you ladies played volleyball. I’d like that a lot.

I have a lot of great guys, sixteen, with Lavender gone, but they all are different. Wait, there’s one more guy, Henry Dobbins, that I always forget to count because he’s a really big guy, and the tunnels are so small. And so, whenever we find the entrance

to a tunnel, we draw lots to see who gets to clear the tunnel, and Henry doesn’t ever have to do that because he’s too big. They take a flashlight, my pistol, and crawl into those tight, muddy, rotting, vermin-filled tunnels and we all wait in suspense (and are thankful for the luck of the draw that it wasn’t us down there) for him to come back out safely.

I should explain the tunnels; see the enemy (we call him Charlie) are very short, small guys, and they dig these tunnels all over the place. (I know, why, when you’re in a rotting jungle with all kinds of nasty creatures and rats that live in the tunnels?). But the tunnels are like a massive subway all over. Of course, they use them to hide in, run from us, sneak up on us, kill us, you name it. So, when we find one, somebody has to clear it to make sure it’s free of people that could kill us, or another platoon that may come by. You have to admit, we could clear it, then march on, and then Charlie could move back into it in the next hour or so. Kind of senseless, right? But that is our life. Kill or be killed, rinse and repeat.

About that flat white stone you sent me—that was a really cool gesture. It was romantic, even. I’m blushing now; good thing the guys can’t see my face. Anyhow, that stone smelled of the seashore, and it made me really yearn for home, so I could go there with you to that beach. Rather than being together—but apart, like you put it in your letters. I kept it in my pocket, or sometimes in the lining of my brain bucket (helmet), and every so often I would stick it on my tongue to see if I could taste the salt water on it. I wondered how many years it sat in warm salt water, just washing over it to make it smooth. I wish I had the luxury of time and the safety to allow me to loll about on the seashore letting the waves lap over me. Boy, would that be relaxing.

Well, I gotta go, we’re on night patrol, but I really hope someday you and I can hang out on a beach together—not apart.

Yours with love, Jimmy Cross

Conveyor Belt

Alexia Lyles

People mindlessly chatter

As they walk across the parking lot

And make their way into the mall

It’s the same way they ignore the dirty footprints on the floor

No one takes notice of inconvenient or minor details

Or you

Like no thought of the shoes on the conveyor belt

Before they were shipped to Footlocker where you measure their feet

Ignored like the thought of the cows that produce milk for their shakes or

The chickens at the Chick- Fil-A factory

That took a similar path on a different conveyor belt

Before resting in front of them at the food court table

They only take thought to the different options they have

As they shop

They take no notice of you

Walking alone

On your way to labor

As a worker in one of the many stores, You tend to them

On the conveyor belt of life.

“Mother Diptera”

Eli Bolton Eggs Kids Flying

Must protect

Nowhere to lay them

Must keep pushing. Must be somewhere

Where my precious babies can hatch in perfect safety

I push until I find a pile of fragrant treasure. I taste it with my feet. They’re home.

Line in the Sand

Alyssa Jean-Pierre

Ithink the last time I told my mom that I loved her was when I was six. She was dropping me and my brother off at our grandma’s house, and before she left for work, she made sure to tell us that she loved us. I muttered back with, “I love you too,” but always felt embarrassment pinch at me, enough to make my skin bleed. From that point on, the “I love you too”s became “You too”s, and I never looked back.

No matter how hard I try to pull her toward my side—leave him, cut them off, have a backbone— it’s always for naught. And I know that; I always have, but I can’t help myself. Maybe with constant reminders of how others treat her, she’ll crack. This line of thinking served as relief until, “You’re going to live your life in torment because of how you treated me.” I shrugged it off. Yeah, sure. Whatever to make me feel bad, I guess.

We fundamentally stand on opposite sides of each other. To cope, I cling onto the idea that I’m more similar to my mom’s mom. With some of the stories I’ve been told, she’s the one with the backbone. The one to put her foot down, demand better or go off elsewhere. Unlike the one who raised me. But that’s something I can never confirm.

As time trudged forward, the aforementioned torment took form. Try going through your day with a twenty-pound sandbag attached to your chest, slowly heating up the more you acknowledge it. On some days, I’m left with a searing dent in my chest. It mends itself by shaping into a stiff scab that reopens anytime I think about it.

But I really have no reason to feel this way. I’ve done nothing. Nothing at all. That heavy feeling that coerces me into shoving sand in my own mouth is only there because of those damn words my mom uttered. “You’re going to live in torment.” Sure, whatever.

She stands there crossing her arms in front of her body, trying to shield herself from the onslaught of sand I kick at her. I learned the word “hate” pretty early on. Around the age of four, it was suddenly entrenched in my vocabulary. My mom immediately became the first and most frequent recipient of my new favorite word. Time’s trudge became a crawl;

the word’s usage faded, but its physical manifestation began. Eye rolls, scrunched face, clenched fists, voice shrouded in brutality all heightened and evolved to become my chosen methods of spewing hatred.

But that’s not fair. “That’s not fair,” she says as we embark on our thousandth fight.

With each word said, she picks up a handful of sand and throws it in my direction. Completely disregarding the sandbag already strapped to my chest. How thoughtless. My sandbag expands with each throw from me, yanking me toward the ground. Each time I resist, she flings more and more sand.

The sandbag increases in heat as more sand heads toward me. Each particle feels like hot oil popping onto my body, and I thrash the more I feel it.

I don’t understand what the issue is here. Why am I the exception to the rule? I’ve done nothing wrong. Everyone else launches sand at her. Even when her eyes are bloodshot red, leaking with irritation and tears, not a word of opposition can be heard. Only silence.

My anger envelopes me; my entire body shakes, sinking me further in the sand. Eyes sealed shut, flailing arms, palmed fists, stretching my vocal cords thin, my face hot with tears burning my cheeks. Once again I am a child. I can’t stand her. I hate her. I hate her.

There’s not much to do besides let it pass. And that, my mother does. No matter how much sand I or anyone else kicks her way, she still meets us with decency. It makes no sense. It’ll never make sense.

Throughout all the screaming and crying, the unforgiving sand torches my skin. Dead white skin peels off the red burns that litter the length of any exposed skin, my arms, legs, neck, face. My mom comes toward me and wipes off the sand that rendered me immobile. This hurts her too, but she keeps going. It bewilders me, scares me almost, but I don’t decline. I accept her putting herself on the line for me, yet again. I can never bring myself to say “no,” despite the guilt stinging me at accepting any and all help. Though I never say otherwise, I am my father’s daughter.

The Toothpick

Jordan Neuman

About three years ago, I received an interesting present for my 15th birthday from one of my former friends. At first glance, you would have no idea what was in the gift box. Due to its small size, most would assume it was a ring or piece of jewelry of some sort. Or maybe something more unique, like a Polaroid photo of a special memory. But it was none of those things; rather, it was a toothpick, a singular toothpick. Obviously, I thought this was a joke as my friend was always full of them, but no, they were completely serious about this gift. So, I took the box with the toothpick in it and thanked my friend for the “thoughtful” gift. From then on, I forgot about that toothpick, leaving it in my drawer to dust away. But little did I know, there was so much more to that toothpick than met the eye.

Rewind back 1548 years, 4 months, and 7 days to New Year’s Day of the year 476 A.D, where a young man was celebrating with his younger sister and their pet boar. The young man’s name was Will, Will Edwards. Will was a strong man in both strength and willpower, being able to overcome all the tragedies that life had thrown at him. The loss of his parents and their home and being exiled from his village after being framed for the murder of his parents. Will had it rough, but that never stopped him from moving forward.

killed his parents; he could just never prove it. And now the same man was right there before him. A scruffy, middle-aged man covered in metallic armor.

Will’s faith in himself began to rise with every dodged swing, believing maybe he could win this.

Now as you read this, you begin wondering to yourself, where is this going? Why are we in the Dark Ages? How does this relate to the toothpick? All great questions, but rest assured that all will be answered, just remain patient.

Back to Will in the year 476 A.D. Now, for the most part, Will had a relatively calm life, just taking care of his sister, Joan, and their pet boar, Robert. But one day, the chaos that he thought was behind him showed up right at his front door. Standing before him on his porch was a man named Thomas. The thing about Thomas was that for the longest time, Will had believed he was the one who had

At that moment, Will was sure he was here to finish the job—getting rid of the Edwards family—but rather, that was not the case. Thomas was actually here with an offer; you see, Thomas was indeed the one who killed Will’s parents, but since completing that act, Thomas had grown quite unfulfilled in his days of being a paid “medieval hitman” and decided to make Will a deal. What was that deal exactly? It was a deal to duel to the death. If Will won, he would avenge his parents; if Thomas won, he would take Will’s land and leave his sister and his boar for the wolves. Will, knowing this was his one chance to take down the man who killed his parents, agreed quickly. At midnight, the two men were set to fight. The only problem was that Will had nothing but a wooden sword, while Thomas had a steel sword. Will began doubting himself, knowing that he was going to fail his sister— and the boar, of course—and it all would have been for nothing. But Will had to at least try despite his odds. So the two men met in the front of the house at exactly midnight. Thomas was now without armor but carrying a large steel sword, as opposed to Will, who had his bulky wooden sword. Will looked at his sister one last time and gave her a warm smile before he quickly turned around and charged at Thomas. The two men dodged and weaved as the two vastly different blades swung and missed. Will’s faith in himself began to rise with every dodged swing, believing maybe he could win this. That was until Thomas’s steel blade struck Will’s blade, splitting the top of the blade into two. Will stood there in disbelief, unsure of any possible outcome where he won this duel. So, in one last ditch effort, Will raised his split foward and charged Thomas, pushing the sharp wooden splitters at the edges of the split top into him. Will paused for a moment, looking up

at Thomas, who was maliciously smiling back. That smile quickly turned into a more shocked expression as his eyes widened, and his body fell motionlessly to the ground. The sword itself fell off Thomas’s motionless body, but a small piece still remained intact, a sliver of the wooden sword, a toothpick.

A toothpick from Will’s wooden sword hitting one of Thomas’s major arteries ended up being the start of a positive wave of change in Will’s life. He and His sister—and the boar—were able to finally return home to their village and explain personally to the village king what really happened with their parents. The king honored Will for his resilience and determination and made him a knight of honor. And from then on, Will became the greatest knight the kingdom had ever seen and went down in history.

Every battle he went into, he always carried that toothpick with him; something about it granted him the luck he needed to win every time.

Jumping back to the modern day, I found myself lying in bed, reflecting on the past four years of my life, and all of a sudden, I remembered that toothpick I received three years ago. I decided to go look for it after all this time. After a bit of searching, I found the dusty red ring box at the bottom of my drawer, and still inside was that odd little toothpick. But the more I looked at it, the more I started to realize that this wasn’t a toothpick at all; it was a sliver of wood. After getting a quick laugh, I closed the box and tossed the box back into the dusty drawer—just a splinter of old wood. If only I knew what it really was… and how much it was worth.

It’s Not Just Hair; It’s Culture: The Origins of Black Hair

Aryka Wyche

Isat in silence, looking at the faces of different people of different races, trying to guess their professions based on their appearance, an activity instructed by my psychology teacher to expose the biases we all unknowingly hold. Like a hospital hallway leading to the emergency room, the room was brightly lit. The chairs were midnight blue and inflexible, with wheels on the bottom making it hard not to swivel every five minutes. I reviewed the row of pictures, revealing each person’s occupation and background behind their photo. One specifically caught my eye. It was a picture of a Black man wearing a suit with a goatee and long black locs that went past his shoulders. He was an engineer who came from a job interview that he didn’t pass. Even though he met all the qualifications, he was rejected due to his hair and was instructed to cut it if he wanted to be considered for the position. He conceded and cut his hair, securing the job.

In 1976, Beverly Jenkins filed a racial discrimination lawsuit against her employer, Blue Cross and Blue Shield, after she was denied a promotion and told that she could never represent the company with her afro. Fortunately, Title VII of the Civil Rights Act, a federal law prohibiting employment discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex, and national origin, determined that afros were protected. Despite this significant win, federal courts continued to exclude protection against hair discrimination because they saw it as a “characteristic that could be changed” and did not see hair as a part of someone’s racial identity (Nasheed). In August 2018, a young girl who attended Christ the King Elementary School in Terrytown, Louisiana, was sent home because her hair was in braids with extensions seen as a violation of the school’s policy that mandated students to wear their natural hair. In December 2018, a Black high school student was given an ultimatum: cut off his locs or forfeit a wrestling match. Footage of his hair being cut was spread across social media

like wildfire, resulting in the suspension of the referee by the New Jersey State Interscholastic Athletic Association and an investigation by the New Jersey Division on Civil Rights (Nasheed). * * *

It’s as white as cotton, as thick as oatmeal. Like smelling salt, it has one of those scents that opens up your nostrils and makes your eyes water. I sat in a brown wooden chair with one of the legs broken as I watched my aunt grab a huge slab of petroleum jelly and slather it all around my sister’s hairline and ears. The Vaseline protected her from the harsh chemicals used in the relaxer that my aunt was about to apply. Before she started the application process, she put gloves on her hands and sectioned my sister’s hair into four parts. She evenly distributed the relaxer throughout each section, covering every strand, finishing it off with a cap to allow the relaxer to penetrate the hair. As minutes went by, my sister started grimacing in her chair. The relaxer began to take effect as my sister’s scalp started to tingle. My aunt reassured her that the discomfort was normal. My sister started pacing back and forth, fanning her head. It didn’t work, and repeatedly she exclaimed, “IT BURNS! IT BURNS! IT BURNS!” My aunt hurriedly washed the contents out of her hair, washing away any irritation she was feeling with it. I stared at them wide-eyed, deciding never to endure a perm.

* * *

About eighty-nine percent of Black women in the United States have used relaxers at least once in their lives, according to a 2020 research study co-written by Dr. Tamarra James-Todd, an associate professor in environmental reproductive epidemiology (qtd. in Villarosa). Unfortunately, this leads to many Black girls experiencing hair damage and loss during an important stage of their lives, which causes self-hatred and a lack of confidence in their natural beauty (Mbilishaka-Hudlin). But why do they wear chemical relaxers? Straightened hair is consid-

ered the standard of beauty in many societies, so chemically straightened hair revolves around being “more acceptable in Westernized societies” because they’re seen as more “professional,” and “employable” (Mbilishaka and Hudlin). The Food and Drug Administration announced a proposal in October 2023 to ban the use of formaldehyde, an ingredient used in hair relaxers, given its link to cancer and other health effects (Villarosa). A solid collection of scientific evidence showed that hair straighteners and hair products targeted towards Black women are linked to endocrine-disrupting chemicals. This is associated with early-onset menstruation and other reproductive-health issues such as uterine fibroids, preterm birth, infertility, and breast, ovarian, and uterine cancer. Moreover, these products have been under regulated and only recently sufficiently studied. Many of the substances contained in them are prohibited in other countries. The European Union “regulates more than 1,300 ingredients for use in cosmetics; the F.D.A. prohibits or restricts only nine ingredients” that have been proven to be harmful to one’s health (Villarosa). * * *

1619 was the year when African people were “stripped of their traditional garb, practices, and rituals unique to their ethnic groups” and taken to a land unfamiliar to them (Conteh). Slavery forced them to evolve and create new traditions. Specifically, hair braiding, a heavily used practice in Black America, is rooted farther back in history than you might think. It wasn’t just a hairstyle; it was used in various tribes throughout the continent of Africa as a way of showing where you came from or where you were going in life. Gina Conteh cites Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America by Ayana Byrd and Lori L. Tharps, which explains the origins of braiding patterns in West Africa during the early fifteenth century. Hair functioned as a carrier of messages and was essential to the complex language system for West African societies. This included the Wolof, Mende, Mandingo, and Yoruba tribes, who were the people captured and taken on the slave ships to the Americas. After the development of African civilizations, “hairstyles have been used to indicate a person’s marital status, age, religion, ethnic identity, wealth, and rank within the community” (Conteh).

In 1786, the Tignon Laws were introduced by the Governor of Louisiana, Don Esteban Miró, prohibiting “Creole women of color from displaying ‘excessive attention to dress’ in the streets of New Orleans” (Conteh). Creole women of African descent, including those of mixed heritage, were forced to conceal their hair with a Tignon, a head scarf, marking them as slaves to the public. These laws were created after Charles III of Spain spotted Black women wearing extravagant braided hairstyles, decorated with feathers and jewels, “to enforce the false narrative that Black women were a threat to White women’s status” (Conteh). Furthermore, the enslaved were often shaved bald by their captors, stripping them of their identity and culture and ultimately dehumanizing them. This led to a shift in braids from more flamboyant styles to simple plaits, primarily due to a lack of proper tools. The hairstyle known as “cornrows” is a term created by slaves named after cornfields and was used not only as a form of resistance but also to hide signals and maps to communicate with one another, according to the book Don’t Touch My Hair by Emma Dabiri (qtd. in Conteh).

* * *

I never wore my scarf or bonnet in public. Ever. It was something I always put on at night to protect my hair. Not because I didn’t like my bonnet, but because I constantly felt ashamed and judged when wearing it outside. I was like an embarrassed child being ridiculed by a parent in front of the entire school. I publicly wore my bonnet for the first time when I was eighteen; it was a large, eminence-colored bonnet with a purpureus-colored band and had a soft, smooth, cold feeling to it. On a dull day of the week, my older cousins decided to go to the store. Eager to join them, I rushed to the bathroom to get myself together. As I looked in the mirror, my hair was big and all over the place, like a slender tree with wild branches reaching in every direction. Not having enough time to do my hair, I grabbed my bonnet and quickly ran to the car. We arrived at Ross. I fidgeted with my bonnet, and my body instantly heated up as my eyes darted in every direction, to anything with a beating heart. But no one was looking at me, and I continued shopping, feeling myself slowly cool down. I didn’t feel the urge to fidget with my bonnet anymore.

Works Cited

Conteh, Gina. “A Brief History of Black Hair Braiding and Why Our Hair Will Never Be a Pop Culture Trend.” BET, 23 Aug. 2019, www.bet.com/article/mbpmmq/a-brief-history-of-black-hair-whybraids-aren-t-a-trend.

Mbilishaka, Afiya M. & Hudlin, McKalah. “‘I Remember My First Relaxer’: Black Women Voicing Psychologically Engrained Practices of Chemical Hair Straightening.” Journal of Black Psychology, vol. 55, no. 1, 2023, pp. 716-718.

Nasheed, Jameelah. “A Brief History of Black Hair, Politics, and Discrimination.” Teen Vogue. Aug. 2019, wedoit4theculture.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/A-Brief-History-of-Black-Hair-Politics-and-Discrimination-_-Teen-Vogue.pdf.

Villarosa, Linda. “The Disturbing Truth About Hair Relaxers.” The New York Times, 13 June 2024, www.nytimes.com/2024/06/13/magazine/hair-relaxers-cancer-risk.html?searchResultPosition=1.

The Volume of Silence

Gwendolyn Thommes

Susan Sontag once wrote that “[s]ilence remains, inescapably, a form of speech.” When I was a child, silence had no place within my life. In fact, I think it’s safe to assume that from the moment I said my first word, silence was seldom in our household, the sound of my chatter filling up the small spaces of our home, and the ears of my parents.

My parents say that I started talking early because I was constantly being talked to and cooed at by my older siblings. And once I took after them, and started to talk back, I never stopped. “Chatterbox” practically became my childhood nickname, as I grew into a child possessing a kind of confidence that could only be attributed to the inevitable spoiling that comes along with being the baby of the family. I had no problems strutting up to strangers, talking to them about whatever I found most interesting at the moment—a full summary of the latest book I had read, an in-depth explanation of the new way I’d discovered to make friendship bracelets, a recount of my schoolteachers’ lessons on the difference between rocks and minerals—anything. By the end of most of these impromptu conversations, my parents came and dragged me away, an apologetic smile on their faces and an exasperated laugh bubbling out of their mouths. “Sorry about her; she’ll talk your ear off.” Or they’d distract my attention away from my siblings, who I’d cling onto, babbling away in their bedroom as they’d roll their eyes and let out an irritated bellow of “MOM!” And again, she’d drag me away. I would even go as far as making friends with my older sister’s friends, trying to immerse myself in the fascinating world of teenage girls. My sister’s friends would humor me, while my sister would practically drag me out of the room by my ear. But it never deterred me.

Or maybe I was just a curious child, still untouched by the cruelty of reality, the stars in my eyes reflecting my eagerness to discover more of the world and share it with others.

a desire for attention. I craved for the siblings I idolized to humor me, to include me. I was eager to find new friends, and by proxy, new listeners, anywhere I could find them. Maybe the confidence I carried was simply because of the extra coddling I’d received as the youngest child, building up an expectation that anyone I came across would surely want to talk to me, or would even be honored to. Or maybe I was just a curious child, still untouched by the cruelty of reality, the stars in my eyes reflecting my eagerness to discover more of the world and share it with others. Regardless of the reason, silence was something that, for a long while, I was unfamiliar with. Which is what made it so deafening when I finally heard it, when I finally experienced being it.

My first introduction to silence was made by other peers of mine. It isn’t a groundbreaking story; kids are mean, and one day, they started being mean to me. The common thread became that I was too big, too loud, too much altogether for other kids to tolerate. The girl who never failed to find new friends began to lose them. My sister, noticing the pitiful droop in my shoulders and tears on my lash line when I’d get home from school, began taking me around the neighborhood, going door to door, so that I could ask the kids in the neighborhood if they could come out and play. I was met with resounding, repeated “no”s. I tried again every day. Eventually, I noticed how it became the parents answering the door, giving me the same excuses over and over again. “Oh, she’s not feeling good today” or “Oh, she’s not home right now.” Clever cover ups created after kids asked their parents to turn me away at the door. Eventually, the lump in my throat when I’d knock on the door became too much for me to swallow down. The door would open. And I would freeze. Silent. My sister would have to take over for me and vocalize what I’d

Maybe a part of my inability to keep quiet was

been aching to ask: “Would someone please play with me?” Eventually, I stopped going around the neighborhood. I stopped attempting to connect to people I didn’t know well. I became more and more silent.

This silence extended into my middle school, and then eventually into my high school years. I didn’t remain without friends forever. I found a group of people in high school, and I stuck with them. But the unapologetic, unafraid to speak her mind girl from childhood was long ago buried deep within me. I became an observer. It’s not that I didn’t talk; I just hesitated to truly speak my mind. In place of authenticity, I chose silence, actively observing rather than ever really participating. For the entirety of my high school years, I was a wallflower. A good student, but lackluster in school spirit, barely involved. The fear of being heard, and then once again rejected, overpowered me. I had learned that it was safer to be silent than to be acknowledged for what I had to say. I whispered when things needed to be shouted, the lump in my throat feeling like a permanent appendage I could never rid myself of. Fear and silence became intertwined together.

It was that fear that kept me from separating

myself from friends who weren’t truly my friends. It kept me from leaving a nearly three-year long relationship with a boy who never truly treated me like I held any significance to him. The fear that kept me from saying goodbye to my sister the morning she left for college. Too scared to acknowledge that life would move forward without her, I didn’t get out of bed that morning, instead letting her give a groggy me a hug in the morning before she left. I don’t remember what I said to her, but I do remember the lump in the throat that kept me from telling her how much I loved her. The silence of our house after she left enveloped me for months. Just as the silence enveloped me after my brother left home. It was the same silence of my bedroom as I sat staring at my phone, waiting for my “friends” to text me back. It was the same silence that enveloped me as a little girl, when I sat alone at the lunch table or on the bus ride home. Silence, which was so loud. Silence, in which I wanted to shout “I love you” to my siblings, or “I’m here!” to those who brushed me away, or any of the other millions of things I had kept stuffed away inside of me, too afraid to reveal myself to the world, too afraid of what others would think if I did.

Silence is loud. Silence is like an incessant ringing in your ear, or a buzzing that you can’t find the source of for the life of you. Silence, if you let it, can consume you. Eventually, I got sick of letting silence consume me. I ached to have control over my own life, my own voice again. As I moved forward, past high school and into college, I let my voice claw its way out of where I had stifled it deep inside of me. It wasn’t a smooth process, or a quick one. But slowly, that chatterbox little girl inside of me began to emerge again. I lost touch with friends who were never truly my friends in the first place and prioritized the friends who had always allowed me to be my authentic self. I branched out to new friends, making new connections in a way my high school self would have trembled at the mere thought of. I left the relationship I had long ago grown out of. I began joining clubs and organizations, I threw myself into the swimming pool of student leadership without even knowing how to swim. But eventually, I learned how to swim. I began using my voice again. I now speak authentically and unapologetically. I let my opinion be known, without trying to impress someone else or accommodate another’s feelings. Silence is no longer a burden that weighs my shoulders down. Instead, I have a voice that keeps my head up and commands the course of my life. My silence wasn’t without meaning. Every time I bowed my head, averted my eyes, and kept my mouth shut, what I was really trying to say was “I’m

scared. I don’t know who I am. I feel lost. I don’t know what I want. I don’t like who I am, and I’m afraid you won’t either.” When I finally found the courage to use my voice, that is when those fears left me. Your voice is one of your sharpest tools. It is your power. To stifle it is to waste away, to let your potential slip through your fingers. I find myself now walking down the hallways of my campus, waving “hi” and smiling at countless new people I’ve met. And they smile back. My head is held high, my posture straight. Instead of the incessant, loud, lingering silence in my ear, I hear the mingled voices of the countless conversations I now participate in, conversations that give me insight, that help me grow, or that simply bring me joy. The lump in my throat has dissipated. Using my voice was the key to finding myself. And I now use my voice to advocate not only for myself, but for others, for what I believe in. That is what fulfills me to my core. I’m no longer the wallflower I was in high school. I hope I never am again. Neither am I the chatterbox I was at six years old either. I’d like to think that my voice is much more refined now. But they both still linger inside of me. And I am grateful for their presence. Eager to carry them with me. The messy, painful, strenuous journey of mixing them both together molded me into the woman I am today. And I can finally say that I am proud of the woman I am. I have both of those versions of myself, my chatter and my silence, to thank for that.

A Pale Blue Dot: The Small Speck of Humanity

Anish Prasanna Gopal

If we were ever to encounter extraterrestrial life on Mars, immediate and impatient conversations would not be enough to fully introduce ourselves. There are many aspects that make humanity, so it is hard to convey what we are in a few sentences. Instead, we can show our best trait—our progression. We will give an impressive first impression on the Martians if we show how much we have progressed from sticks and stones. To deliver the essence of our progression in a simple gesture, I would show the picture of the Pale Blue Dot. A picture is the best way to convey a lot in a short period, which would also satisfy the impatient denizens of Mars.

The Pale Blue Dot was taken by Voyager 1 spacecraft in 1990 from about 3.7 billion miles from Earth. At first glance, it is almost nothing: a dark canvas of space crossed by rays of scattered sunlight, and nestled within it, a tiny point of light glimmers. A speck. That’s Earth. That’s us. That place is our home and has housed everything that has happened in our history: war, peace, breakthroughs, revolutions, legends, and more. It contains our joys, sorrows, triumphs and failures. That tiny speck contains everything about us. It is a humbling experience to see all we have done represented by something that appears so small in a picture.

My purpose in showing this picture is not to show our supremacy in all that we have accomplished, but to show a perspective. Even with all we have accomplished thus far, we are still in a fragile and small world suspended in a dark cosmic space which is still mostly unknown to us. This image is also a story of our survival. It tells how we launched

a spacecraft to explore this universe not out of necessity, but curiosity, providing testaments to our wonder. It also shows how engineers, scientists and the efforts of humanity worked together to satisfy this curiosity of ours across language barriers and continents.

The image also tells us that there is no other place to go to; there is no second Earth. There is nothing surrounding our small speck where we can go and live. We would convey the message that for us to live in our homes safely, we would have to work hard to protect our home and one another. The Pale Blue Dot is a beautiful picture, and a picture bearing significant responsibility.

My goal through showing this picture is to express our persistence and humility. Our goals are not to control the reins of space and be dominant, but to merely satisfy our curiosities and solidify our positions in this universe. We recognize our limitations and insignificance, but we still relentlessly search, create, learn, and dream.

The reason why I am showing this picture is to show our progression and self-awareness. To show that we are worth their time, I would show that we are always improving and always carry our history with us wherever we go. We are insignificant and we know that, but we don’t let that jeopardize our desire for knowledge and exploration. I would present the picture to the Martians and excitedly point at the speck and then point towards myself. That speck is home. That speck is us. That speck is humanity.

On the Street of Belden

River Ligeza

One of my earliest memories is sitting on the white Pottery Barn couch by the three windows in my living room. In the afternoons during the summer, the sun would shine directly through them, warming the fabric into an inviting sanctuary. I’d prop myself up on the couch to look out the windows, watching the semi-trucks back into the Max Gerber garages, amazed at how a truck so large could fit on a one-way street. I’d do this every so often until the building was demolished, leaving an empty lot and a sign with a land developer’s number on it. My babysitter began taking me to the empty lot, where I learned how to ride a bike. I put up a sign made of paper, claiming the lot as my own. As I pedaled around the grounds of what was once a thriving business, I looked back at my house. Cars were passing more frequently than when my family first moved in. Brighter, more expensive cars. Every year since I began school, my dad would walk my brother and me down Belden to Goethe Elementary. I remember the warmth emanating from the sidewalks from the first days in late June, the smell of the Stargazer lilies my mom planted near our gate, the pink petals of the cherry blossom tree from my neighbor’s yard. Another neighbor’s dog, a boxer named Lily, would always greet me as I walked by, hopping up on the chain link fence for pets. Eventually, those neighbors moved, and the chain link fence became one of wrought iron. I noticed the street’s new sheen of fresh asphalt, devoid of potholes. The occasional scent of sweet ammonia from the sketchy house behind ours disappeared with its new owners, a younger couple. New businesses sprouted—restaurants and shops—increasing the amount of traffic coming down Belden and the main road, California.

Then there were the block parties. Elementary school allowed my family to connect with others, leading to constant block parties. Waterslides, water gun fights, live music, homemade catering from the Mexican restaurant—all hosted by the community of Logan Square. Everyone looked forward to them, multiple times a summer, everyone congregating on Belden amid the smell of grilling, beer, and hose water. Once, our neighbor opened a fire hydrant,

letting out the roaring waterfall for everyone to play in. During the fall, the air would change to the crisp smell of dying leaves, with different families grouping up with ours for trick or treating. The Misfits and Rob Zombie made up a majority of the fall playlists, blaring from our living room as we prepared our costumes and little pumpkin buckets. My brother and I would finish first, of course, and eagerly wait on that white couch, watching the sun begin to set as costumed children walked down Belden.

Eventually, plans came together for tall apartment buildings across the street. I watched the workers build them, grieving for my old bike riding lot. They must have seen my handwritten sign, proclaiming ownership—and yet that didn’t seem to matter to them. The buildings were finished, high rises that blocked my beloved sun from our windows. I began to see more groups of young adults heading down Belden into the now booming center, dyed hair and piercings galore. As the towers went up, however, so did our property value, so did the prices of our favorite restaurants. My childhood dogs passed, and eventually, we realized the golden age of Logan Square we had gotten accustomed to was over. In what felt like one swift motion, we packed our bags and moved to Fox Lake. It took me a while to acclimate to looking out the window and seeing a lake instead of my familiar roads. Instead of hearing the Blue Line, I heard the Metra. Instead of seeing pigeons and rats scurry across the road, I saw foxes and coyotes.

I’d occasionally find myself back on Belden, whether in dreams or in person. I remembered walking my dogs up and down the road. I remembered shoveling the sidewalk, building snowmen, hosting snowball fights. I remembered coming back from school with friends, playing in the rain, skinning my knee when learning how to rollerblade on the bumpy, cracked concrete. One of our neighbor’s houses was recently demolished, replaced with a white and black three-flat. Bit by bit, my old neighborhood became unrecognizable, but I’d see glimmers of what it used to be. I’d smell the scent of a July day in 2014 and smile, knowing I was there for the best of the best.

Memoir

Malak Alomari

All my close friends in class told me, “You’re going to win tomorrow.” My heart twitched, not with excitement, but with a strange pang of guilt. I felt sorry for her, yet a sense of pride took over within me. I was nine, and all I wanted was to be as popular in school as the ice cream truck in the neighborhood. We were both smart, pretty, and loved being in charge, but I wanted to be the winner of the Class Idol Election. The night before, I couldn’t sleep. I counted sheep, hugged my sloppy brown teddy bear so tightly that if it could talk, it would have said, “I’m not a lemon.”

In the morning, exhausted, I picked out my outfit. “What would a winner wear?” I asked myself. My favorite white shirt, a short blue skirt, a high ponytail, and a big confident smile.

As the election began, I felt my heart in my throat as they unfolded each small piece of paper and read out the names. Mine. Hers. Mine. Hers. Then, my name appeared multiple times, and I felt a peaceful wave of relief. That’s it—I got it. But then, her name started appearing just as often. We became even. They decided to redo the round. The same pattern repeated. And we were even again. They said, “One more time.”

She turned to me and smiled. “Let’s write each other’s name this time,” she suggested. At that moment, I thought this was a brilliant idea. Maybe this would help tip the balance.

The votes were cast again. My name. Her name. Back and forth. The results were about to be identical again, until the last vote. It was her name. I froze and it felt like hot water was pouring over my head. What? How could she trick me like that?

From Beijing to Home Sweet Home

Cole Bush

My three-year old eyes started welling up in Walgreens. “Nooo! But—but I want it! Teddy bear! Pleeease, Mommy!”

“I’m sorry honey, but we can’t. Please put it back on the shelf.”

“But—but…”

An older gentleman walked up to my mom. “Here let me pay for it.”

“Oh, really?” my mom asked, “Thank you so much! My son is going to love it!”

“Th—Thank you sir,” I responded.

“You’re welcome!” He smiled warmly. Once we were in the car, my mom asked, “What are you going to name him?”

“Teddy”, I replied, hugging him tightly.

A year prior in Beijing China, it was eleven at night in the popular toy store FAO Schwarz. “Go Pandy! Go!” Teddy yelled. Pandy fell to the ground.

“Oh, well let me just fix you right up.” the janitor said. Pandy subtly nodded. Teddy’s arms flung forward, as he shook in fear, wondering if he would make the jump. His legs grazed the wheel on the cleaning cart. He leaped onto the cart and hid under the mop. As the wheels began to roll, Teddy thought, “This is it. I’m going to meet my owner.” He peered out from under the mop to see Pandy still on the shelf. He gave Teddy a reassuring look—that everything would be all right.

“Just have hope,” Pandy had said just moments before. Teddy took those words with him as he went along on his journey.

“Woah! What is happening?” Teddy’s legs shook and his head bounced up and down. The janitor was walking down the stairs. Every bump sent a small ting of pain, but he carried on. The glimmering lights of the first floor distracted Teddy from the pain.

“Ah finally,” said the janitor, who quickly rushed into the bathroom. Click…clack.

“What is that?” Teddy thought. He looked around but saw nothing. “Is the janitor not here? Oh boy, here is my chance.” Teddy scrambled out of the cart and ran. “Where is it? Where is the exit? Oh, there!” Teddy saw the flashing red exit sign and breathed a sigh of relief. He went up and tried to reach for the doorknob, but his paws were too

short. “Uh oh.”

Thunderous steps approached behind him. “Need some help?” A big, burly man towered over him.

“I–I’m so sorry, you see I was—” Teddy stammered, fearing he was in huge trouble.

“Oh no, I want to give you this.” The man held out a one-way ticket from Beijing to Chicago. Teddy welled up with tears.

“How did you—?”

“I saw you planning out an escape with your friends months ago. I just didn’t know when you would finally do it. Guess today is the day.”

The janitor hugged Teddy. “Now, go on. Find your owner.” Teddy ran off into the distance, eventually arriving at the Beijing Capital International Airport.

After a fourteen-hour flight, Teddy was in Chicago. He caught a taxi. “Where to?” the driver asked.

“Any store that sells stuffed animals,” Teddy replied. After a while, the taxi halted to a stop.

“That’ll be $21.09.”

“Um, I don’t have any money. Will hugs work?”

“Oh, sure.” Teddy gave the driver a big squeeze and then walked into Walgreens.

“Oh! New animal alert! Hello friend!” the stuffed animals all cheered.

“Hello friends!” Teddy responded. “Where are the rest of the bears?” he asked.

“You’re the only one.”

“Oh, that is sad.” Teddy cried.

“It is okay, let it out. We’ll be here for you, Teddy.” His eyes sparkled with excitement and hope.

“Teddy? How do you know my name?” He looked up—and saw Pandy standing there. “PANDY! Oh my goodness! Hello!” They embraced one another.

“C’mon Teddy! Let’s go to the front of the store, near the checkout area.”

The next day, a young boy walked into Walgreens with his family. “I want him!” The boy exclaimed. Teddy smiled his best smile. “I love you,” the little boy said.

“I love you too,” Teddy whispered.

The little boy took Teddy home that night, gently

laying him down next to his other stuffed animals. “Hello guys!” Teddy said, settling into his comfy home.

“Hi! What is your name?” one of them asked.

“It’s Teddy.”

“Hi ya, Teddy! Welcome to your new home!” the rest of them said, surprising Teddy.

“Aw, thanks! I’m so glad to have such a bear-tastic new family!”

Passing Strangers

Sarah Zhang

You dropped your pen,” Wes said, handing the blue 0.5mm Uni Ball back to Maeve. He would have pocketed it himself since his pens always disappeared from his backpack. But, after almost an entire semester, he finally found his reason to follow her outside the lecture hall.

“Thanks,” Maeve said as she turned around, holding the door for him. She enrolled in History of European Thought to feel understood by studying the late philosophers in her ivory tower, surprised to feel somewhat seen by her classmates. She gave him a soft smile, one that she spent hours practicing in her room when she was alone. She could not wait to tell her sister about the results of her intentional accidental pen drop.

“Umm, so, nice class,” Wes said. He was the designated extrovert in his friend group of library dwellers, always the one with the most words and the least filter. But, in front of Maeve with her juniper-colored jumper and golden round glasses, his mind turned into a barren desert. He was drawn to her like a child around fire for the first time, attracted to the light that she exuded when asking a pointed question about Marxist materialism or scribbling a textbook of notes during each lecture.

That’s why Maeve only attended her Friday movie nights with her childhood friends on-campus and ran five miles every Saturday morning. Her routine felt like donning a blanket as a shield from getting burned by others. Opening up felt like ripping the blanket off with her skin, where the anticipation of the emotional hurt was greater than the harm itself. She treasured the certainty of routine and safety of predictability.

The students from the next class started to find their seats in the hall, yawning through their midday slump. Maeve had English next at 1:30 p.m.

Talking to him now was everything that made her daydream, yet the conversation was also full of nothing that she wanted.

Wes was supposed to meet his professor for lunch. But his professor could wait. Always prized for his humor, he yearned for someone to value his intellect. As the captain of his high school debate team, deconstructing House bills in the news and evaluating the efficacy of free-market economics were part of his typical week. When he graduated, he missed the adrenaline rush of preparing a speech in five minutes and having his policy nerds to discuss with until midnight. Wes did not realize the hole in his sweater that debate filled until he came to college and never thought that he would find the right patch—until he enrolled in History of European Thought.

“Yeah,” Maeve said. Talking to him now was everything that made her daydream, yet the conversation was also full of nothing that she wanted. Her father raised her to always have books in hand, yet her library days meant that she was miles away from the frat houses and tailgates. When Maeve looked into the mirror each morning, she saw her soft jawline and acne-scarred cheeks, acting like points deducted from her own test of attractiveness. The guy down her hall whom she followed on Instagram never followed back—a single click that cracked part of her heart. She never thought that she deserved someone else’s attention, so she never tried.

Maeve glanced at her watch; she would be late for her next class but would spend one minute, maybe two, more here.

An invitation for coffee together was on the tip of his tongue. She hoped that her eyes conveyed yes yes yes. After years of wearing her blanket, she started to grow warm. She was a spark that wanted to spread its energy and light outward. He was a match, ready to be struck.

But Wes saw her eyes leave his and land on her watch. He was clearly wasting her time. Carly had said the same before she stopped texting back, and Wes still bore the tender pink flesh of scars on his heart, which never stopped stinging.

“I actually have to go now, but I’d love—” Maeve began. To keep talking.

“Oh, my bad, didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” Wes rushed through his words, his cheeks warming up. “But it was nice talking to you.” She would have said “no” if I asked her to coffee.

Maeve and Wes took tracks that snaked further from their shared classroom, walking past the flyers from last month’s events and the faded azure banner that waved in the wind. On their college campus that brimmed with possibility, invisible strings bound each student together—a web of “what could be”

and doors to new best friends and lovers only a fingertip away.

But few pull the strings taut. College is a small world of always running into each other but never saying anything more. And when Maeve and Wes turned in their final exams the next week and returned to their respective hometowns the week after, they would remember each other as mere classmates and quiet the what-ifs with a dose of chosen detachment and shunned possibility that they called reality.

One Summer

Laura Wikstrom

Without fail, the last day of school is overcast, stuffy and stagnant. Summer freedom within reach, the welcoming smell of green, lushness, and chemical lawn treatments. Maroon and grey plaid clad students undress our classroom of its posters, maps, lessons, and glitter construction art adornments. The citronella scent of Murphy’s Oil Soap filled in the empty voids, as a smattering of students oversaw washing the desktops and chalk boards. Another student, a larger boy, pushed an ancient chrome and cloth vacuum, and wafts of popcorn, stinky feet and pencil shavings belched out from the noisy device. Another group of boys were stacking the clean and dry desks, more like two boys were stacking and three boys were watching and directing. They flexed their wry arms at each other. If one could squint just right, you could make out a start of a bicep.

Our teacher passed out worksheets and projects we didn’t have time for during the school year. She pranced in and out of the classroom to giggle with her coworkers in the hall about summer plans, something about margaritas and a tan, a part-time gig. I had a plan of my own this summer, the best one yet. I planned to stay up all night. It was time for me to join the adults and do the fun things they do. I would watch the sunrise and maybe have a cup of coffee with my mom before the rest of the house stirred. Then I would tell my brothers as they sleepily ate their childish cereal, the one with the rabbit on it, how the sunrise met me. Next, I would converse with my dad as he shaved. I would use my coffee mug to point with as I went over a raise in my allowance or how getting my ears pierced would be a net benefit to the family. I turned back to my pile of unused assignments; I was determined to use these worksheets on my heathen little brother and little cousin who visits in the summer.

…

“I got this one climbing that tree.”

“This is a mosquito bite I scratched too hard.”

“This is from my dog.”

Five pairs of spindly tanned legs shimmering with

sun bleached leg hair, all dotted and marred with the various war wounds of summer. We brandished our scabs like badges and picked them till beads of garnet formed. Although we collectively had all the toys, bikes, swing sets, and pools, any child could want, it was the communal picking at ourselves and feeding our scabs to the ants on the sidewalk that we choose for entertainment.

“Don’t do that; you’ll scar!” Grandma’s voice croaked in my head. “You don’t want a scar, do you?”

But it didn’t really bother me. I already had lots of scars, shiny pale and pink raised like embroidery, stripe my right arm. When my arm had gone through a glass door, it sliced open the skin and the innards of my arm, amber globs of fat and blood, mostly. I was screaming, but amazed. Like the big medical book, we have at home, I thought. A wall of aunts, uncles, cousins and my brothers filled the door frame of the small bathroom.

“I can’t look,” my grandma groaned somewhere behind the familial barricade.

“Would someone call Mike?” my uncle ordered as he held my arm under the running water and swiftly removed the large shard of glass still sticking out of me. A collective sucking in of air through teeth came from the watchers. I watched the pulse of red coming out of me, with the steady water, spun in the pearlized sink and flowed down the drain, breaking my gory trance. Suddenly, my dad, pushing through the partition, quickly assessed the damage, threw a towel over me and carried me out. A lump in my throat grew when I saw him. I was instantly relieved seeing the man who beats up closet monsters and banishes nightmares, come to whisk me away to the hospital. Incidentally, my grandfather would spend the rest of that summer replacing every door and window with a plexiglass surrogate.

…

I was not an athletic or well-coordinated child; put before a net, batter, or goal post, my limp wrist lobs would set off a cacophony of jeers and laughter. Yet when stars aligned, a heavenly precision would be bestowed upon me that could take down behemoths and bratty neighbor kids alike.

It started with a robin’s egg, a pale blue gem of an ovum. I found it in the pine needles and the black dirt. I loved it with all my heart and put it in my shirt pocket, for it to warm and hatch. Gently, I’d present the little egg to the other kids on the block. Chrysta, my sometimes friend appeared, popsicle in hand. Her permanently Kool-Aid dyed mouth demanded that I present my jewel to her. Hesitantly, I looked to my toddler brother, Billy, for some wise counsel. But this child was wearing a pair of my old white tights on his head as bunny ears. They were pulled down lopsided on his forehead so one eye was pulled wide open and the other eye half closed. He hopped about his advice. I deemed it would be useless.

Instead, I gingerly presented the egg in my palm, cradling it. Chrysta plucked it from me in her sticky boney fingers, examining it between slushy, smacking bites of half melted dessert, and smashed it in between her fingers.

“Ewww!” the little psychopath shrieked. The

innards of clear pink tinged slime oozed down her hand, a little black and red being, my little would-be robin, slid down the joint of her thumb.

“YOU KILLED IT!” I bawled, “WHY?”

“Billy bumped me!” He hadn’t. “Nana!” she whimpered, holding out her arm in disgust.

Chrysta’s nana was a banana blonde woman whose face was always pinched up in disgust. She wore tight bike shorts and Hulk Hogan T-shirts; sometimes she did funny trips and falls into the grass and would call out to us to help her up. She’d smell fruity and kind of stale and her face wouldn’t be pinched up; she’d actually be smiling. She was nice to me then. But today she was tsking and pinching up the remains of my bijou with a paper towel and her hand wrapped in a plastic shopping bag.

“You shouldn’t be playing with that!” she hissed at me, and she pulled Chrysta into the house. I was numb. I walked home, my face growing hot. It started at my forehead and then my eyes and

then tears burning through and down my cheeks, my jaw so clenched, my little brother, no longer a bunny, looking up at me. “It ok,” he softly spoke.

Before I could tell him to shut up, a voice from behind:

“Where ya going?” Chrysta’s squeaky slurpy voice called out. She had a new popsicle.

“You killed my bird! You killed it on purpose!”

“NUH UH!” Her stupid buck-tooth juice-dyed face confronted me.

I hated her with all my heart, bigger than a brontosaurus; my hate was bigger than purple mountains majesty; I hated as big as the sky! I picked up the nearest rock and threw it, sure it’d never hit her, but hoped it’d scare her. However, I watched this ordinary rock, slow down its trajectory and bean her right between the eyes. There was a quiet moment, like when you go underwater with your eyes open, everything suspended.

It was broken by:

“NANA, SHE HIT ME!” Followed by a loud high pitch cry.

Old Nana never moved so fast. “That wasn’t very nice,” she screamed as she collected her sobbing offspring, “I’M GOING TO CALL YOUR FATHER!”

She hurried screaming Chrysta away, but I wasn’t afraid of my punishment. I was amazed. I stared at the rock on the ground next to the new barely eaten, melting popsicle; my brother stood staring as well for a while and then looked at his feet and spun in circles. It was evening and just about dinner. The streetlights hadn’t turned on yet.

he was on the telephone or at the bank.

“You too,” he directed Billy as he bent down.

The house was dark inside except for the kitchen; it’s how we kept down the heat. We didn’t have AC; the old house was never built with it, and they never had one installed. Once we had an AC window unit, but it leaked or something, so instead, we had a bunch of fans. We’d sit in front of them, my older brother, my little brother and I, and say over and over “Luke, I am your father,” scream into it, and sing really loud: “Lalalala.”

The ceiling fan above our dinner table was always off, so as it whirled its greasy brass pull chains made a gentle tickety tack tickety tack sound and the attached light made the shadows sway slightly. Mom was always the last to sit down, and tonight was no different. We had demanded one of the orange cats to be let out, right before she could pull out her chair. She came back from letting out the cat with a long, drawn-out sigh and began to fix my little brother a plate.

I hated her with all my heart, bigger than a brontosaurus; my hate was bigger than purple mountains majesty; I hated as big as the sky!

“You don’t throw rocks at anyone,” she began without taking her eyes from filling the plate. I took a breath to speak, but she looked directly at me with her sharp blue eyes and repeated, “You don’t throw rocks at anyone.” She put the meal under my brother’s nose and adjusted his tiny hand around a large dinner fork. “You could have really hurt Chrysta, you know that?” She searched for my face, her eyes softer than before.

“LAURA!” It was my dad. But his voice wasn’t the calling in for dinner kind. I spun on my heels and thought of running away at that moment, but I was suddenly tired. I didn’t want to run away from home; I wanted to tell Dad about my loss. He would understand my pain and loss of my robin’s egg. He would even understand my anger and hate, but he would not accept my actions. I knew I’d be grounded and my summer ruined. He met us in the driveway and didn’t mention anything, but the look he gave me told me that he was very disappointed in me.

“Go cleanup for dinner.” His voice was cool like

“Yeah, you coulda killed Chrysta, and then you’d go to jail!” My older brother, Michael, is matter of fact. He is nearly four years older than me and can be a third parent. He sat there in his Transformers underwear, concerned for my future.

My face began to get hot again; I stared at my plate, pushing around pieces of broccoli. “Shut up, Michael” I said into my chest, and I imagined myself as a hardened criminal. I wore a black and white prison uniform. I had a gold tooth and beard stubble, I was pumping a barbell, “Ma” in a heart tattooed on my bicep. I shuddered. That was not the life I wanted. “But she killed my bird,” I began to cry.

“That egg wouldn’t have made it Laura.” Mom was trying to make eye contact with me, but I

didn’t want to look. She was always right about these kinds of things; I was always trying to save little animals my cats brought home or nurse back a stunned bird that flew into something. Most of the time it would end in heartbreak. Mom would have to clean up after my rescues. She could tell how bad off they were, and she would be the one with the plastic grocery bag picking up the dead little creature. She’d try to explain the circle of life to me as best as I would let her.

“Maybe don’t play with Chrysta for a while,” my dad spoke for the first time during dinner. “And you’re grounded for a week.” There was no justice! I stomped off from the lousy table, up the stupid stairs that creaked, slammed my dumb door that would stick when it rained because of all the layers of crummy paint, and buried my head in my pillow and sobbed. That night I dreamed of my robin rising from the piles of popsicle sticks and grocery bags and rocks that magically hit the target. She flew up through the big pine tree she fell from as an egg, past pink clouds into a dark star-spangled night, up and up and up.

The new classroom smelled of sweet and damp cardboard. Above the chalk board was the elegant rising and falling loops and flourishes of the alphabet in cursive. Stacks of thick purple textbooks lined the window ledge. New crisp Crayolas in their boxes, clean pink erasers, sharp no. 2 pencils, and this year, erasable pens for handwriting. It was still hot for a late August start of the school year, but summer felt so far away already. I had survived my grounding, which had been reduced to five days for good behavior. I had said I was very sorry to Chrysta, and she said we could be friends again. She told me the

rock didn’t even hurt that hard. Nana still didn’t like me, though. We decided it was best to stick to playing with Barbies.

My summer finished with a stay at my Wisconsin Grandma’s, whose house smelled like cloved ham and dill mustard. Wisconsin Grandma made everything herself, she sewed and knitted and baked and cooked, played the piano and made me dolls and gardened. Half her face was paralyzed; it was something the doctors did to her. I didn’t know her before it happened, but I liked looking at her. She had white hair with just a tiny bit of grey that she styled in a short curly cut. Where the side of her face was paralyzed, her eye peeked up from under her lower eyelid. A tiny hidden milky blue gem. She could only smile on one side too, and when she did, she gave a clever smirk. She was always dressed so crisply, in button-up shirts made of poplin and A-line skirts in corduroy. She wore loafers with little heels on them and carried a tan purse. She was soft to hug, even though she was slim.

Grandma tried to show me the piano scales and how to knit purls. I watched her deft quick hands, but I couldn’t keep up. Even when she slowed down, I was so uncoordinated; I dropped stitches and couldn’t keep time. But she gave big joyous praise when I could make a chain with yarn and finish “Twinkle Little Star.” Even though I knew she was playing it up, I liked it all the same. This year, I would have my first communion, and Wisconsin Grandma wanted to make my dress. I was inspired by her piano playing, and I decided I would try to learn violin; I didn’t think it’d need as much coordination as a piano. Maybe if I learned it very well, I could convince my parents to give me a raise in my allowance or get my ears pierced.

Crossing Borders: Facing a New Identity

Luisa Fernanda Campo Londono

Ilove hiking in the beautiful Andean mountains of Colombia in a city called Armenia. In my home country, when I was a teenager, my family and I often went on weekly walks together. I cherished those moments at the top of a mountain, surrounded by nature's magic, sharing unforgettable times with my grandma, my parents, my siblings, and my cousins. Today, I carry those memories in my heart and understand the importance of family, a foundation of society, the place where our roots grow deep and where our hearts first learn the rhythm of belonging. I understood this concept late, in high school, when the experiences from my childhood and adolescence taught me many lessons. One of them was learning how important family is, our parents and ancestors, and how they help us build our identity, like architects laying the first stones of a lifelong home.

Identity is a magnificent word that gives us a sense of who we are as individuals and members of social groups. People shape their ideas about identity through interactions with family, friends, school, and media. This concept about identity became real for us, a Colombian family with two boys, Antonio and Nicolas. In the summer of 2018, we were building the blocks of our lives in our maternal country, Colombia, when everything changed. My husband's company transferred him to Chicago for a new landscape of opportunities in the United States, marking the beginning of our own journey of identity discovery. A strong identity gives us security, encouragement, and self-esteem. People who lack a strong identity can feel disconnected from who they have been and are uncertain about who they will become.

When we arrived in the United States, we started this journey full of hope and dreams, ready for a better life. Antonio was eight, and Nicolás was seven years old. However, life began to change like a tide rising slowly; when the school year started in August, the challenges came, this tide rushing powerfully against our lives, drenching us in a new culture and a new language. Two months later, in

October, my children asked me, "Mom, when will we go back to Colombia?" We missed Colombia, our spectacular country in the northwest of South America, surrounded by majestic mountains and colorful landscapes. We lived a good life there, close to our relatives and friends. Our traditions enriched our culture: delicious cuisine, traditional dances, and joyful music; and I saw my boys with sadness due to the uncertainties of our future. As parents, we didn't have the answer.

At the beginning of the school year, our boys attended ESL classes, but my younger son struggled to understand the language. He had a difficult time adjusting; in his mind, he believed we would return to Colombia soon. In November, Nicolas’s English teacher didn’t understand his behavior, lack of attention, and inconsistent participation in class. Nicolas was a shy child. One day, she met with us to discuss his limited involvement and his tendency to distract others. We asked for alternative ways to support him, but we didn’t find any real solution available. At school, he often felt isolated and had weak social skills during group activities. Nicolas didn’t say much at home about his situation, but with resilience, both of our boys studied hard every day and did their best.

In December, I noticed many changes in them. Within six months, I saw my boys, Nicolás and Antonio, shrink into shadows of themselves. They began calling themselves "Nico" and "Tony"; I felt it was their shield, an attempt to erase part of their identity, a desperate way to avoid discrimination in an environment where they felt no sense of belonging. Despite this, they had good grades in their classes. In March 2019, Nicolas began therapy with a psychologist to better understand his behavior. The psychologist concluded that he was suffering from anxiety caused by his insecurities. For me, as a mother, it was heartbreaking to see my boys feeling lost, like the sun struggling to rise behind gray clouds on a cold morning.

Immigration places people in ambiguous waters; you feel lost, unnamed, quietly fighting an identity

that begins to slip through your fingers. Every immigrant should feel proud of their ancestors, yet the divergence arises when you grow up in a different country, caught in our case between Colombian and American culture. Those who arrive in the United States at an early age often build a new identity that reshapes their perspectives about their ancestors and their homeland. My kids stopped calling their relatives, cousins, and friends; they no longer spoke about Colombia, and I noticed little enthusiasm when we planned our vacations there.

All activities I did as a mother were meant to keep our roots alive; like a blazing bonfire I refused to let the autumn winds extinguish. To preserve that warmth, we spoke Spanish at home; I danced and sang Colombian music with my boys on Friday evenings, and I cooked the meals we used to enjoy back home. But my efforts were not enough. Months later, we discovered that our boys had been bullied because of our ethnicity. Some classmates threw words like “tacos” and “beaner” at them. Eventually, this verbal aggression escalated into a physical attack; the principal informed us that a student had repeatedly punched our older son. The boy confessed that several classmates had planned it.

challenge of shaping their immigrant identity.

In December 2021, at home, I recognized that Spanish was no longer their main language; whenever we started a conversation in Spanish, our kids quickly finished it in English. They no longer enjoyed speaking our language. I thought about how American culture had gradually invaded our lives, like drops of water that, over time, fill a cup. I began to see our kids as strangers to our own culture, as if they had slowly drifted away from their heritage and roots.

Identity can become a cage, one with invisible bars that separate us from others. My children learned this early. The expectations of American social standards forced them to bend, shrink, and reshape themselves to be immersed in this culture. In that process, the threads that once had tied them to their culture began to loosen. I suffered in silence, watching my kids withdraw into solitude and seek refuge in technology like a great bear retreating to its cave to survive in the winter.

My children learned this early. The expectations of American social standards forced them to bend, shrink, and reshape themselves to be immersed in this culture.

All this deeply affected us as a family. We tried to find solutions in a city where we had no connections. Years later, I noticed the consequences: my boys avoided talking to their grandparents and cousins in Colombia, they no longer enjoyed dancing, and they preferred American food to meals from home. I saw how my children gradually lost their sense of identity from their maternal country as a defense mechanism, like chameleons changing their skin color to blend into their surroundings.

I realized that when my boys feared the cruelty or rejection of others at school because of their heritage, they took refuge in their American identity, like Roman soldiers raising their shields for protection and courage. Even after these two years, they continued to face difficult transitions, living in a country where they found little support in the face of bullying, trapped between confusion and the

In middle school, our boys finally found a group of friends at their new school and in their soccer club. We met wonderful families and excellent coaches. Through traveling games, they gained new experiences, sometimes losing, sometimes winning, but each match strengthened their confidence and renewed their energy to keep moving forward. Ultimately, I felt pride rise within me like a sunrise after a long night. They had weathered the storm with resilience, standing firm against the adversities of those difficult years, and the most significant victory of all was that they learned to overcome challenges with courage without losing their kindness.

In the summer of 2024, we visited our homeland, the soil where our family tree was first planted. I imagined this trip as a reconnection, a return to our roots, a healing embrace. We visited relatives, the familiar places of my childhood, the flavors, the language, the warmth, and, of course, I planned excursions outside between our majestic mountains. We went hiking in the same place I had once visited with my family. Climbing that mountain together was our first shared experience there, each step making

us feel stronger and more alive. Those moments filled me with joy. But what I witnessed also pierced me deeply. I realized that, for our boys, the umbilical cord to our homeland had already been cut. They were no longer seen as Colombians; they went out dressed differently from the locals, wearing hoodies in the summer, long socks, and slides, while their relatives wore light jerseys and tennis shoes. As I looked at them, I knew that Colombia was still part of them, yet it no longer felt like they belonged.

During that trip, a truth surfaced within my sons. One evening, I spoke with them about the importance of our roots, about remembering who we are and where we come from. I wanted to plant a seed before the wind blew away what was left. They listened quietly; finally, they answered with a wisdom that shook me: “Mom, we consider ourselves Colombian-American because we are from both places.” Their words were not erratic; they brought clarity. Their identity was not broken; it was layered, resilient, and whole.

We continue our journey together, exploring how identity differs from one place to another and from generation to generation. My boys live in a state of ambivalence between identity and assimilation, navigating two cultures that sometimes collide

at the edges of their experiences. At those edges, where Colombian warmth meets American independence, they have built a personal space that is uniquely theirs, discovering that identity is not fixed; it bends, expands, and transforms across generations and experiences, and their sense of identity has grown stronger.

Joyfully, my children are proof of this evolution. Immigrant families must hold on to opportunities with both hands, dream boldly, work hard, and rise beyond the shadows. And, as parents, we must teach our children that roots and wings can coexist— pride in where we come from, and the courage to fly toward our destiny. My children are not “less” Colombian or “half” American; they are whole, carrying two worlds inside their hearts. As a family, we still fill our home with shared pictures, moments, traditions, laughter, stories, trips, and memories that will forever live in Antonio’s and Nicolás’s hearts. Finally, my role as a mother is no longer to protect the past, but to guide them using our family GPS with pride, courage, and love. If identity once felt like a battle, now I see it as a gift: a chance for my boys to embrace and draw strength from diverse cultures.

A Shot to Man Up

Alex Gozon

Iwoke as the train’s wheels screeched to a stop. I got up to my feet and looked out for anyone before I hopped off the train cart. I walked down a dusty road towards a town that didn’t look too different from my own. From a distance, I saw fields much bigger than those I’d worked on before; I thought maybe I could find some work there. I arrived at the town, and I got a few all too familiar stares. I minded my own business and continued walking until three tall white men blocked my way.

“You lost, boy?” a man, younger than the other two, asked.

“No si—,” I stopped myself before I could finish my sentence. I’m not a boy anymore, I’m a man, and a man doesn’t call another man sir. I placed my hand near where the gun was hidden and looked the man right in the eye, “No. I was just lookin’ around.”

“Folks ‘round here don’t just go lookin’ around. So why don’t you tell us what you’re really up to?” said another man. He stepped a bit closer to me, and I could see a large, but faded scar on his face.

“I was just headin’ towards the fields and seein’ if they’re looking for more workers,” I replied confidently.

“That so? Must be new ‘round these parts then?” asked the last man. He was the tallest out of all of them. “Where you from?”

I couldn’t tell anyone where I was really from or who I was. I wanted to be the man I know I am, one they’d respect.

“From all over, goin’ town to town, findin' somethin’ worth livin’ and stayin’ for,” I answered.

The three men all looked at each other, then back at me. I was about ready to pull the gun out when finally the tallest man smiled.

“Take it from us, kid, no place is worth stayin’ for. Stay in one place too long, and you’ll find yourself a sittin’ duck for whatever’s runnin’ towards you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but I really got to go now.”

“Go ahead, but we’ll be seein’ you ‘round kid.”

The men stepped aside and let me through. I felt a sting every time they called me kid. I wanted to

show off my gun and prove that I was no kid, that I was a man. But I wasn’t looking for trouble on my first day, so I grit my teeth and walked on towards the fields.

I arrived at the fields and looked for who was in charge. A large, older man appeared on a horse and barked orders to everyone he passed by. He was accompanied by another man who didn’t dress as well on horseback, who looked around and scanned their surroundings.

I walked towards the large man, but before I could even speak, I was stopped by the other man, who pointed his gun towards me.

“Stop right there, son, unless you want to water the ground with your blood,” he threatened. I stayed still and didn’t say a word. As I stared down the barrel, I looked up at the man’s eyes and saw something that looked familiar, and at the same time, something I’ve never seen before.

“Lower your weapon, Doc, can’t you see you're frightenin’ the boy?” said the large man. He lowered his weapon, and I was able to breathe again. The large man faced me and motioned for me to come closer. I slowly walked over while I kept eye contact with Doc.

“Now, what you doin’ ‘round here?” the large man asked.

“I came down and was wonderin’ if you be needin’ some more workers?”

“Sorry, son, I have more workers than I need. I was talkin’ ‘bout lettin’ some go.”

“But I’m a hard worker, I’ve been workin’ on fields as big as this since I was born.”

“I already said I ain’t lookin’ for more workers. You goin’ to have to find work somewhere else,” the large man started to leave, followed by Doc. As I was about to go, I felt the hidden gun on my side and thought a real man won’t take “no” for an answer. I got around to the front of the large man’s horse, startling both him and the horses, while Doc placed his hand on his gun.

“With all due respect, sir, I am more than able to work in this field and be happy with not gettin’ paid.

All I need is a place to stay and food in my belly.” I stood my ground and locked eyes with the large man, but at the corner of my eye, I saw Doc ready to draw out his gun.

“You know I can easily have Doc shoot you down for just startlin’ my horse.” Doc readied his gun, but with my gun against my hand, I stood my ground, “But you got guts, and I admire a kid with guts, even if that kid is a monkey. Tell you what, I got a whole field that needs ploughin’. If you can plough that entire field, on your own, by the end of the day, you've got a place here. Deal?”

I’d never ploughed an entire field on my own, not even if I arrived first, but I couldn’t back down now; a real man wouldn’t do that.

“Deal.”

“Alright then, Doc here will show you where you need to go,” the large man rode away, leaving me with Doc.

Doc didn’t say anything as he led me to the field. It was no bigger than the ones I’d worked on, and there were a plough and donkey already there. I hitched up the donkey and started ploughing the field. I ploughed row after row as I battled the blazing sun, exhaustion, and hunger. I wiped the sweat pouring down my face as Doc watched me, probably to make sure I didn’t cheat. I was about ready to give up, but I knew that a real man wouldn’t give up. I powered through and was on my last row when the large man arrived.

“I was just about to finish,” I screamed.

“Times up, boy, it’s the end of the day,” he said.

“But, I did the rest of the field. I didn’t take any breaks.”

“That wasn’t the deal. I said the whole field, and from what I can see, the whole field ain’t ploughed. So no job,” he laughed at me, thinking he played me to do free labor for him. I wanted to draw out my gun but couldn’t risk Doc shooting me. I was ready to leave when the large man stopped me. “Tell you what, I’ll give you another shot to earn a place here. Come by my estate, and we’ll discuss the terms.” I felt that this was another trick of his, but I knew I had no other choice and nowhere else to go.

“Alright.”

I followed the large man and Doc to a large mansion near the fields. It was bigger than any house I’d seen in my life. Even Jim Hawkins' house wasn’t this big. The large man and Doc dismounted

from their horses and entered the house with me behind them.

I’d never seen the inside of white folks' homes, only stories, but when I was allowed inside, the stories were nowhere near what I saw. The ceilings were as high as the sky, the floors were so clean that I caught a glimpse of myself in them, and when we passed the dining room, I saw there were enough places on the table for two families in my old town to sit.

The large man led us to a room with a wall of liquor on one side of the room and a large, round table in the middle. “Doc, why don’t you pour us a glass of bourbon?” the large man said as he sat at the table. Doc went towards the bar and poured two glasses of bourbon. “And one for our bold guest here.” Doc poured another glass and walked them over to the table. He handed one to the large man and the other to me. I hesitantly took it and looked down to examine the dark brown liquid inside.

“You ever had a drink before, son?” asked Doc.

“A few times,” I lied.

“Well, you never had a drink like this before,” said the large man. He and Doc took a sip of the bourbon. I let out a breath and took a sip as well. The strong, burning taste hit the back of my throat. I couldn’t hide the expression on my face, which amused the large man, “Watch yourself there, boy, that there’s the finest bourbon in the South. Ain’t meant for the faint-hearted,” laughed the large man. Doc took the glass away from me and took a seat at the round table.

“So what’s the terms for earnin’ my place?” I asked.

“Ah, yes, take a seat,” the large man said. He got up but saw that I was confused and hesitant to sit, “Well, go on, what I propose is something you need to be sittin’ down for.”

I went over to the chair and sat down. I felt a strange feeling creep up my spine as I found myself sitting at the same table as the white men. Doc stared me down while the large man returned with a small box and sat back down at the table. He opened the box and placed down a deck of cards.

“Like me to shuffle the deck, Mr. Peeder?” Doc asked.

“Would you do so, Doc? I’d like to explain the rules to our friend while you’re at it,” Doc took the

deck and started shuffling. “Now I would like to assume you’re familiar with our little game, Blackjack. Ever played it?”

“Can’t say I’ve heard it before.”

“Oh, well, the rules are simple. Each player is given two cards with the deck facin’ down like they are now, Mistah Peeder motioned to the deck that Doc finished shuffling. “But one of the cards will be faced up only for the dealer, which Doc will happily be for our game, right Doc?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The other players will look at their cards without the other players lookin’, and each player will take turns to ask the dealer for another card. The goal is to get as close to 21 without goin’ over or else you bust. Do you know how to count to 21?”

“Yes, sir,” I learned how to count to as far as 30 after spending much time at Mistah Joe’s store.

“Good, and the deal is if you can win five rounds before Doc or me, you have a place here. You game, son?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, deal 'em out, Doc.”

We played round after round of Blackjack. There were times when I won, other times I busted, and times when I lost because of a house wins rule. It was the last round, and everyone had four wins. Doc gave each of us our cards, and I looked down at mine. I looked up at Mistah Peeder and Doc and decided to ask for one card.

“Alright, time to see who won. Doc, would you like to go first?”

“Bust,” Doc showed his cards to what looked like to be well over 21.

“Better luck next time, old man. I, however, have the pleasure of havin’ two lovely ladies smilin’ at me. Frankly, I can’t see how you can top that boy,” Mistah Peeder laughed, but his smile vanished once he saw two kings and an ace of spades. I kept a humble face in front of them but had the same rush of adrenaline from firing the gun the other night coursing through my body.

“Does this mean I can stay?”

“Sure, kid, a deal’s a deal. Doc’ll show you where the workers sleep.” Doc and I got up from our seats and made our way to the door, until Mistah Peeder stopped us. “Before you go, how ‘bout one more game to end the night?”

Doc and I looked at each other before looking

back at Mistah Peeder, who had a different smile on his face.

“What kind of game?” I asked.

“Oh, just a small game I learned durin’ my travels. Apparently, it can distinguish the boys from the men. You up for a round?” I looked at Doc, whose usual blank, stoic face now had a faint look of confusion, concern, or fear.

“Sure,” I said.

“Great. Now, why don’t you pull out that piece you have in your pocket, and I’ll tell you the rules.”

A look of shock and confusion plastered my face at how he knew about my gun. “Come now, son, you think I wouldn’t be able to tell that you’re carryin’ somethin’ by the look of that bulge in your pants?”

I looked down to see what Mistah Peeder was saying, and I would agree that anyone could guess I had something in my pocket if they looked close enough. Doc quickly put his hand in my pocket, pulled out the gun and examined it as he walked towards the table.

“No bullets in the barrel, Mr. Peeder,” said Doc.

“See if you can find any bullets for it in my storage, while I’ll explain the rules of the game to our brave new employee.” Doc went to the corner of the room looking for bullets, while I slowly and hesitantly walked back to my seat and saw an amused look on Mistah Peeder’s face.

“What’s the game we playin’?” I nervously asked.

“It’s really simple? Doc will be comin’ back with your gun, either loaded with a bullet or not. Doc and I’s guns will be the same.” Mistah Peeder pulled out his gun, and Doc came back and placed my gun in front of me.

He pulled out his gun and exchanged it with Mistah Peeder’s gun. They both hid them from each other and quickly exchanged them back. Doc took his seat, and he and Mistah Peeder placed their guns in front of them.

“Now, none of us know whose guns are loaded or not. We’ll take turns puttin’ our guns to our heads and fire. If your gun’s empty, you win; if not, well, you know what’ll happen,” said Mistah Peeder amusingly.

“I don’t think I can play this game,” I nervously said.

“Can’t back out now, boy,” said Mistah Peeder.

“But there’s a chance you’ll die. Aren’t you worried your gun may be loaded?”

“That’s the thrill of the game. Gamblin’ with your

life, put it all on the line. That’s what makes you a man. What’s say you kid, you man enough?” asked Mistah Peeder.

I looked at the guns on the table and thought about how I got myself in this mess and how I could get out of it. I looked up at the men’s faces, staring at me, waiting for me to answer. I picked up my gun and could hear my heart racing as I pressed it up to my temple. I closed my eyes and held my breath as I squeezed. Click. I opened my eyes and allowed myself to breathe. I placed my gun back on the table and let my heart settle down.

“Well, well, this boy got more balls than we thought, ain’t that right, Doc?”

“Yes, sir, Mr Peeder,” answered Doc.

“Now’s your turn.” Doc quickly picked up the gun, pressed it against his temple, and, after a short moment, fired an empty barrel. He kept a calm face and placed the gun back on the table.

“Well, it seems to me this table is full of men today,” Mistah Peeder remarked as he picked up his gun. “But you know what’s the worst kind of man on this earth?”

“No, sir,” I answered.

“A foolish one,” Mistah Peeder quickly said before he turned his gun towards me.

I was shocked staring down the barrel of the gun and dived down. Blooom. Crash. I got up to find I was alright and that Mistah Peeder didn’t fire at me, but instead it was Doc who fired at him with a second gun.

“You may be right, Mr Peeder. But a foolish man is better than a dead man,” said Doc over Mistah Peeder’s dead body.

He quickly started going through every drawer and shelf as I watched in shock at what had happened. I walked over to see Mistah Peeder’s head blown and blood spilling on the once clean floor. I stayed silent as I watched Doc finishing up until I heard screams from outside. Booom. Booom. Crash. Booom. Crash.

“Sounds like it’s our time to leave. You comin’, kid?” Doc asked as he ran towards the door.

I looked at Mistah Peeder one last time before I found my gun and ran out of the house with Doc. Bodies of white folks lay on the ground while the servants and workers ran in panic. I looked back at the house and saw it was set on fire. I followed Doc to the horses and quickly mounted one. I rode

alongside Doc, who was quickly joined by three other men on horseback, screaming and cheering as we rode away.

We stopped on the outskirts of town and dismounted our horses. Once the adrenaline had settled, I took a closer look at the four gathered men and realized three of them were the same ones I had met earlier today.

“What the hell happened, Doc?” asked the young man.

“Plans changed. The old man’s dead,” Doc replied.

“So we got to leave?” asked the man with the scar.

“Looks like it.”

“God dammit, Doc, why’d you have to go kill the man? I thought the plan was to wait for ‘im to go to bed and blow the place up after you cleaned ‘im out,” irritably said the tallest man.

“The fat bastard was about to shoot the kid, John.”All four men looked at me, not realizing I stood and listened to them the entire time.

“Ain’t that the kid we met earlier today?” asked the scared man.

“Looks like it. What was he doin’ with you and the old man?” John asked Doc.

“Kid got invited to the old man’s house to earn his keep. Only he was playin’ ‘im for some laughs. Didn’t please the man so much after the kid beat ‘im in Blackjack.”

“He beat ‘im in Blackjack?” the younger man asked.

“Actually, he beat us in Blackjack.”

“The kid beat you, too?” asked the scarred man.

“I ain’t no kid. I’m a man, you hear,” I shouted, unable to take being called a kid anymore. The four men looked at me, shocked that I raised my voice at them.

“What we’re goin’ do with ‘im?” asked the young man.

“I say we leave ‘im,” said the scarred man.

“He’s comin’ with us, Roy,” said Doc.

“What, c’mon Doc, we can’t risk bringin’ ‘im along,” argued Roy.

“He’s got nowhere to go; he can’t very well go back.”

“But, Doc, it’s already hard enough stayin’ low with just the four of us. What you suppose we goin’ to do with another person taggin’ along, a black kid

too,” said John.

“He already said he ain’t a ‘kid’, he a man. And I would agree with ‘im. In just one day, I’ve seen ‘im talk back to a white man, plough a whole field on his own without quittin’, and survive a round of that roulette game y’all play. I don’t know what you call a man, but that was it.” The three men looked at each other and at me again with shocked faces after listening to Doc.

“You really played a round of roulette?” asked the younger man.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Y’all can keep arguin’ about it, but he’s comin’ with us.”

“That’s if he wants to come with us,” said Roy.

“Hey, you want to go with us?” asked John.

“Go where?” I asked.

“Like you said. Goin’ town to town, findin’ somethin’ worth livin’ and stayin’ for.”

“But you said stay in one place too long, and you’ll find yourself a sittin’ duck for whatever’s runnin’ towards you.”

“That’s right. That’s why we keep goin’ town to town. Findin’ people worth robbin’ and livin’ a life on the open road.”

“But don’t y’all have a home?”

“When you've lived and seen as much as we have, you end up learning that most places can offer you so little,” said Roy.

“On the road. All you need is the sun and stars to guide you, and the company you have ‘long the way,” said the younger man.

“So what do you say, you up for a life of adventure?” asked Doc.

I looked at the four men and for once thought long and hard about what I wanted. A colored kid riding along with four white folks could get me in a world of trouble. But looking back and seeing the glow of the house still burning, I thought that there was no turning back from there.

“Yeah, I’m up for it.”

“Alright then, Billy, get the man’s horse ready,” Doc said to the young man.

“Got it, Doc,” replied Billy.

The men started getting their horses ready until Roy came up to me.

“Hey, so you got a name you go by?”

I looked back one more time at the burning glow of the house and knew that Dave and his life were left burning in that house.

“Jack. I go by Jack.”

Childhood Memories in Naryn

Maiia Karygulova

Iwoke up to cold air and frosty windows. Outside, the mountains looked tremendous and white. Mom gave me hot tea, and I warmed my hands on the cup. Winter in Naryn was always cold, but it felt cozy at home. When I stepped outside, snow crunched under my boots. My breath turned into tiny clouds in the air. Sometimes, the wind was so strong that it made my cheeks red. But inside our house, the heater hummed softly, and I felt safe and warm. Life in a big family is dynamic and full of interaction. I grew up with three siblings—two sisters and one brother. My home was shaped by the steady discipline of my dad, who served in the military, and the gentle wisdom of my mom, a pediatrician. Our days were filled with conversations and a sense of collective support. Despite our different personalities and interests, we maintained close relationships and relied on each other.

My parents were my first guides in life. My dad taught me how to ride a bike, how to stay calm when things got difficult, and how to face the world with courage. Some of my earliest memories are of holding his hand while we walked along the quiet streets of Naryn. I remember how he would lift my sister and me into his arms and carry us to kindergarten so we would not have to walk. He cherished us so much and took care of us with such tenderness. My mom often told us how our neighbors would say what a loving father and devoted family man he was.

My mom, a pediatrician, carried a different kind of strength—soft, patient, and full of warmth. She knew how to comfort any child with just her voice. When I was sick, she would sit by my bed, cooling my forehead with her hand and telling stories until I fell asleep.

Some of my sweetest childhood moments are tied to her. I look back on sitting in the kitchen while she prepared tea, the whole room filled with the scent of freshly baked bread. She would let me stir the dough or taste a bit of honey from the spoon. On evenings when she returned late from the clinic,

tired but still smiling, she would scoop me into her arms as if nothing in the world mattered more. Together, my parents shaped the person I am today. From them, I learned how to be brave, how to work hard, and how to love deeply. Even now, whenever life becomes difficult, I hear their voices— steady, reassuring, reminding me that I carry a part of both of them wherever I go.

Every weekend, the bazaar in downtown Naryn came alive like a living heartbeat of the city. The narrow lanes were crowded with wooden staples draped in bright fabrics and overflowing with produce. Vendors shouted prices above the noise, their voices rising and falling like waves. The scent of freshly baked samsa was blended with the sweetness of ripe melons and the sharp tang of spices. People talked loudly and laughed. I loved buying samsa and sunflower seeds. The smells, sounds, and busy voices felt fascinating to me. Vendors waved their hands, calling customers. Colorful fruits and vegetables were stacked high like mountains. I watched women in eye-catching dresses bargain for the best price, and it always made me smile. That day we were having guests at home. My dad and I bought some items from the grocery list that my mom handed to us. With our arms full of food, we headed home to help mom get ready for the guests.

One day, the morning air was cool and smelled of damp grass. I could hear laughter and the rhythm of drums echoing from the fields. Women in bright scarves carried baskets of sweets and bread. Smoke rose from the fires where men were roasting meat, and the smell of freshly baked bread mixed with the scent of spring flowers. I joined my mother near the large pot of sumolok, stirring it slowly with a wooden spoon. The pot hissed and bubbled, and the sweet, nutty aroma filled the air. Children ran around with rainbow balloons, their faces glowing. When night came, hundreds of lanterns floated up into the sky, shining like tiny stars above the dark mountains.

My school in Naryn was close to the tall mountains. Every morning, I walked there in the crisp, cold air that stung my cheeks and made my breath come

out in little puffs of cold mist. Inside the building, the hallways smelled faintly of chalk and old wooden desks, and they were quiet before class started, except for the soft echo of footsteps on the concrete floor. Sometimes the power went out, and we used the pale, bluish light from the windows, which made the classrooms feel calm and almost magical.

During the breaks, we played outside with our friends. The snow was packed hard from so many footsteps, and it sparkled like crushed glass in the sun. The school was small, but it felt warm inside, the walls always buzzing with whispers, giggles, and the rustling of notebooks. I still remember the cold mornings, the fresh smell of snow, and the happy voices of the students filling the air.

During my school years, I was blessed with a loyal friend. Salima was not just my buddy, she was like a sister to me. We grew up together, sharing the same streets, the same school days, and the same childhood worries. With her, everything felt easier. We laughed a lot, talked about everything, and understood each other without many words.

I remember how we used to walk home side by side, telling stories, joking, or simply enjoying the quiet. She was kind, true–hearted, and always there when I needed her. Her friendship made my childhood brighter. My bestie is a part of my story that distance cannot erase, someone I will always hold close, no matter how many years go by.

I would like to mention my English teacher, Rakiya Otunchievna, who was an exceptional and deeply influential educator. Throughout my years in school, she demonstrated remarkable professionalism, intellectual depth, and unwavering dedication to her students. Her lessons were always organized with clarity and purpose, reflecting not only her mastery of the English language but also her thoughtful approach to teaching.

What distinguished her most was the atmosphere she created in the classroom. She maintained high academic standards while fostering a sense of

encouragement and trust. Her voice was calm yet confident, and she explained even the most difficult concepts with patience and precision. I still remember the way she used examples from literature and real-life situations to make language learning meaningful and engaging. The classroom often carried the soft sound of turning pages and the quiet concentration of students inspired by her guidance.

Beyond her instructional skills, Rakiya Otunchievna served as a role model. She demonstrated integrity, discipline, and genuine care for each student’s progress. Her ability to recognize our strengths and gently correct our weaknesses made her influence long-lasting. Many of the study habits, communication skills, and academic values I practice today can be traced back to her teaching.

Now, living in Illinois, the winters meet me with a different kind of cold, yet every snowfall tugs at something deep inside me. When I watch the snow drift past my window, I am suddenly a child again, standing in the doorway of our home in Naryn, breathing out little clouds into the frozen air. For a moment, the distance between past and present disappears. I still cradle a warm cup of tea between my hands the way my mom taught me, letting the heat seep into my fingers and calm my heart. Though life has taken me far from the mountains that raised me, their spirit still lives in my soul. The love, softness, and resilience my parents gave me have traveled with me. On the days when life feels heavy, they are the warmth I reach for and the direction I follow.

When I look back now, I understand something deeply: no matter how far life takes me, the memories of my childhood always catch up to me. They linger in the snow, in the quiet moments, in the small comforts I create for myself. They live inside me. And even here in Illinois, thousands of miles away, I carry my home within me—unchanged, unforgettable, and forever a part of who I am.

Made to Dance (memory of the Winter Dance Concert of CLC, Nov. 21-22, 2025)

Sherrie Shao

I see dancers warming up by stretching, fidgeting limbs, taking painkillers in the prep room

Duet, solo, group Dancers, dance for stories of all walks wait for the final call, the noise of invisible audiences entering the giant hall, the announcement that silences all phones

Heart pounding, mind burning Dancers preparing at the last minute, nonstop Racing horses behind the starting gate muscles tightened up Dancers waiting at the stage wings ready to burst

Dance for yourself, dance your artistry out! the director says

Naughty, angry, sexy, sad, …. all dissolved in the thumping, tapping, twisting Joy, healing, evolving… all resolved in the sliding, spinning, stomping

Music changing, time traveling— Pillows flying, gloves shaking, scarves dashing, colors switching— Dancing souls, don’t stop

Muscle aches vanish on jumping up again, spotlight sighs with silhouette pain, pain, pain, the Red Shoes chase go, go, go

Dad said, You should do Tai-Chi instead it’s much safer, but he doesn’t know dancers never want to compromise Dancers make wonders through the pain

Daisies

Sherrie Shao

It’s the orange daisies that always propelled me to ride my bike to Rollins Savanna, when I had all sorts of excuses not to do it. Human beings are “lazy,” even if it’s just five minutes of riding.

Orange daisies are always in a group, young and old, different shapes and directions, but all belong to the same family.

They’re waving, always. Sometimes, I picked a different path and missed them; sometimes they fade out on snowy days; but they always come back, there again, the next spring. I couldn’t imagine they would disappear. Even in a most cataclysmic volcanic eruption, like Mt. St. Helens, plants come back in their most vibrant, bursting colors, declaring life can’t be eradicated. They are soft and bold.

Daisies don’t make sound to human’s ears, but they dance, their pedals flick in the wind, so maybe insects can hear them. Insects may not see their colors; they have bright glorious oranges, even on cloudy days. Under the sun, I sometimes see scarlet, luring me in the already mesmerizing prairie landscape.

How did they come here, or to everywhere else in North America? I would imagine birds of all colors carrying the seeds, or winds of Chicago blasting them into the dirt of Rollins Savanna. Their history is

longer than mine, they were here before me. I see them waving their long stems; I can’t help stopping my bike and staying with them. Being with them serves as my conversation with them, my attempt to have a dialogue with nature. They taught me what time means. Though time seems linear in numbers, in seasons, in growth rings, life is not, life is now.

Then, I would ride away, go home, do chores, with their warm colors lingering on my mind, thinking I should have smelled them as well.

I can go back, they will always be there, they don’t move, they’re deposited there, their roots give them everything but also limit them. I think my family doesn’t travel. Their roots are like their lifeline, holding them in the same place, repeating the same daily pattern. This is their way of feeling comfort and a sense of eternity in an accelerating world. Their sedate comfort becomes an assuring force that drives me back to them. That could have been my root.

But no, there’s a Chinese saying: you move a tree, it dies; you move a person, he becomes alive.

My first lover told me that verse. My enduring thoughts on that first romance grew into unyielding roots and have forged a constant illusion travelling across years of changes. Yet, I know, I need to move on to be “alive,” like he said.

Looks

C.M.

Legs.

Legs are what give you the ability to stand tall with pride. Walk miles and travel to places unknown.

They say in a single lifetime, people will walk marathons just going to and from places.

I? Me?

My legs have allowed me to fall, stumble, trip, face first onto the ground.

Just when life allows me to stand tall with pride in my work and accomplishments.

The saying is to sweep the rug out from under you, but they swept my legs, and I landed back first onto the ground. Winded.

The wind that carried my pride now breathed in by those around me who see nothing but a chair.

Leg braces. Metal.

I am nothing but a chair now by the judgment of my peers. Nothing but metal.

I try my best to walk the aisles, people do their best to look away from me as if I’m a monster.

They walk through me like I’m a ghost, not realizing they are hitting me and hurting me.

Some stare as if they have never seen someone with mobility aids.

I’m no different than an old person with a walker, and they don’t stare at them. Why did I have to be different? Why did I have to be diseased?

Why do I walk and get treated like an alien?

They don’t care about my feelings, and I’m sure they don’t even realize I’m human.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish that one of these days this disease would kill me.

Memoirs

Kali Powers

There I stood, gazing at the old pine tree— all and weathered, with rough, scaly bark and needle-like leaves that jutted out like tiny pricks when my eyes latched onto a strange shimmer. A spider’s web, stemmed across the branches, thick and silver in the sunlight, and in its center, trapped, was a fuzzy, xanthic caterpillar. It writhed and squirmed, its tiny body twisting in desperation. There was no spider in sight—not yet. Something within me shifted. I felt its panic surge as the silent cries pulsed through me like the tremor of an earthquake. Time is of the essence, and I knew I was the only one who could help. I’d climbed plenty of trees before, but this one was different. Without any branches strong enough to grip and others too thin or far out of reach, I had no choice but to come up with another plan. Being sure not to stray too far, I darted across the yard in search of a stick, swiftly finding one. I jumped, swatting at the web, but it fell short. That’s when I spotted my sister’s plastic pink makeup table. Why was it outside? It didn’t matter; there was no time to think. I dragged it over, scrambled up, and balanced on my toes, the stick shaking in my hand as I reached upward. Almost there! Just as the stick grazed across the silk, one of the plastic legs buckled with a loud snap. The table collapsed, and I crashed down with it, landing on both forearms. Time slammed on the brakes as the impact jolted through my body like electricity. I couldn’t even scream. I spent that summer with one arm in a cast and the other in a sling.

The air outside is sharp, a piercing reminder that winter has taken root like an old, stubborn friend, unmovable and relentless. My breath puffs into the air, momentarily hanging in delicate clouds before dissipating into the pale sky above. Before me, the lake stretches out like a sheet of glass, its surface smooth and unbroken, glistening with the quiet brilliance of a frozen mirror. The faint scrape of blades cutting through the ice echoes across the stillness, a rhythmic hiss as skates carve their path, effortlessly gliding back and forth. Suddenly, the sharp slice of a blade splits the air, and my friend comes to a stop, effortlessly flicking a black puck across the expanse. It slides perfectly onto the tip of my stick, as if waiting for my next move. Without thinking, I push off, my feet charging with fluidity that feels almost too natural. The world blurs, everything fades except for the feel of the stick in my hands, the puck resting against its end. I shift my weight and, in a heartbeat, release the shot. The puck hurtles toward the makeshift goal, the air around it tenses, as if time itself had slowed to witness the strike. Then, with a sharp ‘ding’, it ricochets off the post and skitters wide. “Nice try,” my friend says, her grin wide as she glides up beside me. I chuckle, shaking my head. “You’re just lucky.” She shoots me a playful smirk, her eyes alight with competitive fire. “I’ll take luck over your skill any day.” A breeze picks up, biting my cheeks as we circle back for another round. Out here, it’s just us, the ice, and the endless stretch of winter, a quiet kingdom of cold that seems to stretch into forever.

Writers’ Profiles

Dona Bell is a CLC database administrator who spends her creative hours writing poetry and historical fiction. This June, she enters retirement to focus on her true loves: collaborating with other writers, exploring psychological thrillers, and enjoying her husband Bob’s cooking.

Elijah (Eli) Lyon Bolton is an English major at the University of Illinois Springfield through the University Center of Lake County. A Grayslake resident, Eli transferred from the College of Lake County in 2025, graduating magna cum laude. He is actively involved in the community, including participating in the Grayslake Writers Group through the Grayslake Arts Alliance. He’s been wandering the halls of the CLC Grayslake campus since 2007 when he and his brother attended the Children’s Learning Center.

Cole Bush writes: “Just as I have been shown kindness from others, I want to return the favor by being kind and helping those around me.”

Alex Gozon has always felt that his stories and writings reflected a piece of him that he doesn’t always get to show or have a hard time making people understand. That’s why he loves writing, specifically fiction, because he’s able to share something for others to enjoy.

Anish Prasanna Gopal is a second-year computer science student at CLC. He spends his free time playing video games, tinkering with code, and taking walks outside. He aspires to get a master’s degree in computer science and become a data scientist or an AI engineer.

Alyssa Jean-Pierre is working toward a fine arts degree. Her passion is creative writing and art. She spends a lot of time coming up with and writing short stories as well as art that supplements the stories.

Maiia Karygulova is a nursing student originally from Kyrgyzstan, with a strong interest in healthcare, patient advocacy, and community wellness. Her goal is to build a compassionate career in nursing where she can support patients, continue learning, and make a meaningful impact.

River Ligeza is a marketing major and a bassist in the Chicago-rooted band freshman. Most of her free time is taken up attending concerts, while the rest is used reading, writing, or playing bass and guitar.

Luisa Fernanda Campo Londono is from Colombia and has lived in the United States for nine years. She is attending classes at CLC, in Lakeshore and Grayslake.

Alexia Lyles is currently completing an associate degree in English. She has a passion for cooking, skating, playing with her cats, and visiting museums of all kinds, especially historical or unusual ones—with her family. Whenever she gets the chance, she loves traveling to different states to explore their museums. In her spare time, she enjoys reading and writing.

C.M. has been a long-time writer of poetry, with some of his works previously published. He uses poetry to express emotions that would otherwise be difficult to voice, and reading others’ poetry creates a space of solidarity. He encourages everyone, of all writing abilities, to use poetry as an outlet, as there is no expectation of how to write poetry, and each piece is a work of art.

Jordan Neuman is a freshman at CLC pursuing a degree in civil engineering. Outside of school, he loves visiting different theme parks and national parks.

Kali Powers is a student writer whose work centers on small details and ambience, capturing the emotional depth carried by stillness, memory, and movement.

Saffa Sakhi is a freshman at CLC majoring in marketing. In her free time, she enjoys painting, participating in student government, and spending time in nature.

Sarah Scherer has been writing poetry and creating art in any way they can all their life, but it has always been a very private experience.

Sherrie Shao writes: “I try to fulfill the inspiration from beauty around me through painting, drawing and dancing, but writing holds a foundational place in my heart for my healing and energy—it reaches the deepest and demands the earnest, and through it, I find freedom.”

Gwendoln Thommes is a second-year student at the College of Lake County, studying communication sciences and disorders, and aims to become a pediatric speech-language pathologist. She enjoys being involved in student leadership and activities, serving as CLC’s Student Government President as well as the Phi Theta Kappa Vice President of Service, and is an avid writer, working as a writing tutor at CLC’s tutoring center.

Laura Wikstrom loves to make her husband laugh. The changing of the seasons always puts her in a good mood. The Thing (1982) is her favorite movie.

Aryka Wyche is a junior majoring in anthropology and minoring in forensic science with the hope of being a forensic anthropologist in the future. As a Black woman, she understands the scrutiny that Black people face when it comes to our hair and wanted to share her own experiences and perspective, as everyone’s experience is different. She believes that “it is important to embrace and appreciate the natural beauty of all hair types, regardless of societal standards.”

Sarah Zhang is a junior who enjoys reading romance novels, writing about college life, and drinking tea.