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Paddlefish
Snagging good literature one line at a time.
PADDLEFISH 2024-2025
a student literary and art journal
Table of Contents
Lauren Stiefvater
• “Spirit of Benedict” 2025 Spirit of Benedict Award-Winning Essay
Caitlin Guenther
• “The Garden of Life” Winner of the 2024-2025 Father Jack Garvey Award for Nonfiction
Kaela Martinez
• “Don’t Leave Me” Winner of the 2024-2025 Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for Prose
Aurora Huntley
• “Fox Hunt” Winner of the 2024-2025 Sister Eileen Neville Award for Poetry
Isabella Martinez
• “Everyday Reading” (Nonfiction) 17
Ted Bengston
• “Keeping it Under 10” (Nonfiction)
Ted Bengston
• “The Choice” (poetry) 21
Lauren Stiefvater
• “To the Young Teacher Pondering Running Away from Student Teaching” (Nonfiction) 23
Kaela Martinez
• “My Biggest Fears” (poetry)
Kaela Martinez
• “My Biggest Fears” (poetry)
Kendra Horsley
• “The Neighbor’s Drum Set” (poetry)
Amber Jensen
• “To the students and faculty of Mount Marty University”
Christa Lotz
• “May 1st” (Nonfiction)
Christa Lotz
• “Nursing: The Process” (comic)
Christa Lotz
• Don’t Forget Breakfast (poetry) 40 Christian Mickelson
• “A Night in Yankton County Jail” (Nonfiction)
•
Table of Contents
44 Bonnie Johnson-Bartee
• “Hello, Mount Marty students” (letter)
45 Bonnie Johnson-Bartee
• “Duty” (Poetry)
47 Zoey Thorsted
• “The Side of the Road” (Nonfiction)
49 Johanna Joblanski
• “Tuesday at 5:15 AM” (poetry)
50 Jonathan van Lien
• “Raising Life’s Bars: One Jump at a Time” (Nonfiction)
52 David Phillips
• “Thieves Reunion” (poetry)
54 Grace Holys
• “Chase Street” (poetry
56 Kendra Horsley
• “A Place of Peace”
58 Abigail Cuka
• “My Evergreen Dreams” (Fiction)
60 Jonathan Nyamweya
• “See You Next Tuesday” (Fiction)
62 Jonas Kelp
• “This is Jonas” (Writing and Visual Art)
64 Reese McIltrot
• “The Generational Art of Making Dumplings” (Writing and Visual Art)
69 Reese McIltrot
• “Where I’m From” (Comic)
74 Neil Harrison
• “Letter to Dr. Reese’s Students”
76 Neil Harrison
• “The Wild” (Poetry)
77 Neil Harrison
• “The Offering” (Poetry)
78 Hannah Killinger
• “Pain and Passion: The Hidden Blessing of Injury” (Nonfiction)
81 Patrick Hicks
• “Dear Students”
83 Bede Art Gallery: MMU Student Artwork 101 Book Reviews
102 Alexis Gosch
• “Alexis Gosch Reviews Natalie Kitroeff and Paulina Villegas, ‘Mexican Cartels Lure Chemistry Students to Make Fentanyl’”
103 David Phillips
• “Soundtrack of My Life”
106
Table of Contents
Reese McIltrot
• “Reese McIltrot Reviews Allen Eskens’s ‘The Quiet Librarian’”
107 Christian Mickelson
• “I’m Hooked and Here’s Why: Iron Flame”
108 Aiden Lieber
• “Aiden Lieber Reviews ‘The Best of Brevity’ by Zoe Bossiere and Dinty W. Moore’”
109
111
Jonas Kelp
• “Jonas Kelp Reviews ‘Messages from Middle Earth’ by J.R.R. Tolkien”
Aiden Lieber
• “It’s Not Your Fault”
113 Katie Mauer
• “Analysis of Jo’s Monologue”
115 Gabriel Cox
117
• “No Reason to Hate”
Gracie Haug
• “Media Analysis: NFL 100 Super Bowl Commercial”
119 Contributors
The Spirit of Benedict Essay
by Lauren Stiefvater
2025 Spirit of Benedict Award
Winning Essay
“You chose the wrong blue and yellow school” is a common phrase I heard, as I am the only grandkid not to attend SDSU. I was looking for a college that set me up to be successful as a teacher but also opened my heart to become the person God is calling me to be, and I knew I wasn’t going to find that at a public university. On my first visit to Mount Marty as a junior in high school, I instantly knew there was something different about this campus and community. There was joy, hope, faith, and love surrounding everything on campus. I saw it when I toured campus, met with faculty and staff, and was left wondering what it was that set MMU apart. I instantly knew this was the school to help me be an impactful teacher and, more importantly, allowed me to flourish as a person. Four years later, I can whole heartedly say it’s the Benedictine values that enrich Mount Marty’s ability to transform the lives of all who walk these halls.
The core values of Mount Marty flow from the 10 Benedictine Hallmarks and are foundational to who Mount Marty is. Freshman year, we take Wisdom of Benedict, where we study the different hallmarks to gain a greater understanding of how they call us to live. Exploring the core values and Benedictine hallmarks at a greater level challenged me to reflect on how I was living my life and who I was living my life for.
Taking all of this knowledge into account, I still wasn’t convinced this was possible to live out in the day-to-day tasks of life until I had the opportunities to spend time with Benedictine sisters and monks. I have had the privilege of living in the Bishop Marty House where the sisters invited me to share in their prayer, meals, community, and joy. I also recently had the opportunity to participate in a Benedictine pilgrimage to Rome where we visited a monastery in Nursia, Italy and talked with a monk. Here, I gained another perspective of living out the Rule of St. Benedict. One thing both experiences taught me is that surrendering everything over to God is the only way you are going to live a life that truly fulfills you.
One story I heard from the sisters and monks was how they receive new meaning to their names when joining the order and strive to be that person God has called them to be in their vocation. During the blessing ceremony for freshman orientation, my name was called and echoed through the chapel as I received a little red book. Looking back now, that was the day God called me to redefine my own name and start my journey of becoming the person he is calling me to be. In my hand, I held the Benedictine rule which outlines my path to finding my true identity. Within those pages, I found a rhythm of balance calling me to surrender my identity to God which includes 73 chapters on praying, living in community, and embracing simplicity and humility were the answers to many prayers of finding my true self.
When I came to Mount Marty as a freshman, I carried a broken identity of who I was: I saw myself as a person of failure and disappointment. That’s not the person Mount Marty saw in me; instead, they saw a young woman who viewed the world through the compassion in her heart and wanted to make a positive difference in the world. With open arms, Mount Marty invited me on a transformational journey of a lifelong process with the support and hospitality of a community while gaining a deeper awareness of God in my life. This invitation has led me to begin the lifelong process of becoming the person God created me to be and to strengthen my talents, gifts, and abilities to grow and glorify His kingdom. Opportunities, conversations, experiences, classes, and relationships have allowed me to surrender my identity to the Lord where I have come to know myself and the Lord on a deeper level. Knowing the love of the Lord changes the way I encounter others, give of myself, and fulfill the plan God has for me.
The four core values were the foundation of my transformational journey and those values flow from Benedictine hallmarks. Awareness of God is tied to the hallmarks of prayer and love of Christ and neighbor, which taught me my identity as a daughter of God. As his daughter, I am called to be the hands and feet of Christ as everyone is created in His image and likeness. Community is the value which is composed of the hallmarks of stability, obedience, and community where I learned the true depth of love. Christ is the greatest example of love as He was committed to me through the obedience of death for the greater good of my soul. Hospitality is made up of the hallmarks of stewardship and hospitality where my heart of service deeply connects. I began to recognize and serve people for who they are and give them the love to be seen and heard without judgment or hurt which is a small glimpse of the love God has for them. Lifelong learning comes from the hallmarks of conversatio, discipline, and humility and is not just applied to academics. Mount Marty changed how I see myself, others, and the Lord, which reveals how I am a small instrument in other’s lives to love them for the person God made them to be.
Throughout my student teaching experience, I reflected on how much Mount Marty has helped me become the teacher and person I am today. While undergoing a transformational journey of becoming a new person, I was also translating that growth into my practice as a teacher. Being a great teacher comes from the heart which means loving my students right where they are and for who they were made to be. I never would have opened my heart to see education as a work of the heart without the model I had from my professors. They walked with me through some of the highest and lowest moments of my teaching career and life.
Some of the most transformational conversations I had with my professors were the ones after I failed a math test and was struggling to recover my grade in the class. I met with S. Bonita to talk about what was going on in the class and she met me with a heart of compassion and understanding. Through this conversation, she opened my eyes to see myself as a math teacher who offers more than just math content to students. I also met with my advisor who assured me that this setback did not define who I was as a person but a curve on my path to success. Both professors showed me how I see my students as humans who are on a journey of becoming the person God created them to be and not a robot repeating mathematical calculations. Teaching is the opportunity to impact people’s lives and watch them become the people God created them to be. It shows them how to walk through life with courage, hope, strength, love, and confidence. This is the greatest blessing to my future classroom, school district, and community.
Without the Benedictine hallmarks and core values, Mount Marty would not be the life-changing university it is. The call of balance and surrender is truly something that changed my life and allowed me to become the person I am today. Through many prayers, hours of studying, and experience of living the Benedictine rule, I have come to embody the hallmarks and core values as my way of life. They are a part of my heart and how I view the world around me. Mount Marty, through the Benedictine hallmarks and core values, outlined a path for me to surrender my broken identity to God and become the person He is calling me to be. The beauty, value, dignity, and love I have as a daughter of God is everything I need to be successful in life for it is in Him that I am fulfilled.
The Garden of Life
by Caitlin Guenther
Winner 2024-2025
Father Jack Garvey Award for Nonfiction
Riding in my dad’s Ford F-150 along the dusty gravel roads, I gazed out at the endless fields of green, each row similar to the last. The sound of the tires turning on the gravel road with the familiar sound of Shania Twain coming from the truck’s speakers as I pushed in the cassette tape. To use one of her famous lines, gardening “...don’t impress me much,” (Twain :39) at least, that’s how I felt toward picking beans as a kid. I would have much rather been catching butterflies with my mesh net or been at the pool with my friends. Instead, I found myself heading to my grandparents’ house, where the garden awaited, along with a long day of heat and dirt.
Stepping out of the cool, comfortable truck, the summer heat hit me like the blast of an oven door opening. The air was thick with the scent of blooming lilacs, their sweet fragrance following me as I walked the wellworn, dusty path to the garden. The clover-filled grass blew gently in the breeze, and a brown rabbit sat under the apple trees, nibbling some fallen fruit. The garden stretched before us, arranged in neat, straight rows. Vining plants crossed over one another, creeping over the soil, leaving no dirt to be seen. At first glance, it was a sea of green, but just as a rainbow appears after a summer rain, vibrant colors emerged when I brushed back the leaves and stalks. The rich reds of tomatoes, the deep shades of ripening beans, and the bright yellows of squash revealed themselves like hidden treasures.
In the afternoon, I picked a handful of ripe cherry tomatoes, their smooth, glowing skin warm from the sun. As I bit into one, the burst of juice filled my mouth with sweet and tangy flavors. The taste of fresh produce, untouched by packaging or preservatives, was something I had taken for granted as a child. But now, I recognized its richness and the hands that worked to bring it to the table. The towering corn stalks provided brief relief from the sun, their sharp leaves occasionally grazing my arms as I twisted ears from their stalks. The weight of the bucket in my hand grew heavier with each addition, a reminder of how much effort it took to produce our own food. The sun beat down as I moved from row to row, sweat dripping down my back, but there was a reward felt after the work was done. Each ear of corn plucked and each bean added to the bucket felt like progress and I was excited to show everyone how I’d helped out.
Under the sun, sweat beaded on my skin as I bent down to pick beans once again, the repetitive motion making my back ache. I sighed, sticking a bean leaf to my grandpa’s back when he wasn’t looking, trying not to let him notice. This was a small game that we used to play that made the chore a little more fun. He laughed when he noticed, and next thing you know I’d reach back and feel the soft, yet scratchy leaf stuck on my very own shirt. The humor made the picking go by quicker, reminding me that even tedious tasks could be filled with laughter. As the day stretched on, I found myself developing a rhythm. Picking, dropping, and moving. The “boring” chores became a time to think, my thoughts wandering as I worked. I watched my grandpa move with ease, his hands weathered from years of tending the soil. My dad, who had learned all that he knew about gardening from his very own dad, was now teaching us kids these very same details. We all worked alongside one another exchanging stories and jokes. When the work was finished, we cracked open cold sodas, the crisp pop of the tab a comforting relief, the fizz tickling my face as I took a refreshing sip. That simple sound, even now, brings back a wave of nostalgia.
Golden clouds were overtaken by the setting sun, and we knew it would soon be time to gather around the kitchen table for supper, the work we had done all day now coming together in some of my favorite childhood meals. The familiar flavors, made even better knowing they had come from our own garden, reminded me of the importance of family and tradition. We talked and laughed, passing around dishes made from ingredients we had harvested just hours before. It was a reminder that food was more than just something we can buy at a grocery store, it was a bond, something shared from one generation to the next. Most of our favorite foods are a direct result of our garden, including tater tot casserole made with homegrown vegetables, burgers topped with crisp lettuce and juicy tomatoes, coleslaw bursting with fresh cabbage, and buttery corn on the cob. All of these flavors remind me of summers spent in the garden, of sweat and soil and laughter. Even long after summer ends, the preserved vegetables and canned beans find their way to our table, a reminder of the time and dedication put into growing them.
Later, as the moon replaced the sun, a campfire crackled in the night air. The flames danced, changing colors as we tossed bits of copper into the fire, a small “magic trick” we never got tired of. We roasted hotdogs and marshmallows, the scent of burning wood combining with the sweetness of our s’mores. Looking up, the sky stretched endlessly above us. It was a peaceful night, and I felt accomplished—connected to something bigger than myself. Over the years, my view on gardening has changed. I used to see it as a chore, something that took me away from having fun. Now, I see it for what it truly is: a means of love, a way of carrying on a family tradition that goes back generations. The meals we enjoy, the laughter we share, and the bonds we form are all thanks to the soil. Gardening taught me patience, responsibility, and the beauty of seeing hard work turn into something greater than my own achievements.
I often think about how gardening mirrors other parts of life. The boring, repetitive tasks, leaving you feeling frustrated, often lead to the most rewarding outcomes. Whether it’s showing up for work every day, attending classes despite exhaustion, or building relationships with others, there is beauty in hard work and dedication. Gardening has sure taught me that. Shania Twain may have once sung that some things don’t impress her much, but now, I understand gardening is more than just planting some seeds and picking a few tomatoes. Hard work, dedication, and the memories we create along the way? Now that impresses me.
Don’t Leave Me
by Kaela Martinez
Winner 2024-2025
Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for Prose
I’m always afraid love will appear at my door. With its arms wide open, drowning me as it has done before. Only this time, I’m afraid I won’t come back up. It could come in the middle of the night, quietly sneaking its way under my sheets where I lay alone, vulnerable to its touch. It could meet me in the morning, standing outside my bedroom door, waiting for the moment it creaks open, only to drag me back inside and rot the day away. I could lie there for hours, trying to bargain with love, begging for it to let me go. Bring back my smile, my motivation. Only this would be pointless, because love is what took it in the first place. I could be dragged out of a room by love. A room filled with friends and family, laughter and joy. It could take me from the happiest of moments just to hold me in its arms and leave lingering thoughts of guilt and sorrow in my mind. Love could even run away from me, for miles and miles. Even then I would still chase it, because what I fear even more than the intoxicating effects of love, is being left by it.
Winner 2024-2025
Fox Hunt
by Aurora Huntley
Sister Eileen Neville Award for Poetry
Everyday Reading
by Isabella Martinez
What if someone told you that dedicating just ten to fifteen minutes a day to reading could transform your body and mind in ways you never imagined? Reading is not just something that is forced upon us in school, but it actually provides numerous health benefits for a human being. Reading can and is an entertaining pastime that allows for relaxation and calming of the mind. Now, you are probably thinking, “Every book I read bores me.” Well, that is simply not true. There is a book and a genre for everyone. Reading ten to fifteen minutes per day has various benefits on the human body and can provide improvements on mental health, learning, and focus.
To understand the improvements regulated by reading, it is important to understand what actually happens when one reads. A lot can happen when one reads even a paragraph! According to Paul Wright at Neuroscience Institute, “Reading a book is like eating a superfood for your brain. By observing changes to blood flow in the brain, researchers can see that reading stimulates the brain’s neural pathways” (Wright). Reading invigorates the brain which enhances the activity, memory and cognitive activity. This allows for creativity and it expands your capacity to learn.
As with any superfood, reading contributes to health. In this case, mental health. The main reason is that it allows one to essentially “escape” from reality. Reading opens a door to a new world and relieves stress in the physical world. When there is a stressful time in my life, the first object I always pick up is a book, and then I sit there and read for ten to twenty minutes. Reading a book that entertains you can reduce stress and anxiety, because you do not have to try to think! Now there is also something called bibliotherapy, and the way it works is that reading a book and then relaying that information can have a profound effect on one’s well-being and mental health. It can relieve the stress that one might have built up inside.
Reading not only has benefits for your mental health but also with learning and focus. Growing up, I was never the best reader. I could read; however, I never really understood what I was reading. This was a little discouraging because most of my classmates were astounding at that subject, and I felt a little left behind. However, as I grew older and kept
trying to read more and more, I found that it became easier. I developed an enjoyment in reading certain genres and I understood what the books were implying. I realized that when I practiced, I actually improved. It’s funny how that works right? Reading can boost your knowledge. Reading can enhance one’s critical thinking skills, broaden the vocabulary, and stimulate the imagination (Wright). Books are a healthy way to learn and engage your brain in focusing on a story.
Now, how can YOU start reading more everyday? First, finding a book that interests you is key. If you have a hobby that you love, that could be a great way to start. Joining a book club online or in person can help you stay accountable with reading a little everyday. Checking out local libraries and even going to them to read is a great way to motivate yourself. Substitute reading a book instead of scrolling mindlessly on social media or watching a show on TV.
Spending time a little bit each day reading a book has great benefits on your body and your mind. Reading also provides various improvements on mental health, learning, focus, and can have a great impact on you. It is a way to escape reality and to relieve stress from our day to day lives.
Work Cited
Wright, Paul. “Physical and Mental Health Benefits of Reading Books.” Nuvance Health, 8 August 2023, https://www.nuvancehealth.org/healthtips-and-news/physical-and-mental-health-benefits-of-reading-books.
Accessed 28 January 2025.
Keeping it Under Ten
by Ted Bengston
A par three is supposed to be one of the easiest types of holes in golf. Your first shot should be on or near the green, the second should be close to the hole, and the third should be a putt hitting the bottom of the cup. Sounds easy enough right? Well, that depends on the day. I recently had a tragic experience on one of these so-called easy holes in a college tournament. One of those experiences that has the ability to ruin a person. I’ve seen mental breakdowns, breaking clubs, even withdrawing (or quitting) from the tournament based on something like this. No, none of these examples were based on my reaction that day, but it’s incredible what a short, innocent golf hole can do to a person. The game is supposed to be fun, and yet I did my best to make this day a quite miserable experience. And to make things better, it’s all on video.
April 15, 2024: a day that will live in infamy. At least for me and anyone reading this story. It started as a normal day. I woke up early to make the bus at 7:00 am so we could make it to Orange City for our tournament. We arrived an hour early for the tournament at Landsmeer Golf Club which is a familiar course for our team. That hour before a tournament is used to get warmed up by hitting range balls and chipping and putting: basically, just getting a feel for the course and the conditions before we take off to our opening holes. The conditions on this particular day were not good, to put it kindly. There was a 30-40 mph wind blowing across the course all day long. And, one important detail about the course, is that I could count the trees out there on one hand. Just imagine a small tornado following you around with nowhere to go for cover. A player from Morningside related golf that day to “trying to hit a ping pong ball in the wind.” I’ve never tried this, but it seemed like a great analysis of what we went through.
My golf game has never been the greatest, as I’m sure people can figure out considering I’m playing NAIA and not Division I, but I do like to think I’m a pretty solid player. Most days at least. The week before the meltdown, I was arguably at the top of my game. I had just shot a 71, or one under par in my last round to tie for 8th place. For any non-golfers, that’s a pretty darn good score. Coming off that performance I was feeling good. I wanted to build on that and play well in the next tournament too. Every golfer knows that when these thoughts enter your head and you start to get comfortable, the game will humble you quickly. And boy did it.
I shot 86 at Landsmeer. A whopping 15 strokes worse than my previous round. That comes out to nearly one more shot per hole. Humbling is the only word I can use to describe it.
The aforementioned par three is where everything went wrong. I had started my round on hole 13 and played average for twelve holes. It wasn’t a special performance I was putting on, but it was respectable up to that point: then came hole 7. Hole 7 was the shortest hole on the course that day, playing just 118 yards. It’s a neat hole, there’s a creek about 15 yards short of the green, a bunker on each side, and these insanely tall trees that basically block the left half of the green. The green itself is fairly small, fitting the contours of the bunkers on either side, and sloping from left to right. One thing that most wouldn’t notice is the cart path about five yards left of the left bunker, about 10 yards left of the green itself. This cart path is also the out-of-bounds line for the hole, meaning that if your ball is on or over the cart path you receive a 2-stroke penalty and have to re-hit. There are two more crucial details to this particular day. The first being the 40 mph (felt like 80 mph) wind blowing off the right side of the green straight towards that cart path. The second important detail is that, for the first time ever, Northwestern, the host team, decided to live stream hole 7. There was a tent with a camera and a commentator sitting just behind the green, recording our every shot. What a great coincidence that turned out to be.
I walked over to hole 7 to find my coach sitting on the tee box waiting for me. He sits on par 3 tee boxes a lot so that he can help us choose which club to hit based on how we’re playing and how other people have played the hole before us. After much deliberation, we decided that 8 iron was the right play in that wind. I stepped up to the tee and picked out the right bunker as my aiming point, which was about twenty yards right of the pin already. I went through my routine, got over the ball, and fired away. Stroke one. The ball started exactly where I wanted it to, and the wind drifted it some forty yards left where it smacked the cart path and shot out of bounds. Without saying a word, I walked back to my bag and grabbed a new ball and a 7 iron (which goes farther than an 8). I knew this would keep the ball flight lower and out of the wind more. I picked a similar aiming point and swung again. Stroke three. The loud crack and soaring golf ball let me know that this too had rocketed off the cart path out-of-bounds. I grabbed another ball and hit the same club, aiming farther right. Stroke five. I swear it was deja vu. Another crack, another 2 stroke penalty, and another walk back to my bag. I teed up my fourth ball and hit it as far right as I could, walking away and not even seeing it land once I knew it was in bounds. Stroke seven. My coach had barely said a word besides telling me to aim further right every time. I walked towards the green in silence, my coach staying behind as this was something I had to handle on my own. When I got up there, I found my fourth ball in the long grass next to the creek. I grabbed my wedge and hacked it out of there
barely getting it on the green. Stroke eight. Obviously disappointed in my last five shots, I grabbed my putter and walked up to my ball which was about 25 feet from the hole. I knew if I made the putt, I could stay away from double digits, as if that’s any consolation. So I lined it up, stepped over it, and rolled it towards the hole. It looked good the whole way, but sat on the edge of the cup, refusing to fall in. I stood in disbelief, as if I needed this to go wrong on top of everything else. But while these thoughts were going through my head, another ugly gust of wind gave my ball that last roll that it needed. I heard the rattle of the ball hitting the bottom of the cup, looked at the players in my group, and said, “That’s a good nine fellas.”
A nine is in fact, not a good score on any hole, especially on a par 3. My friend, who was watching the livestream, reminded me of that after sending a clip of me playing that hole when the round was over; however, this story could be looked at as one of my all-time lows or as a pretty impressive feat. That cart path was about four feet wide, and I hit that thing 3 times in a row from over a football field away in 40 mph winds. I may be reaching for something, but I think I’ll keep the positive attitude to help my sanity. Lord knows I need it playing this dumb sport.
The Choice
by Ted Bengston
Choose wisely.
he wants to destroy us. he gave up everything. he knows what is right. he needs us to suffer. he wants us to choose him. he is powerful, and he wants to destroy us. He wants to save us. He gave up everything. He knows what is right. He needs us to suffer. He wants us to choose Him. He is powerful, and He wants to save us.
Choose wisely.
To the Young Teacher Pondering Running Away from Student Teaching
by Lauren Stiefvater
Please don’t! This experience will be extremely transformative for you as a professional and as a person. You will never be able to predict everything that will happen in the semester inside and outside the classroom. You will encounter moments that affirm the principles of education and the bones of the learning process. You will find that being flexible, consistent, and creative are key elements of learning. In your area of math, it is not a subject most care about or have a positive mindset on, but it can change how they look at life. Showing them where math is in the world is key to helping them make connections to the classroom and see why this information is important. Is all of it going to matter? Not at all. But it shapes the way they think, communicate, and believe in themselves. This is one of the greatest takeaways student teaching will give you.
When you look back at the first day, where the students began, it will astonish you how much progress they have made. Some of them will make huge academic strides and others will change their mindset about math. There will be times when you will feel robotic and crabby due to being overwhelmed, but that comes with being a human. You will learn how to own being a human and embrace the imperfections that come with being a human, right alongside middle schoolers who are learning what it means to be human. You begin to see your students as humans who are on a journey of becoming the person God created them to be and not a robot repeating mathematical calculations. It will not be a straight path or even an easy one, but a journey that is worth every stride, especially when you read the notes they give you at the end of your experience. Those notes, written with honesty, authenticity, and middle school love will reveal to your heart the teacher you truly are. They show you the joyful and energetic teacher you are and how you love them for being the people they are, even in their crazy middle-school years.
A new professional will begin to emerge as you take the reins of teaching, classroom management, paperwork, and being present to the students. You are not a shadow of the classroom teacher but your own person striving to change the lives of your students. Don’t fall into the
trap of trying to be like someone the students will be fond of but rather your authentic self. This is when you begin to truly connect with students and embrace them for the people they are. Your true self will share jokes, laughs, sass, and “big sister” advice with them to teach them how to walk through life with courage, hope, strength, love, and confidence.
You will encounter frustration, tears, and even the challenge of the idea of being a teacher, but each of those moments makes you the person you were made to be. You are exactly who these students need and value them for who they are, which they are seeking. The depths of your heart will encounter a true call to education and the words of many will swirl in your head. Many people have told you, “You are a great math teacher”, but you have never believed them to be telling the truth. Thinking they were just being kind or polite, you come to see them as being genuine. When a student writes on her note how you changed her mindset about math and let her see a whole new way of thinking about life, you see your gifts come to life. You connect with students in a way that makes them feel loved, seen, and known.
Education is not just a career; it is a way of life. Teaching is the opportunity to impact people’s lives and watch them become the people God created them to be. So truly, YOU BELONG IN EDUCATION and will fully believe this by the end of this experience. Take the chance and believe in yourself to become the person you were made to be and flourish in the classroom while changing the lives of your students. As a 6th generation teacher, it is in your blood to walk with people on the journey of life through the classroom. This is your gift to the world, so go and share it!
My dearest young teacher, if you are going to run away, run away from the standards of being a teacher and run to your students with your heart ready to encounter their love. You are the person these students need to walk through life with and the one who is going to allow them to believe in themselves, dare to pursue their dreams and make the most of every opportunity they encounter. You are not just shaping their minds but crafting their hearts to be the people they were created to be. You are at home here and have found true joy. Happiness is from the heart, but joy is found in the soul.
Love,
A new teacher in love with education.
My Biggest Fears
by Kaela Martinez
I fear being inadequate.
I fear underperforming in my sport.
I fear spiders.
I fear complacency.
I fear death, not of me, but of a loved one.
I fear anxiety.
I fear drowning.
I fear being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I fear love, not true love, but all the love that comes before it.
I fear being a bad teacher.
I fear marriage, although it’s my biggest dream.
I fear therapy.
I fear politics.
I fear vulnerability.
I fear not the darkness itself, but everything that happens under its watch.
I fear being a bad daughter.
I fear being alone.
I fear loving someone, who’s in it for the wrong reasons.
Love Me Too
by Kaela Martinez
I love you like a dog loves its owner: unconditionally, playfully, stupidly.
I love you when you leave and come back. When you scold me but pull me closer. I love you like a drunken father loves his children. One day cold and the next day hot.
I love you when you say you’re sorry, but really I know that you’re not.
I love you like a flower loves water, from day to night, feeding upon you, patiently waiting for the next sight of rain.
I love you like a child loves their mother: vulnerably, instinctively, with no choice. I love you, and I’m sorry for the way that I do. Because maybe if I loved you better, then you would love me too.
The Neighbor’s Drum Set
by Kendra Horsley
The neighbor who lives beside my college-town house bangs at their drum set for hours on end. Early in the morning, or mid-afternoon, but mainly at night when the world seems to get a bit more quiet.
They sit at their drums and typically play the same few tunes.
At first, I thought I would grow irritable at the repetition, but I found myself consoled by the consistency of their cadence.
Instead of growing annoyed, I began to listen more closely. The rhythm seemed to speak with a sense of stability. I started to wonder if hitting the sticks to drum made their heart ease into a routine.
We all have our heartaches, anger, and queues of irritation and notions of sadness, but for whatever reason, the noises of my neighbor’s drums don’t make my irrational thoughts fume.
Some days, I never hear the beats at all, but when I do, I try to imagine this individual’s feelings of frustration, release and diffuse. Perhaps their music is sung through notes on a drum, their way of dissolving what cannot be removed.
The screaming of notes, not from the top of their lungs, but rather a way of making music out of what doesn’t make sense in any other form.
I intentionally listen closer now, at what could have easily thrown me completely into a fit of irritability, and here I sit, with a little less tension and a heart more steady than before.
I write to scream, I write to release, I write to diffuse what makes my heart sound more rhythmic and smooth.
As my neighbor hits their drums, I sit with a smile on my face, knowing they are learning to feel it all.
Thank goodness for the art of music and language, forms of putting the mess of emotions into safe consistencies.
To my neighbor, thank you for reminding me to feel.
To the students and faculty of Mount Marty University
by Amber Jensen
Thank you for having me as a guest on your beautiful campus and for your thoughtful letters and questions. It is heartening to read so many of you reflecting on the importance of vulnerability and expressing your interest in learning more about military experience. When we share our personal stories and struggles, we feel exposed, but when we receive thoughtful, compassionate responses, we feel supported, strengthened, and heard. Thank you for truly listening to my story of how military service has affected my family and for responding with compassion, concern, and a desire to learn. Listening and reading create opportunities for learning, and many of you mentioned that you had not heard or read about some of issues I mentioned, like chronic pain, addiction to prescription medication, or the way the emotional and physical effects of military service impact not only service men and women but also their families. But you also mentioned that you now want to learn more. In the spirit of learning through literature, I will include below a list of some suggested reading including poetry, fiction, and nonfiction that offer a variety of perspectives on military service.
I also hope that your comments on the importance of vulnerability mean each of you will feel confident in sharing the challenges in your own life— including moments of success and failure, frustration and joy—because that sharing allows us to understand how we can best support each other. Of course, you don’t have to write a book to share those things. There are many ways to share your experience and different audiences you might want to reach, but the best advice I can offer is to be authentic. If you are a visual artist, tell your story in watercolor, clay, or textiles. If you are an athlete, tell your story in the way you connect to teammates, opponents, fans, and community, in the way you carry yourself on and off the field or court. If you are an introvert who feels comfortable sharing with those closest to you, whisper your story when you feel safe, or find the courage to speak it in full voice when you find confidence. Tell your story through dance, or through a day’s work. Through music or through kind gestures to strangers. Tell it through personal letters or TikTok videos. Share yourself in whatever way reflects your authentic and sincere self.
Some of you asked what inspired me to begin writing The Smoke of You. For me, writing was first a way of making sense of the challenges I was facing. Since I was young, writing was an authentic form of expression for me, but when my husband was deployed that expression took on new significance. First, in the letters I wrote to him, as I tried to maintain our connection across thousands of miles. Then, when my husband had just returned from his deployment to Baghdad, Iraq, and my son had just turned one, as an attempt to process the challenges that came with reintegration. I had questions about how we would connect after being separated during some of the most momentous and challenging experiences of our lives. I had questions about what my husband was going through—what he was telling me and what he wasn’t. I had questions about whether or not I was supporting him in the best way possible. So, I wrote.
I wrote about what my family had been through, what we were still going through. I wrote about friends and family and community who supported me, but I also wrote about how I felt misunderstood and uncertain. I wrote about my fears and my regrets. I wrote about my Grandpa Dayton, who served in WWII but who died long before I was born. I realized that some of my fears during my husband’s deployment were fueled by what I knew but also what I didn’t know about my grandpa. Our family rarely talked about him because he died young and died tragically. We didn’t hear stories about him because those stories were tinged with sadness. I didn’t want to have those same questions and fears about my own family, so I kept writing.
As writing and life led our family toward healing and hope, we also continued to face new challenges, most prominently the worsening of my husband’s disability and chronic pain and the subsequent issues with ineffective medical treatment, which fueled depression and addiction. That is when my motivation changed from making sense of these experiences for myself to sharing my reflection and our experience with others.
Some of you asked why the effects of war on extended family doesn’t receive more attention, and I think there are multiple reasons, one being that it is hard to be vulnerable. It is especially hard to be vulnerable, though, when we are in the midst of struggle—when we are doing our best to get by, just trying to get to work on time, keep the kids clothed and fed, pay bills on time, keep the lawn mowed, and everything else, all while dealing with emotional or physical pain. We need time and space to reflect and feel comfortable being vulnerable. It is also difficult to be vulnerable when that might also expose the most tender or fragile parts of our loved ones When those loved ones are military veterans who have relied on strength and stoicism to survive, reflection and vulnerability may require more time and more space. The process is as different for each individual as our experience is varied.
There is no singular story. There is no singular path. But each story contributes to our understanding of human experience and our ability to support one another in that experience. So, I encourage you to keep reading, keep listening, and share your authentic self and your unique story.
Sincerely,
Amber Jensen
May 1st
by Christa Lotz
It’s May 1st, and the chocolate brownie cheesecake cools in the fridge while the yard fills with the mouthwatering scent of the ribs that have sat slowly smoking all day long. If you didn’t know any better, it might look like we were having a party. And maybe we are, just a party intertwined with grief. This May 1st would have been my mom’s 49th birthday. I’m sure if she were here, we would be giving her shit for it, like, “One more until 50!” because that is the kind of humor she (okay, mostly us kids) found funny. Without her though, the conversation often turns to reminiscing. It’s hard to remember anything besides the good now—especially her laugh, heard above everyone else and so infectious that you could help but giggle along. There wasn’t a person she knew that didn’t have something kind to say about her. She was always ready to drop everything if someone needed a ride to the airport or to make up a bed when someone needed somewhere to crash. She always started a pot of coffee when she knew someone was coming by, and she learned the favorite food of all our friends. She joked that food was her love language, but I think she was right. Her hospitality extended further beyond friends when she opened her own restaurant. Hours spent perfecting sourdough pizza, chocolate cake, and tropical rum punch led to an extended family full of new people from all over the world. Haiti brought people from every continent, and she brought those people together over the shared love of good pizza. I remember growing up, especially as a teenager, groaning when someone said that I reminded them of her. I had too much adolescent angst to really appreciate what that meant. Now though, I revel in the words, “I see so much of your mom in you!” because it is truly the highest compliment. Next week will make four years without her. With every year that passes, the list of things I wish I could tell her grows longer. My siblings’ graduations from high-school, getting jobs, going to college, everything that growing up entails. My dad and his lifelong animosity toward cats who finally let a kitten into the house. Rachel—my brother’s girlfriend—who never got to meet our mom and yet has dreamt about her. It is a list that I will add to every day of my life now. I am glad to be past the first year without her, when the world felt monochrome and every day was draining. I don’t think we will ever get to understanding but now, there is a sense of peace. So for her birthday, we will reminisce about her laugh, eat her favorite foods, and live in the gratitude that comes with getting to know her.
Nursing: The Process
by Christa Lotz
Don’t Forget Breakfast
by Christa Lotz
It started with “I’m not hungry” and “I already ate.”
Nobody suspects something when you’re smiling. Exercising is healthy, I promise, just a quick five miles. But I can’t eat until after I run, so you don’t have to wait. I’m just tired, I didn’t get enough sleep. Mom, I’m fine. I’ll eat later, I promise. I don’t feel very good, I’m just going to bed early. Being a teenager is hard. Let it get better.
But my baby sister, you’re perfect. Why do you say those things about yourself?
Why didn’t you touch your dinner? Eat breakfast before you leave, please start your day off well. You already ate? Are you sure? You don’t want to go out for ice cream? Why do you look so tired? Is this all my fault? My perfect baby sister, you don’t need to change.
A Night in Yankton County Jail
by Christian Mickelson
I spent last Friday night just like any 21-year-old college kid, getting their fingerprints taken at the county jail. In all honesty, I haven’t had a night on the town since I was a naïve little freshman with so much opportunity and hope reflecting in my eyes. Now, a college junior preparing to be a student teacher in the fall, my eyes still reflect opportunity and hope, just slightly diminished. I am on a solid track to have my mid-life crisis by the time I am 40. However, I am ecstatic for the fall, to finally take control of a classroom and exert my authority over 8th graders. Schooling has been and still is an integral part of my life, which is why I chose a teaching career path: to help others find a passion for learning.
Outside of having too much money to know what to do with and the papers I get to grade over the weekends, the job is not all glamorous. A lot of preparatory work goes into becoming an effective and memorable teacher for students. The entire experience of my collegiate prep work opened my eyes to the amount of dedication and commitment teachers have. The world should have the opportunity to peer into the life of a teacher for a week; then, they may respect the profession the way they should. I suppose that is why teachers can live so lavishly.
Part of the certification for the state to recognize someone as a teacher is to complete a semester of student teaching. Before I am entrusted to manage a classroom of other people’s children, I must get a background check through the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and reasonably so. It is a bit intimidating to imagine the FBI looking into my past. I get scared to look into my past. At the same time, I feel sorry for the poor FBI agent who grew up wanting to investigate ground-breaking cases like discovering the Zodiac killer’s identity and instead gets to investigate a guy who spends every paycheck on Legos. Perhaps the agent will get a big promotion after this.
“Let’s just pray they decide not to look into any of your Xbox party chats.” My brother chimes in after learning about the process I continue to put off.
This statement is true for any teenage boy given a microphone and a group of friends to impress. These chats are a set-up anyway, so I’ll plead entrapment.
“Don’t you want to become a pilot for the Air Force?” I ask.
“Yeah, and?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll need to get a background check as well. How confident are you in the cleanliness of your past?”
“More confident than I am in yours.” That statement made me realize that arguing with a 17-year-old is futile. It’s the stage in every adolescent’s life when they understand how advanced they are compared to the rest of humanity. Every incredible scientific discovery, philosophical enlightenment, and life lesson is engrained in the adolescent’s mind from birth. In fact, adolescents transcend these notions early on in life. One can only imagine how much better the world would be if 17-year-olds ran it.
After weeks of putting off the fingerprinting required for my background check, I figured the time had come. Luckily, the Sheriff’s Department offers highly convenient times for people to complete this feat: seven to nine p.m. on Fridays and one to three p.m. on Saturdays. That’s it. Saturdays are a no-go for a college student who uses his weekends to work, and Friday nights are a no-go for a college student who uses his Friday nights to play video games, but they will have to do. Friday, the 12th of April rolls around, and I have nothing going on. My night is entirely free, and I lack any excuse to get myself out of going.
I grab the directional sheet along with the two cardstock copies the department will use to ensure that they can match my fingerprints up to any DNA evidence found in a crime I may commit in the future. For the record, I have zero plans of committing a crime in the future, especially one that involves swiping for fingerprints. To the FBI agent who will conduct my background check and may come across this writing: it is entirely satirical. In my grey Honda Civic, I put on the soundtrack to Bloodborne and zoom off for the Sheriff’s Department. I also ensure I stay out of sport mode when driving because I’d hate for the sheer power of my car to exude itself in front of a line of police.
According to the directions, I must enter the jail entrance off Walnut St. This incredibly detailed direction allowed me to look up a map of the entrances online to know where to enter. I head down the alleylike entrance to the door, which feels reminiscent of a place I would get stabbed—ironic. As I walked towards the door, I began questioning if I was in the right place, and this feeling only got worse when I walked in.
I stood in a claustrophobic room about the size of a nice walk-in closet. Lowly lit fluorescent lights line the ceiling of the off-putting white walls, which look as if someone urinated all over them. A few blue leather cushioned chairs line each side of the wall. On the left side of the room is a door that likely leads to the cells, which features a button-press speaker system. The right side of the room features a breathalyzer machine for those who are on probation and must test their BAC twice a day. Yes, I did google why people kept walking in and using the machine.
I sat down next to an older gentleman who looked like he was already sick of being in that waiting room. The younger girl sitting across from me shared the same look as the man. It did not take long for the same to happen to me. After sitting in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, I pulled out my phone and started playing a word search. I suddenly realized as I was attempting to find the acronym for a group that performs forensics that I hadn’t rung the buzzer to find out if I was in the right spot. However, I looked up my phone and saw the girl across from me had the same fingerprinting sheet, so I pushed aside the thought.
Twenty minutes of silence and uncomfortable fidgeting in this doctor’s office-like chair passed, and no one had got their prints taken. Strangers walked in and out, blowing into the breathalyzer and staring at those of us sitting down like we were the odd ones. The room added three more people to the mix, waiting to get their prints taken. The claustrophobic room seemed to shrink around me. Two of the three people that came in, one a man in his upper twenties and the other a girl slightly younger, worked together in a dispensary. The dispensary was highly intriguing to the now two older gentlemen in the room.
Marijuana is only available to residents of South Dakota who obtain a Medi card. This card is a medical license to purchase and use marijuana. Roughly 70,000 people in South Dakota have this card. Two dispensaries currently operate in Yankton, with three more on the way. My math is spotty as an English guy, but five dispensaries for a single town seems excessive. The businesses grow their own weed here in town, so they only sell their product. This is the gist of what I learned about weed in Yankton.
Unfortunately, because of my introverted nature, I failed to learn the names of any of these people. Sitting on the other side of the room, older gentleman number two did a great job getting the rest of the room to speak. The young woman who was already waiting when I first arrived was getting a background check to become head of all the kitchens for the Yankton school district. The two marijuana morticians were getting background checks so they could keep selling their herbs. Older gentleman number one was getting a background check to become his mother-in-law’s legal guardian, which he was pissed about because he served for twenty years in the military. Ironically, the second older gentleman who got everyone talking did not share why he was getting a background check.
8:15 p.m. rolls around, and no one has gone back to get their fingerprints taken. The room’s attitudes are less than upset at this point. Everyone grew quiet except for the occasional remark about how long this process is. That is until another man came in to conduct a breathalyzer test. A 5’9” man wears a bucket hat, oversized athletic shorts, and a jean jacket over a tank top. He began typing on the machine and grabbed a straw.
The man shouts words unfit for the public. We all exchange glances and smile at this man’s absurdity. His remark caught my attention not for the foul language but for the self-created humor in what he said.
While this man was doing his business, two more walked in to do the same. I didn’t think much of them until I noticed the one staring me down. He looked like the concept of a shower was foreign to him. Long, stringy blonde hair dropped to his shoulders under the beatendown trucker cap. Denim lined him from head to toe, and his eyes looked lifeless. Those beady, lifeless eyes stared and continued to stare at me. I made the mental note that if he tried anything, I would not hesitate to act. I get hyper-aware when I feel threatened, like a snake shaking its rattle. Lo and behold, he did his business and walked out, so I did not get to test if I would make a good Batman.
After the room quiets again, I glance at my watch and see it is 8:30 p.m. Before I make a mental comment about the time, the door buzzes, and they finally decide to help the first person. I let the kitchen manager go first for chivalric reasons of course, not because she was first in line. I gather all my stuff to ensure I am ready to go. I count out 15 dollars in cash, organize my cardstock sheets, and reread the directions for this experience. I reread and then reread again. As an English major, I felt pretty bad at reading at that moment.
Please make a check out to the Department of Investigations for $43.25. At that moment, I stood up and walked out. I did not bother to mention why, as I was too embarrassed to admit I spent over an hour and a half in the county jail for nothing. I not only lacked the check made out to this department, but my checkbook was at home in Norfolk. I drove back to my dorm, turned on my PlayStation, and played video games like I should have in the first place that night. I spent the night in jail and didn’t even get fingerprinting out of it. It was a Friday night to remember, even if I’d prefer to forget it.
Hello, Mount Marty Students
by Bonnie Johnson-Bartee
Hello, Mount Marty students.
Thank you much for your kind messages. I enjoy sharing my work with others, but to get feedback is really wonderful. Like you pointed out, Joy, others’ voices help us explore ours. This is very true. Poetry is the communication that bridges voice to voice. I appreciate that many of you could connect to my relationships with my mother and daughter and granddaughters, and then again with my brother. These relationships are often wrought with curiosity, anguish, love, etc… and offer the barest connection is the “human” in our “humanity.” When many of these hard situations were happening, I remember how alone I felt. Yet, once I started sharing my brother’s stories, I was floored by how many others shared almost the exact same with me: these cycles of hope to despair and back again. Perhaps we really are never alone after all – we just need to look outside of ourselves. And then, practice being a part of . . .. Many asked for advice and tactics, and the best I have is to keep writing: one poem or story, and then another, and another . . . Share your voice to amplify the human experience. And be patient; it will come. Just keep writing.
Thank you, all, for sharing your time with Neil and me. It was a pleasure to meet you through your written word.
Best of luck on your paths!
Bonnie Johnson-Bartee
Duty
by Bonnie Johnson-Bartee
We fumbled and rearranged schedules, to race over 1,200 miles to St. Francis Hospital, to be with a son, a brother, who’d finally drunk himself to death.
Or near enough. Nothing prepared me for the hollow cheeks and bulbous belly, the yellow skin, and oily stench of vodka-induced demise.
“Yes, yeah. We understand.” Had to say, “Do it.”
Then watch as the tubes, machines, screens, hoses, one-by-one, disappeared. A last monitor remained to show the heart’s rise and final fall.
There were good-byes, final hand-holds, tried to connect to a body letting go. But I stood at the door, watched Mom and Betty cry at his bedside, expected to see him swagger through on his way out, with his AC/DC shirt and saggy worn-out Levi’s, holding a bottle of cheap booze, blowing American Spirit menthol in my face, Hey, girl.
There were no lights or apparitions, no large gasps for air, no last wide-awake “I love you.” He just left us behind to clean it all up again.
The Side of the Road
by Zoey Thorsted
An average person drives fifteen thousand miles a year. Around sixty-nine million cars a year break down. The population of the United States is around three hundred thirty-three million people. During the year 2024 in the middle of June, I became one of those people. However, by the end of August, I became a person who grew a passion for what I love. A process that left nights of exhaustion, confusion, and hopelessness became an overwhelming feeling of success and awe.
It was the middle of June, and you wake up before the sun to get to work. The morning flew by, leading to an exciting afternoon of relaxation. The sun was beating down leaving you sweat marks across your back by walking a few feet. It was summer, it was time for barbecues and swimming breaks along with going out of town for something fun. However, it turned out to be a summer of constant breakdown. It turned out to be a summer of sweat from heavy lifting, frustration, and being in a hot garage. You are probably wondering why such a fun time of year turned into a stressful and exhausting environment.
It was around twelve-thirty on the twenty-sixth of June. Passing Meckling, South Dakota, music loud and air conditioning blasting. Suddenly a highpitched noise you have never heard before with nobody around. Your blood pressure starts to rise and you feel hot even though the air conditioning is blasting you right in the face. You press the brake pedal to help you calm down but instead, now you have adrenaline rushing into your body. You decide to turn around, you only have to make it nineteen miles. You push your car into first, then to second, next third, and you go to put it into fourth and all of the sudden it sounds as if you upset someone and they slammed the door into your face. Eighteen years old, you’re just figuring out your life so you do what anyone would do. You call your father. He tells you to just get it home. Which always means do what you have to do so I don’t have to come save you. You put your car into fifth gear and put the pedal to the floor. Now only have seven miles left when all of a sudden you push on the gas, and it is barely moving you. Put it into any gear you can while you feel the urge to cry just trying to make it. You hit the last stop light you needed to get to. Mid-day Broadway is busier than ever. First at the light with many cars behind. The heart sinks into the stomach.
You try to go but it is like slime has stuck you to the floor. Cars beeping and honking at you, you put your hazards on and get out to try and push. Of course, you are just a little thing and can not get it to budge. Finally, someone stops and helps you, and now you have to make the phone call to Dad crying explaining what happened.
The screams and disappointment are gone, and now you’re looking at a car in the garage that gives off the feeling of sadness and exhaustion. You start to gut the car. Take every part out that you need to. The smell of burnt clutch and smoke fills the nostrils which gives a clue on which direction to take. You are covered in grease and sweat, just wanting a cheeseburger when finally you get the golden ticket. All the sweat and tears coming to an end and you feel a small amount of relief. Looking at the mess you pulled out and saw nothing but silver shining at you in the oil with gauges taken out of every little part. I have always had a love for cars but this makes you want to smash any type of car with a crane. After ordering every new part needed you feel useless waiting for them. Watching that car gutted out gives a sense of hatred and disappointment. But all you can do is just wait.
After signature and signature on packages you finally get to put it back together. Time after time of the gears biting your finger from in the transmission as if you were battling a shark in the ocean. Ripped knuckles from the teeth of gears. Making you feel like this car does not want you to fix it. Finally, after the dedication of multiple nights and hard work from blood to sweat it is fixed. Now you need to rebuild everything you took out to make sure nothing goes wrong. After four hours of constant labor, it is finally back together, and time to turn that key. The key turns ever so slightly, and you let it run. As if it came back to life. Soft and kind noises to the ear. You go to first gear, then second, next third, to the fourth, and finally to fifth. It is almost like you’re flying. It is an overview of beauty that you never thought could be there.
I sit here today in the driver’s seat with a stronger passion for cars. Not just for how they look anymore but how they function. They are a balanced rhythm, a feeling of completion. Everything works as if they are interlocked and stable. Something so simple turned out to be so much more complex. But that is the beauty behind it. This not only made me feel amazement towards something you use every day but also the knowledge of others including my fathers. This experience left me with the willingness to try and work on something you may not be interested in because it opened me up to a feeling I never thought I would experience for something you see or do every day. All the dedication and hard work led me to the feeling of success and filled me with astonishment.
Tuesday at 5:15 AM
by Johanna Joblanski
I love you
Pile of sleep sack and onesie
Warmth and baby cheeks
Hands opening and closing
Staring above my shoulder
Like you’re watching an angel
I’m not sure where the crook of my arm ends and your sweet little noggin begins
You’re nuzzled in so easy
You are new, but your face is old familiar
You’re warm and poopy
And I love you
Raising Life’s Bars: One Jump at a Time
by Jonathon Van Lein
The first weekend of February has been special to me for the last four years. It is marked in bold red in all calendars at home and something I look forward to for several months a year. That Saturday through Sunday marks the start of the Dutch National Junior Track and Field Championships. Because this is the biggest competition of the year, you wake up every day thinking about it and go to bed dreaming about that weekend. On the occasion of the 2024 edition, I woke up feeling ready as ever to compete in the heptathlon. To perform well, a big breakfast is recommended, but because of the nerves and waking up so early, it was tough to get enough food in my system. Even thinking back right now, I can feel the nerves burning in my stomach. I arrived at the stadium exactly 2.5 hours before the competition started. This gives you enough time to walk around a bit, fully wake up, and do an extensive warm-up before having to explode from the blocks in the first event: the 60-meter dash.
I started off day one absolutely flying. The 60 dash, long jump, and shot put all brought me personal bests. The next morning, I knew I only needed 3 more events, to solidify a top-8 spot at nationals: 60m hurdles, pole vault, and 1000m. The hurdles were the first event of the day. Not a great race, but it got the job done. When the pole vault was finally up, I was feeling nervous. The weeks before I had not been jumping well, having struggles with my runup and struggling mentally. I remember my teammate encouraging me during the warmup, because he noticed I did not look sharp. For my opening height, I chose an easy height. The kind of height where you don’t need to think about anything, except for throwing away the pole after clearing the bar, and it’s an easy make every time. This was the kind of height I could easily clear in practice, or from a shorter approach.
That is when the worst 15 minutes of my athletic career started. With the experiences of the last weeks, I was scared of jumping and got in my head too much. The fear and pressure made my shoulders tense up and gave me clammy hands. This caused me to mess up the approach on my first jump. The second jump was better but without any conviction. The bar came down again. Before my third and last attempt, I went to my coach for
some last advice. He told me it was time to go get it now. I needed to be confident and full of fire on the runway. All gas, no brakes. I walked back, grabbed the pole, and lined up for this deciding jump. Two options were racing through my mind: If I make this, I will secure a great result at nationals, improve my points total for the heptathlon, and call my indoor season a success. If I do not make it, I will be so disappointed, I cannot allow myself to think about that option right now.
I started my approach, this time with more conviction. The pole gradually lowered, as I had done so often. On takeoff, it hit the back of the box and started to bend, turning the kinetic energy of my approach into elastic energy. My legs swung up towards the bar. With everything inside me, I managed to swing them over the bar. My torso and head followed. I had just managed to maneuver myself over this bar. It was not a great jump, but there are no style points in track. As I fell towards the pole vault mat, a sigh of relief escaped my lungs. I was still in this competition. That is when I looked at the pole. It was still upright after I had let go of it, and now started creeping towards the yellow bar that decided my faith. For a second, everything in my mind went quiet. I did not hear the crowd, I did not hear my thoughts. The excruciating sound of the fiberglass pole clanking against the plastic bar broke the silence, rattling it just enough to slide off the holders. The bar came down, and with it my hopes of a successful national championship. With it came down my love for sport, that I had to find again over the next weeks. With the bar came down months of preparation, early mornings and late nights. None of it seemed worth it anymore.
Having missed out on a mark in one of the seven events, my race for the title and a good result was over; however, I still wanted to finish the weekend strong, get in front of the crowd one more time, and add a positive note to the dark memory of this competition. The 1000-meter run is a hypnotic experience. Five laps around a little track, running until either your lungs or legs give out. I often don’t remember anything afterwards. From this race, I only remember crossing the line, breaking my personal best time by over five seconds. The disappointment of the hours before became a driving force, still within me today.
Looking back on this unfortunate weekend a year later, much has changed. Since this competition I have jumped over two feet higher in the pole vault, made the move to MMU, and regained my confidence on the track. I believe everything happens for a reason. A well-known Nelson Mandela quote goes: “I never lose, I either win or learn”. My experience shows just how right he was. I am grateful for the opportunities, experiences, and lessons track has given me. To get back up and keep trying, is the most valuable lesson sports teach us. Success isn’t just about clearing the bar, it’s about learning with every run, try, and fall.”
Theives Reunion
by David Phillips
I remember seeing you for the last time. You wore a black dress; you put some purple in your hair; you had the aura of the girl I fell for. Now we’re here just us two, Cali and her Killjoy, together again under the dying sunset. I missed you. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve done, what I’ve accomplished while you were gone. I wrote about you, everybody knows your face, you turned into my biggest success, just a shame they forgot your name. I’ve been a bad boy while you were gone. I’ve lied, I’ve cheated, I’ve stolen, I’ve stolen a lot actually, I learned from the best, after all. But in the end none of that matters. What matters is that you’re here!
I’ve been waiting for this moment for quite some time. I have so much I want to say!
How are you?
How has life been treating you? Is California as great as you thought, or does it just smell like urine and desperation? But let’s cut to the chase.
This moment has been five years in the making. After all this time
I can finally tell you: “I don’t love you.”
Chase Street
by Grace Holys
A Place of Peace
by Kendra Horsley
My Evergreen Dreams
by Abigail Cuka
Green as ever, they were always green, every day a bit greener. No matter the season, the weather, the color of the sky, they are persistent and lavishly full. My audience of dark spruce stirs and applauds below my collecting gaze. I stand tall, high above all the treetops, soaring amongst the chicken hawks and cold-headed vultures. I’m planted here in its hairy grass, the wet Earth absorbing my delicate finger taps, and here I stay on a throne to a kingdom no man can tame.
I continue to wait for the day where this hill will claim me, fold its sod over me as a mother tucking in a child. How I long to be warmed by the October sun, lay deeper in gravity’s grasp, to finally banish time from conspiring in the corners of my mind, sitting aimlessly in his wooden rocking chair. I wish to breathe the air of earthworms and salamanders and feel as righteous as those white-bellied hawks, carried by the hills’ windy currents. The world up here doesn’t persuade me to stay, but only here is where I feel somewhat contempt, as the Earth can lure me no further. Today I won’t need to breathe, as the wind will drown me herself, expanding each lung at the rate she pleases. The hilltop, now bald of its trees, can’t deny the abrupt caress of the wind as it delivers my usual daydreams. With my eyes glued closed, lips pressed thin, and fingers clenched, I pull tight on the grass strands; I leave the weight of my body behind and explore the depths of my mind.
Focusing, focusing hard on the black space presented, I swim past intrusive thoughts and redundant memories. With each breaststroke, I feel the pressure building as I enter a darker realm where no sounds will pierce my ears, no movement will startle me, and where no emotion can follow. I’m not sure when it appeared, or if it was always there, but a small golden doorknob, with its peculiar oval shape, glittered against the void. Once I lift my gaze, the oak door surfaces and stands tall, staring at my small frame. The cabin follows and makes itself known, its continuous height swallowed by darkness, its walls made only of tree stumps piled one after the other. Their remaining roots feather down, creating an illusion of fur, covering the only window with no panes to encase. Dried and weathered pine needles layer the roof like hay on a storybook cottage. It’s empty, as it always is, the wind whistles through the house, exposing the hollowness inside.
I reach out to the glossy knob, eager for the cold shell to tickle my palm. I stretch my hand through the glue-like atmosphere, despite its resistance, sending all my energy toward the knob and beyond my arm’s length. And there, I snatch it, grip the cold metal, feel the relief and astonishment in this single movement. Then, as if the knob itself let go of my grasp, I’m pulled downward and fall into a continuous pit of gravity. The colors reemerge, clouds of orange and yellow swirl and surround my vision, crumbling every essence of darkness. My vision turns to green, not the green of the trees or brush but the green that weaves the moss. It all twists and turns around me, a tornado of unfocused images, and as soon as it came it left.
I discover my eyes are already open and I lay looking upward into the network of tree branches and partial blue sky. I lay there, dumbfounded, collecting what observations I could to quiet my confusion. My head turns left, and I focus on the tree line that shades me, and to the right, the upward slope of the hill. With my chin pressed to my chest, I look toward my feet, one covered with a leather sandal, the other bare. My breath finally returns from the cabin and overwhelms my lungs with the coolness of autumn air. The rhythm of my breathing, now choppy and inconsistent, spread through my body like thick ripples, tickling my every limb. I wiggle my toes with the sensation, slowly awaking my nerves to reality. If only I knew what was inside the stumped-cabin and what its purpose was. Then maybe I’d feel more at ease in life, less compelled to escape my consciousness, to run from the beauty of this world. Wherever the place was, with the ugly stumped cabin, it hunts and tempts me as if its sin itself, lassoing me like a hog and dragging me to my own demise.
Blinking my eyes into focus once more, I attempt to rise and rest on my elbows. But as if erased from memory, my arm no longer listens and dangles pathetically by my waist. Without a second thought, I stand and observe my now drooping left side, then calmly walk to the gravel path, arm swaying in tow. No thoughts present themselves as I stroll through the dark trees. Instead, I let the path carry me home.
See You Next Tuesday
by Jonathan Nyamweya
Prison cells were just as dingy as Silphrosa had imagined. Dark rooms with tiny streaks of light peeking through skinny slits on a wall masquerading as a window. The stale smell of the damp room seemed to be exaggerated by the heat emanating from the bodies of the numerous women and young girls locked up in the cell with Silphrosa. There was barely enough room in the cell for anyone to even have personal thoughts. She crouched next to the girl that gave her water while they were being hauled into an intimidating police vehicle with no license plate being driven to their doom.
Spirits in the cell were still surprisingly high. The women chanted and sang just as they did right before they were arrested. “REJECT! REJECT! REJECT THE FINANCE BILL!” The chants echoed through the walls of the Central Police Station as Silphrosa replayed the events of the day. Had anybody told her that she would wind up a prisoner of the state at the beginning of the day she would have thought twice about ever leaving the comfort of her cushy twin bed.
Just like many of the girls in the cell with her, Silphrosa had never been to a protest before. She couldn’t imagine herself carrying a placard or intimidating aggressive soldiers with witty slogans and fists raised in the air. However, like many of her agemates she had just recently been radicalized. For about a week, everybody and their mothers had been talking about the proposed finance bill. Politics and things of that nature were never really in Silphrosa’s sphere of interest. But now she had been personally affected.
The price of her favorite lip gloss had steadily been increasing but ever the loyal customer, she stuck with the brand. She was obviously thrown for a loop when she saw that the tiny glass tube of Skin Sensationz now cost her entire allowance. Silphrosa was a woman with needs. Now she couldn’t even have shiny lips without sacrificing her essentials. Would she forego her tampons for a pricey gloss? Would she forsake her lunch at the university cafeteria for a chance to buy her favorite perfume? It was dire straits all around.
An angry citizenry coupled with the hubris of an incompetent government hell-bent on hoarding the wealth of the nation was a recipe for disaster. The occurrence of protests became extremely inevitable. Silphrosa was not built for violent uprisings against near-tyrannical ruling powers. However, she couldn’t stop feeling as though her presence was necessary. An overwhelming sense of duty and responsibility washed over her. She had to carry a placard. She had to blow a whistle. She had to shout and scream for the sake of her future. She had to protest!
“I can’t have you going out there to do whatever that is!” Silphrosa’s mother was not pleased at all. When she heard the word protest, trigger-happy police, cannisters of teargas and the casings of bullets came to mind. She had every right to fear for the safety of her daughter but her words of doubt were no match for her daughter’s impenetrable armor of governmental disdain. Besides, she was already dressed in her best anti-government outfit: an all-black ensemble with the symbol of anarchism sprawled on the front of her fitted t-shirt. Armed with a bottle of water, her phone and the will to fight the power, she clandestinely crept out of the safety of her house.
The central business district was already crawling with soldiers and heavily outfitted guards. As intimidating as the situation was, Silphrosa put on her costly lip gloss and marched right into an enraged crowd of vocal protesters. “REJECT! REJECT! REJECT THE FINANCE BILL!” She felt right at home chanting for change, stomping her boots on the ground and exercising her patriotism the only way she knew how to; by making noise.
As the protesters became more enthusiastic, so did the officers. They were attacking on all fronts. Bullets were fired. Water cannons from armored vehicles were sprayed on unsuspecting victims and the chemical irritants from the cannisters of teargas scattered the protesters. Silphrosa was lost in a confusing daze. She could barely breath, her eyes were watering and she was tactfully crouching to avoid the murderous bullets. In her attempts to crawl to safety, she was confronted with a masked man in civilian clothing. The sigh of relief that she heaved was very short-lived as it was that same man who hauled her into the back of a police van.
Now Silphrosa sat in the middle of a cell chanting along with her cellmates while they waited to be released from their indefinite prison time. Just as the officer on duty was about to reprimand the ladies for noise yet again, one shouted, “We will do it again and again! Tuonane Tuesday!” (See you on Tuesday)
As soon as Silphrosa heard those words, she realized that this wouldn’t be the last time she finds herself in a cell.
This is Jonas
by Jonas Kelp
Name: Jonas Kelp
Age: 26
Location: Yankton, South Dakota (USA)
Hometown: Hamburg, Hamburg (Germany)
Occupation: Student Athlete, Football Player, Intramural Coordinator
Home: Growing up, I never imagined leaving Germany for more than a two week vacation, let alone have family in a different country. Now I have family spread across the whole globe in three different continents. I live 4,455 miles away from my parents in Germany, 6,730 miles away from my Chinese stepfamily and roughly 130 miles from my host family in Iowa. To me “Home” is where I have family rather than a location.
Changes: I attended Iowa Central Community College to pursue my dreams of playing college football; the degree was irrelevant at the time. This quickly changed with my first season ending in injury. Now I live my dream of playing college football while pursuing a future career in accounting.
And These Are His Things
1. Football Helmets and Jerseys: “Michael Oher and the movie Blindside are the reasons I started playing football. The two helmets on the right are from Germany and the one on the left is from my American high school in Iowa.”
2. Suitcase, Clothes and Germany Flag: “All my belongings that I currently own can fit in a couple of suitcases.”
3. German Passports with Plane Tickets and Neck Pillow: “In the last 5 years I have only visited my family in Germany twice, once in the summer of 2022 and one more time in the summer of 2024. The tickets remind me of the sacrifice not only I made but also that they are making for me to be here.”
4. Family Pictures and German Cookbook: “Smelling the food that I grew up with is the best medicine.”
5. Polo Shirts: “With my pursuit of accounting also came a change in my wardrobe which prior consisted only of team gear.”
6. Academic and Athletic Recognitions: “I will always be grateful for getting hurt the way I did and when I did, because it made me focus on school and my life after football.”
7. Golf Clubs: “My host family helped me assemble a whole set of golf clubs so I could join the family golf dynasty.”
8. Headset and XBox Controller: “Gaming is the best way to stay in touch with my friends back home.”
9. Boots: “One of my first purchases coming back to the Midwest had to be a pair of boots.”
The Generational Art of Making Dumplings
by Reese McIltrot
I’ve always felt estranged from my Polish heritage. After all, I have no living relatives that speak the language, and I’m several generations removed from my family members that emigrated from Poland. However, once a year, my grandmother, father, and I spend the entire day making a Polish dish known as pierogis: a dumpling commonly filled with potatoes, cheese, onions, or meats.
I recall scooping up a handful of flour and gently sprinkling it across the counter before my grandmother placed the ball of dough on the surface. She pressed the rolling pin into the dough, efficiently working it into a flat disc. It was the perfect bouncy texture; it rolled out evenly and held its shape, yet once cooked it became the most delicious melt-in-your-mouth texture. I handed her the circular cookie cutter, and she began pressing it into the dough to create perfect circles. Meanwhile, my dad scooped out a ball of filling made from mashed potatoes, cheese, green onions, and far too much butter. Scraping it out of the batter scoop, he rolled it between his calloused palms before placing it on the counter. I picked up a circle of dough and gently stretched it, then placed the ball of filling in the middle. I then folded the dough over the filling and caringly pinched the two sides together to form a dumpling. I watched my grandmother do the same, noticing the delicate movements of her hands as her sunspotcovered fingers pinched the dough to form a pierogi. As she placed hers in line with the dozens of others that we had previously made, it was obvious that the perfectly formed ones were hers while mine stuck out like a sore thumb with all the lumps and uneven ridges. Nevertheless, she smiled warmly at me as we continued to work.
As we worked, my grandma would tell stories of her childhood growing up in rural Pennsylvania with immigrant parents. She told of how she would go to school and then return home to teach English to her mother, and how the rag man would pass by in the late hours of the evening, shouting, “Rags!” as he meandered down the alley with his rickety cart. Making pierogis together felt like I got to experience a part of her childhood since her grandmother always made them for her growing up. I’m distant from my Polish heritage, but making a traditional Polish dish connects me to my family and my history. Though our recipe isn’t traditional, the act of making a culturally significant food brings our family together while connecting us to our past.
Where I’m From
by Reese McIltrot
Letter to Dr. Reese’s Students
by Neil Harrison
Well, I want to thank each of you for the letter you wrote in response to the reading Bonnie and I gave at Mt. Marty. I much appreciate your comments on the poems, as I’m sure Bonnie does. Poetry is an attempt to communicate something that the poet feels others might also relate to. So it is important for the poet to know how others respond to their writing, whether the poems actually work for others or not. And so, thank you for each of your letters.
Several of you brought up questions with your comments. One was “What was your writing journey like?” I believe the answer would have to be a bit different for anyone answering the question, but I began writing in a summer class at Northeast Community College, where I was fortunate enough to get to know and become friends with the instructors. Over the years I’ve learned that we are, each of us, both wholly individual and at the same time just one infinitesimal piece of the entire scope of humanity, past, present, and future. And this is where I learned to accept the importance of communication. We are all part of an ongoing story, and each of us has something unique and valuable to add to that story.
Several letters mentioned the difficulty in sharing personal things in writing. I believe if the story/poem concerns something important to the writer, it is very likely something important to others as well. We are none of us as different as we sometimes think. But, if necessary, a story/poem can be written in 2nd or 3rd person to put some distance between the writer and the writing.
In answer to the question, “How long does it take to write a poem?” I would say it depends on the poem and the poet. Some of my poems come fairly quickly, others seem to take a lot longer. But there’s no reason to rush. Even if you’ve got an assignment coming due, you can submit an early draft and continue to work on the poem afterward. Most of my poems get quite a few revisions before I feel they’re ready to share. I’ll write a first draft and work it through several drafts, and then lay it aside. The next day I’ll pick it up and start working on it again, finding a lot of things I hadn’t thought of earlier. I’ll do the same the following day. Sometimes I’ll be at it for weeks. A lot of revision is simply working toward focus, and a lot of focus is cutting out unnecessary words.
Writing, like reading, is always a learning experience. And for me, learning is the whole reason we’re here. There are stories/poems we’ve read and been told, and there are stories/poems each of us can write and tell, communicating our unique part in the ongoing story of humanity. Thanks again for each of your comments. And thanks to Dr, Reese for the invitation to Mt. Marty. It was a warm and welcome venue and an enjoyable afternoon. I much appreciated it.
Sincerely,
Neil Harrison
The Wild
by Neil Harrison
Casting steel hooks into lakes and rivers, swarms of lead over fields and grasslands, copper-clad projectiles into woodlots and canyons, attempting to touch what’s missing from our lives and somehow gone from the empty vessels we lug home, still hungering for what continues to evade our futile attempts to capture, consume and contain it, as it captures, consumes and contains all of us, the stubborn, ignorant, lost, still pursuing what we feel missing, what it seems we’ll be forever after.
The Offering
by Neil Harrison
October waning, and in the maple out front still graced with half its golden leaves the cup of a robin’s nest hangs like an offering cradled on a naked limb.
Last spring I saw her weaving it where those three branches intersect, then watched the feeding and eventual departure of her fledglings.
Abandoned since the nestlings left, it’s grown more solid, weathering summer storms and autumn winds.
It looks firm enough to last the winter, maybe even offer the builder something like a welcome home next spring.
Pain and Passion: The Hidden Blessing of Injury
by Hannah Killinger
Love. I truly believe this word has one million different definitions. Love is a complex tapestry of emotions with threads of excitement, passion, and connection. From a young age, the thrill of competition has captured my heart in a way that nothing else can. I often think back to when I was young, stepping onto the field to play a soccer game, my heart pounding but not from fear but excitement. Victory or defeat, the end of the competition leaves you with a sense of fulfillment; sometimes, I miss those moments. Currently, being a collegiate track athlete, I have experienced a whole new level of hardship compared to the younger competition years. The competition is fiercer, the expectations from coaches, teammates, and even yourself are greater. The highs of victory are sweet, but the lows of defeat are deeper and more personal. The physical demands are relentless. Early morning practice before the sun rises, often followed by grueling workouts that push your body to the limits. During my first couple of months experiencing this ongoing cycle, I started to question my love for competition. “Did I make the right choice?” I often thought to myself. It’s not until the moment I felt the burning, warm “Pop!” in my foot that I realized how much I truly loved track and field.
Injuries are not uncommon for college athletes. According to the National Institute of Health, “approximately 91% of college athletes experience some sort of injury,” and most happen in their first 2 years of competition (Lemoyne et al., 2017). I never would have imagined I would be a part of the 91%. Trudging around in a big, heavy boot for a month never affected me too badly. Yes, I wanted to run. Yes, I wish the bone in the middle of my foot never fractured, but I’ve always believed everything happens for a reason, so I accepted it fairly easily. The issue that put a knife through my chest was the word surgery. I heard that stabbing word almost 2 months after my injury happened. My bone wasn’t healing, despite being in a boot for a month, despite not running for 2 months, despite doing everything I possibly could to promote blood flow to the bone. I could still feel the burning pain radiating throughout my foot. My doctors were stumped. “There is nothing else we can do, you need an MRI,” they said, “and from there you’ll most likely need screws put in your bone to prevent it from fracturing again.” My heart dropped. Sitting in that
bright, cold training room I felt my expression fall, I felt the annoying, heavy lump in my throat, and I felt the hope I once had vanish. I felt the urge to give up.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the money to get an MRI, therefore, I was and still am playing the waiting game. Which sometimes is worse. How do I know if surgery is in my future? How do I know if I can run my outdoor season? It’s like there is a never-ending, dark cave in my mind that continues to pull me deeper and deeper into my negative thoughts and questions, but I am far from alone. According to Icliniq, “post injury depression affects 85% of all athletes” (2022). Thousands of athletes around the world are stuck in a heavy fog that just won’t lift. Depression drains your energy and joy from everything you do. You feel empty, worthless, and numb, when will it ever end?
Like I stated before, I believe everything happens for a reason. I believe God has a plan, I believe he puts you through hell and back to make you stronger, to grow you into the person he wants you to be. Because of this thought, I accepted what I was going through. I have realized it is okay to be upset; it is okay to be sad that your goals were ripped away from you in a split second. The only thing that is not okay is the thought of giving up. Many injured athletes do not think like this. For some, it takes months for them to reach the stage of acceptance. I am fortunate enough to have a loving family, coach, and friends, who pushed me to acceptance, people who helped me realize my new role as a teammate.
In track there is not a specific “bench player.” The sport of track and field is seen as a very individual sport, but over the last 3 months I have found myself taking on the role of the “bench player” for my team. Author Annie Lee says, “bench players create an energized and supportive atmosphere, those on the bench allow in game players to perform at their best by boosting morale.” I have realized that bench players are some of the most important people on a team, and they have one of the hardest jobs; sometimes you must experience that to have your eyes opened. Not one athlete could be successful without their teammates. I showed up to every track competition, repping my blue and gold, hobbling around in my heavy boot, but bringing a positive attitude for my teammates, whose main goal was to make it to Nationals in Florida. When the girls 4x400 team, whom I was a part of before my injury, finally qualified for the National meet my heart was full. I felt extreme excitement, and I too felt successful, even with a broken bone. Although I have felt thousands upon thousands of emotions that have overtaken my body the last 3 months, I have still felt an overwhelming sense of peace. now understand that peace has come from realization—realization that I will be okay, but also the realization that I do truly love my sport. The excitement and exhilaration I felt running down the soccer field at age 4 is still there at age 19 from running 1 lap around the oval track as fast as I can. You never truly grasp how much you love something until you’re physically unable to do it. I guess I needed a reminder, which is why in some ways, I’m grateful for the warm painful “Pop!” I felt in my foot 3 months ago.
Works Cited:
Lemoyne, J., Poulin, C., Richer, N., & André Bussières. (2017). Analyzing injuries among university-level athletes: prevalence, patterns and risk factors. The Journal of the Canadian Chiropractic Association, 61(2), 88. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC5596969/
https://www.icliniq.com/doctor/dr-naga-pavani-bobbili. (2022, August 23). How Common Is Post-Injury Depression in Sportspersons? Www.icliniq. com. https://www.icliniq.com/articles/emotional-and-mental-health/sportsinjuries-and-depression
Lee, A. (n.d.). Role of bench players in sports. The Northwood Howler. https://thehowleronline.org/5250/sports/role-of-bench-players-in-sports/
Dear Students
by Patrick Hicks
I want to thank you for the kind welcome I received at Mount Marty University. It was a real pleasure to visit with you, and I very much enjoyed the excellent questions you asked about either the craft of writing or about the Holocaust. For the latter, I’m very grateful that many of you read my latest novel, Across the Lake. It’s a challenging read, I know, due to the subject matter, but in Dr. Reese’s crime and literature class, you asked some really good questions about gender and violence. Hopefully I’ve been able to shed some light on Ravensbrück. That’s the role of a writer, I think. To cast light into the darkness. And I can’t even begin to tell you how much I appreciated your letters about Across the Lake. Thank you for the compliments and questions. It’s very strange being a writer because so much of my time is spent alone and then, when the book comes out, I suddenly get to spend time talking with readers. I thoroughly appreciated your comments and it means the world to me that this novel made a connection with so many of you.
While at MMU, I was struck by the palpable sense of community that exists on campus. This was even more evident when I stepped into your classrooms. While I was with the poetry class, I was struck but the obvious sense of support and care the students had for each other. I found myself thinking that this is exactly the kind of classroom I want to cultivate: open, kind, welcoming, and a genuine desire to become a better writer. I’m also grateful for those who shared their poetry with me. It takes courage to open yourself up, especially with poetry because there is no artifice to hide behind like there is with fiction. I was impressed with the students who crafted a three-stanza poem from scratch in under fifteen minutes. Maybe some of these poems have been worked on since my visit and maybe they’ve grown and changed in surprising ways. I believe that good writing should surprise us. It should delight us, too. For those of you who were able to attend my noon lecture about the intersection between creativity and research, I hope that it was useful. I used to think research only happened in a library or laboratory, but interviewing people and going to new places and stepping into the unknown has taken me to some very interesting places.
I know you’re not asking for advice here but I can’t help myself: if you get a chance, make sure you study abroad before you graduate. Right now, you have the gift of time but maybe not the gift of money; once you graduate, that flips around and you’ve suddenly got cash but only two weeks of vacation. Why not study abroad in London or Barcelona for a semester? Go to South Africa or Japan. Paris? Rome? You’ll have a blast, create lifelong memories, and getting out of the country says something to future employers about your bravery and curiosity.
Regardless of where your studies lead, I wish all of you well. Thanks again for your kindness and questions. I really loved my time at MMU.
All my best,
Patrick Hicks Writer-in-Residence, Augustana University
Bede Art Gallery
Mount Marty University Student Artwork
Ballerina Oleksandr Makarov
Headless Woman
Aurora Huntley
Olympic Runner
Bailey White Hat
Pink Butterfly
Mia Furst
Bridge
Julia Weber
Dead Tree
Sutton Arend
Farm
Taryn Fitzgerald
Going to Class Sutton Arend
MMU Football
Taryn Fitzgerald
Photogram
Julia Weber
Relaxing Spot
Sutton Arend
Roadway
Taryn Fitzgerald
Sunset Stroll
Julia Weber
Little Flower Molly Hanse
Gary’s Watchful Eye
Marcus Jnofinn
Cane Schmitt
Japanese House
Remedy Morrison
Sydney Altenburg
Book Reviews
Mexican Cartels Lure Chemistry Students to Make Fentanyl
by Alexis Gosch
After reading this article, I’m hooked and here’s why.
The article talks about how young college students are most at risk for recruitment of this deadly substance: more specifically, those with a strong background in chemistry. A cook believes that those with strong knowledge of chemistry can help make the drug stronger and more addicting. To me, it’s fascinating knowing how easy the students in the article were swayed to join these cartels. With money being offered, it made sense as to why recruiters would target college students.
Another thing that stood out is the idea of synthesizing the chemical compounds or precursors. If cartels are able to do that, it would allow for more fentanyl to be created. The comparison of the creation of fentanyl now and how it was before is also worrisome. Prior, uneducated cooks were responsible for the creation and now experienced college students are taking over. These students believe that they can make the drug more potent by discovering how to use different and more accessible ingredients. A student stated that “It would make us the kings of Mexico.”
I believe that the fentanyl issue will continue to increase over the next couple of years. There have been many deaths because of it and those numbers continue to still rise. After reading this article, I feel that many young people are gonna get swept up in the businesses and cartels to produce this drug. The article stated that the drug is a huge need to many people so recruitment will continue as well. Based on the article, fentanyl production is continuing to find new ways to make it easier to create and I believe that our country hasn’t found ways to help fight this problem quite yet.
Soundtrack of My Life
by David Phillips
Early 2000s rock and hip hop was injected into my bloodstream as early as three minutes old. I came out of the womb with Eminem as my entrance music and fell asleep to Green Day while I was swaddled up in the hospital. All my life, I have been an avid rocker. My go to bands have always been Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Offspring, Bowling for Soup, My Chemical Romance, and more.
The first five to ten years, I wasn’t exactly developing my music taste. I mostly listened to whatever was on and then proclaimed that to be my favorite song. My mom legitimately played “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” for me whenever it was naptime and I seemed to always want to dance to Insane Clown Posse because nothing’s cuter than a three year old shaking his bottom to the ICP. These moments helped sway me to that punk rock goodness that was waiting for me, but at the time, I was still in that era of liking trashy mainstream country music. Thank God for Linkin Park, Three Days Grace and Evangelescence for making sure I didn’t become a full blooded country boy.
As I entered middle school, I started to discover the idea of having opinions on music. “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons was still the most popular song of all time and quickly became my favorite for a little while, but it was around eleven and twelve years old when I started discovering Set It Off. They aren’t exactly the most mainstream band out there, but I knew even back then that their music was something special. I discovered this band the same way every other fan of theirs discovered them at the time: looking on YouTube for AMV videos and finding a song titled “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.” While the song is good, it isn’t the band’s best, even if I thought it was back in the day. As the band has grown, and as I’ve grown, they’ve been able to release banger after banger to the point where the fact they haven’t hit the mainstream yet is baffling to me. WWE used one of their songs to market one of their PPVs and yet if you go ask someone who Set It Off is they’ll think you’re crazy. From Horrible Kids to Cinematics, from Duality to Upside Down, and from Midnight to Elsewhere, the band has been upping their game with every single release.
It was my freshman year of high school when I discovered Panic! at the Disco. “Miss Jackson” was my introductory song, and I listened to their whole music collection by spreading out from both sides. “Miss Jackson” was on the band’s fourth studio album Too Weird to Live, Too Rare to Die, which is a tribute to good old Sin City. From there I listened to Death of a Bachelor and the LA tribute album Pray for the Wicked before looping back around and checking out Panic’s earlier work. People often claim the band’s first album, A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out, is their best and for good reason. Not only was this the album that the iconic “I Write Sins not Tragedies” debuted on, but this album put Panic on the map with the strongest possible start. When an album’s most popular song is arguably its weakest song, you know you’re in for a treat. From there I listened to the highly underrated Vices and Virtues and lastly the magnificent Pretty. Odd. Panic’s collection of albums and songs is a melting pot of styles and sounds. You probably won’t like one of Panic’s albums but adore another one. People may think of that as a bad thing, but Panic themselves said it best with their first song on their first album. “We swear to shake it up if you swear to listen.”
Fall Out Boy has always been the one band that won’t exit my life. It’s like an old, loyal dog that will always be there and you can’t put down because they’re still kicking. FOB’s been the band whose praises I’ve sung more than any other and for good reason. Infinity on High saved my life during the start of the pandemic, which I have made very clear multiple times, but I actually became a fan via Save Rock and Roll, FOB’s first studio album after their hiatus from 2009 to 2013. My first experience with Save Rock and Roll as a full album was sometime in 2018 or so. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had just discovered my favorite band. I very quickly got into American Beauty/American Psycho afterward and eventually found my way into liking MANIA right before Covid hit. I like Fall Out Boy’s post-hiatus work, but everybody knows that their pre-hiatus gems will never be topped and I learned that lesson when I listened to Folie à Deux, my favorite music album of all time. It was a commercial disappointment when it was released in 2008 and received mixed reviews from critics and fans, but I firmly believe that it’s the band’s magnum opus and aged like the finest wine. I wouldn’t give up Folie à Deux for a million dollars; it’s more important to me than Infinity on High. After the obvious, I listened to the fan favorite From Under the Cork Tree and the underground success Take This to Your Grave. Both are excellent albums and fantastic starting points for if someone wants to get into FOB. Lastly, the band released their eighth studio album So Much (For) Stardust in March of 2023 I fell in love right away and I honestly believe it stands toe to toe with Fall Out Boy’s first few albums.
So yeah, I really like music if you couldn’t tell. Now I obviously listen to more than just these few bands. I mentioned Green Day, The Offspring and Bowling for Soup, My Chemical Romance is a fantastic band with arguably the greatest rock album of all time in The Black Parade, and Avril Lavigne is an excellent punk artist. I took a shot at country music earlier, but music is inherently subjective and any of the music mentioned here may not resonate with specific readers. That’s the fun thing about music, no two people will like the exact same music. I love punk rock but there are plenty of country or pop lovers out there. Music taste will tell you a lot about the person and I feel is the best way to get to know a new person since nearly everybody listens to music of some sort.
The Quiet Librarian
by Reese McIltrot
As a teenager, Hana Babić’s home country of Bosnia was ravaged by war. She fled to Minnesota to assume a new life as a librarian with hopes of leaving her painful past behind. After decades of peaceful living under a new identity, the sudden murder of her best friend leads people from her complicated past back to her. Her worst nightmare has come to life: Hana’s dark past as the Night Mora has come to haunt her.
When I first heard the book was about a middle-aged librarian, I was skeptical. After all, the position of a librarian is rather drab and unassuming, much like the person that Hana pretends to be. Hana’s life wasn’t always so simple, though. Surviving in a war-torn Bosnia meant doing anything necessary, even if it warranted getting a little blood on her hands. So, what happens when the life that she’s tried so hard to leave behind collides with the world she’s built?
The Quiet Librarian by Allen Eskens is a must-read for thrillseekers, mystery fiends, and history buffs alike. Eskens brings Hana’s world to life in this nail-biting, action-packed novel. Coming from someone who doesn’t branch out to read new genres, I’m telling you: read this book! It does have a slow start, but once I got past the beginning, I couldn’t put it down. The ending had me on the edge of my seat (or rather, the edge of my bed)! Even if you’re a genre snob like me, you’ll want to read this book. Eskens beautifully intertwines Hana’s past and present to build a level of shock and intrigue that’ll keep you hooked. As the reader, you’ll get a firsthand experience of Hana’s development into the calloused librarian with a dark past that she’s grown to be. But, after learning about her history, you’ll surely be rooting for Hana as she confronts her past enemies. Will Hana vanquish her qualms, or will her past consume her? Find out for yourself and pick up a copy of The Quiet Librarian by Allen Eskens.
I’m Hooked and Here’s Why: Iron Flame
by Christian Mickelson
Iron Flame by Rebecca Yarros is a fantasy and adventure novel first published by Red Tower Books on October 31st, 2023. It is impossible to put down. It is the second installment of her fantasy novel, Fourth Wing, following the main character, Violet Sorrengail, through her treacherous adventures at Basgiath War College. In college, young adults learn to become dragon riders who will inevitably face the enemy, griffin riders. The novel includes fast-paced action, death, love and romance, and characters who will steal your heart.
Something that Yarros does significantly well is her characters. The main character is frail and easily breakable physically but uneasily breakable mentally. She is a character many readers will be able to relate to and empathize with. Moreover, her characters have great depth. Each character stands out from one another and serves essential roles in the unwinding plot of the story. With many twists and turns, an extended character list can be easily distracting. However, Yarros implements her characters so well that the flow of the story is never interrupted. Each character brings an unforgettable aspect that is integral to the story. They are woven together in such facets that are impossible to explain without reading.
Another aspect of Iron Flame that is most impressive is the dialogue. Each character has unique dialogue and speech patterns that make them easily identifiable. The book also lacks any fluff in its language, as every piece of dialogue serves a purpose, whether it’s advancing the plot, characterizing characters, or expanding unique relationships. The dialogue drives the story entirely and doesn’t over-exposition.
The book’s pace is absolutely phenomenal. There is never a moment where the book drags. It brings the reader through twists and turns one could not foresee. It does tend to get a little violent with the deaths of riders both from each other, dragons, and unforeseen circumstances. More so, each chapter leaves you wanting more, creating a vicious cycle of never being able to put down the book. Overall, Iron Flame is a book that will hook readers immediately and leave them craving even more. Recently, Yarros released her third installment of the series, Onyx Storm, leaving readers with plenty of content to catch up on if they haven’t started the series.
The Best of Brevity
by Aiden Lieber
Brevity is a unique collection of essays that reveals the art of storytelling, each essay under 750 words. Compiled and edited by Zoe Bossiere and Dinty W. Moore, the book brings to life a variety of short, yet impactful essays from writers worldwide. Since its publication, Brevity has included well-known and upcoming authors, including prize winners and popular voices like Roxane Gay and Deesha Philyaw. First published more than two decades ago, Brevity has become a vital resource for readers and writers, showing how short, impactful writing can leave a lasting impression. This collection continues the journal’s mission of inspiring creativity through short and powerful essays.
Reading Brevity felt like learning to listen in a new way. Each essay was short, but that only made every word hit harder. It was like the writers had removed anything unnecessary, leaving only what mattered most. Some pieces were just a few paragraphs long, yet they carried the weight of entire stories. One essay about grief stuck with me. It described a woman folding her husband’s shirts after he died. The writer didn’t explain how she felt; she didn’t need to. The image was enough. That’s the power of this book. It shows you that the right detail, chosen carefully, can say more than a hundred sentences.
The essays also made me think about my own life. If I had only a few paragraphs to tell my story, what would I write about? What moments would matter enough to keep? The book didn’t just teach me about writing, it taught me about focus. It reminded me to pay attention, to notice the small things, and to see the meaning in what’s often overlooked. Brevity isn’t just about writing less; it’s about saying more with what you choose to include. These essays made me want to write better, yes, but they also made me want to live better. To strip away the extra noise and focus on what actually means something. That’s what stayed with me after I finished the last page. The lessons weren’t just for writers, they were for anyone who wants to be understood.
Messages from Middle Earth
by Jonas Kelp
The first memory I have regarding books is my mother reading aloud to me. It was our nightly tradition and a reward for getting ready for bed. Turns out I used to be awful at that; every night I would come up with new excuses of why I could not go to bed quite yet, from me coming back out to the living room with just one more question “Dad are samurai still alive” or “Dad what exactly do you do for work?” While you could dismiss these questions as curiosity, my parents quickly caught on to my nighttime scam of trying to stay up longer and watch TV with them. To combat this, my mother started reading books aloud to me. The first one I can remember was The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien. It was my first introduction to Middle Earth, the world in which the Lord of the Rings trilogy takes place. I fell in love with the franchise; all I cared about was Lord of the Rings. I had several costumes, card games, and all the books in different versions and eventually once I was older the movies and computer games. Now, almost a decade later, I find myself hooked once more. Messages from Middle Earth is a collection of stories written by J.R.R. Tolkien all surrounding Middle Earth and published by Christopher Tolkien, J.R.R.’s son. Unlike Tolkien’s other books this one is not one straight story line. It is a collection of many short stories of individuals in Middle Earth and their impact on Middle Earth and while they tie into one big world they are not connected directly, but what got me truly hooked is the fact that each story comes with a background story of J.R.R. Tolkien himself. His son put together the stories with letters from his dad in which he talks about where he was when writing the stories. As a European and history buff this is intriguing to me on so many different levels. J.R.R. Tolkien served in the military in the First World War and spent his time in the barracks writing these fantasy stories. Christopher Tolkien also then puts the short stories in relation to the main storyline of the Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, explaining why certain parts were left out or even cut short. These stories answer many questions about the origin story of Bilbo Baggins or the journey of Gollum and many more characters which play big roles, but simply cannot all be explained during the Lord of the Rings without being a distraction from the storyline.
The stories span across all three timelines of Middle Earth and include many characters that are not even present in the main story but are talked about or referenced. This style of storytelling allows the Middle Earth universe to expand to a length I was not even aware of.
When I first started learning about Middle Earth, I was fascinated by the descriptive writing style of Tolkien in which he was able to really capture nature in all its glory. The skill to not only write actionloaded fiction but also create a magical world that could be interesting enough to be read about on its own is truly remarkable. In Messages from Middle Earth some of these natural sceneries are presented to us through paintings by Alan Lee, John Howe and Ted Nasmith. Ranging from beautiful waterfalls rushing down mountains on top of which are breathtaking castles and cities, a massive valley in which the city of Gondolin is placed, a city which looked like it was made of the cleanest white marble.
The last 70 pages of the book are completely made up by a word registrar in which you can find the descriptions and meanings of places, names, animals and other words that come up in the short stories. It allows the reader to get a deeper understanding of the readings and even greater knowledge of Middle Earth.
For the last 10 years my passion for reading has decreased very heavily. I used to read a book a month when I was younger. Now I am only reading when I need to for class. But once again Tolkien managed to ignite a fire in me, I crave reading and started to read once a day again. I also realized that this would be a great asset in my own journey of writing, as I have started to really enjoy that. So, in the end you could say not only am I hooked on Messages from Middle Earth, but reading in general again, once again thanks to J.R.R. Tolkien.
It’s Not Your Fault
by Aiden Lieber
Some movies entertain, some make us think, and then there are those that hit close to home in ways we never expected. Good Will Hunting is one of those films for me. Recently, I lost a friend to suicide: someone I went to school with and shared a lot of my life with. His loss still hits hard, and it’s partly because he struggled with the same feelings of anger, isolation, and self-blame that Will Hunting faces in the film.
Good Will Hunting tells the story of a smart yet troubled young man whose anger and mistrust of the world hide a deep amount of pain. Will’s anger isn’t directed at individuals so much as it is at a world that, in his eyes, has repeatedly failed him. Like many of us who have endured loss or neglect, he turns his hurt into anger. Throughout the film, we see him push people away, convinced that he’s unworthy of love or success. This isn’t far off from what my friend experienced; he too felt lost and overwhelmed by a system that seemed to not care about his suffering.
One of the most powerful moments in the movie comes when Will Hunting’s doctor (Sean) tells Will, “It’s not your fault,” repeating it until Will finally breaks down, letting go of the self-blame he’s carried for so long. “It’s not your fault,” is one of the most powerful moments in the movie, not just because of the emotion it carries, but because of what it represents. It’s about breaking free from self-blame, about finally letting go of the weight we were never meant to carry.
Maybe you know what that weight feels like. Maybe, like Will, you’ve turned against yourself over time, convincing yourself that you are somehow bad, wrong, or not enough. Maybe you’ve spent years believing that if people left, if they hurt you, if life was cruel, then it must have been because of you. That you must have deserved it. That there must be something inside you, something broken or unworthy, that pushed people away or made them treat you the way they did, but that belief is a lie.
The way people have treated you, whether they ignored you, hurt you, abandoned you, or made you feel small, says more about them than it ever did about you. People project their own pain, their own fears, and their own wounds onto others, often without realizing the damage they cause. You are a child, a friend, and a person who deserves love, kindness, and understanding. And if you didn’t receive those things, it wasn’t because you weren’t worthy of them, it was because the people around you didn’t know how to give them.
That’s why this scene is so moving. Because for Will, and for so many of us, hearing “It’s not your fault” isn’t just comforting, it’s lifechanging. It’s the beginning of seeing ourselves differently, of finally realizing that we are not defined by the ways we’ve been hurt.
If you have ever felt like you are not enough, let this be a reminder that It’s not your fault. You are not broken. You are not unworthy. You are not the things people have done to you.
I see you. I’ve been there. And you are not alone. Thank you.
Miramax. “Good Will Hunting: It’s Not Your Fault.” YouTube, 2015, https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQht2yOX9Js.
Analysis of Jo’s Monologue
by Katie Mauer
Greta Gerwig’s 2019 film “Little Women” is a movie adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s novel. The film follows the four March sisters, who live as a poor family in Massachusetts during the Civil War. One of the most relatable moments is when Jo March delivers her monologue about her own struggles with her individuality, role in society, and loneliness. Despite taking place so long ago, the same issues are faced by women everywhere today.
In this scene, Jo is talking with her mother about her childhood friend, Laurie, who is returning to the states. He proposed to Jo before he left for Europe. She turned him down believing that they would never be good for each other and that they would make each other miserable. They would quarrel all the time and never be compatible for marriage. In her discussion with her mother, Jo second-guesses her decision in turning down Laurie’s marriage proposal.
During this scene, Jo pours out her heart saying, “I just feel… I just feel like women they have minds, and they have souls as well as just hearts and they’ve got ambition, and they’ve got talent as well as just beauty.” Jo desires to have the freedom to create what she wants. She writes stories to get published, but her editor always changes them to match what is popular at the time. She never gets to keep the story the way she wants it to be, it always has to be changed to what sells. She wants to be able to write what she wants without it being censored. In this way her individuality is diminished. This scene shows how women did not have the ability to be totally independent and had to always conform to the wants of the men in their lives. Many men did not see women as their own person who had feelings, thoughts, and ideas.
Women were not only squashed in their creative adventures, but also in their home lives and in society. Jo expresses her disappointment in this by saying, “I am so sick of people saying that that love is just all a woman is fit for. I am so sick of it!” If it were up to her, she would never be married. Jo feels that her life is worth more than just being a mother. Her ideas for her future are vastly different from the other girls during that time, but that does not mean that her dreams are still not important. When writing Little Women, Alcott did not want Jo to get married, but her
publisher made her change it. Gerwing recreated this in the movie when Jo is in the process of getting her book published but has to change it so that the heroine is married by the end.
By the end of her monologue, Jo tells her mother that despite everything she just said, she is extremely lonely. Jo feels her family slipping away, and that terrifies her. She wants that romantic connection with somebody, and she believes that she could be happy with Laurie. She claims that if he were to propose again, she would say yes. Her mother then asks her if she loves him, and Jo replies that she cares to be more to be loved than to love. Her mother tells her that it is not the same thing. The ending to this scene captures the feelings of many young women. With social media being popular, girls see the highlights of others’ relationships and feel that they are missing out themselves. Girls want the security and the status of being in a stable relationship. Even though Jo wants to believe she can be happy without getting married, she is still captivated by the idea of spending your life with someone.
In conclusion, Jo March’s monologue relates to women in both the past and the present. The timeless nature of these issues is shown through her struggles with her individuality, her role in society, and her loneliness. Her passionate feelings towards the recognition of women’s minds, souls, ambitions, and independency highlight the female struggle for their own self-expression. Her own conflict with a romantic relationship, despite her strong will, reveals how complex human feelings can be. Gerwig’s adaptation captures Alcott’s intentions for Jo as a strong female character with complex feelings.
No Reason to Hate
by Gabriel Cox
“I hate you because we’re from different neighborhoods.”
“I hate you because you look different.”
“I hate you because I don’t understand you.”
The reasons for hate are as stupid as they sound.
Watching this ad during the Super Bowl really made me think about how bad things have gotten—bad enough that we need commercials about them during one of the biggest televised events of the year. It made me reflect on the world we live in, a world where hate has become something we’re just used to. Hate is everywhere. There are people who are prejudiced, people who are racist, and people who are both. Some people even hate others for no reason at all.
The commercial, titled No Reason to Hate, was created by Robert Kraft, the founder of the Foundation to Combat Antisemitism. Its goal was to send a strong message against hate and division, especially in a time when antisemitism is on the rise. The ad highlighted the absurdity of hateful reasoning and encouraged unity. The ending of the commercial features a black backdrop with the message: “The reasons for hate are as stupid as they sound.” I thought this was a powerful choice for the final screen because it’s true—people “hate” each other for the most ridiculous reasons. I genuinely don’t understand how someone can hate another person over something so insignificant.
Kraft chose Tom Brady and Snoop Dogg for the commercial because they come from very different backgrounds, making their collaboration even more impactful. He pointed out, “You don’t automatically think that Tom Brady and Snoop Dogg would have much in common.” That statement really resonated with me. When I first saw the ad, I was confused about why Brady and Snoop were in a commercial together. I was even more surprised to learn it was about fighting antisemitism. But Kraft had a strategy: he wanted to amplify the foundation’s message by using two celebrities with massive followings who could reach a broad audience. Looking back, I’m really glad they were the ones chosen. I don’t think the message would have been as effective with anyone else.
As for their personal reasons for getting involved, Snoop Dogg, who has been a longtime friend of Kraft, immediately agreed to participate. He has always been committed to spreading messages of love and anti-hate. Tom Brady, also a close friend, joined because he wanted to stand with the foundation in their fight against hate, believing it’s essential to building a world where hate has no place.
Growing up with two Black siblings and two Native siblings, I’ve seen the world for what it really is. I remember playing with my siblings when we were younger and witnessing other kids call them racial slurs or talk down to them like they weren’t even human. It never made sense to me; how could someone think that way? Over time, I realized that hate, prejudice, and racism aren’t something we’re born with. They’re taught— through bad parenting, through social influences, and now, through social media.
Racism, prejudice, and hate have been growing, often without us even realizing it. People have turned a blind eye to what’s really happening in the world. That’s why the Foundation to Combat Antisemitism’s Super Bowl commercial is so important—it’s a small but meaningful way to call out how ridiculous these forms of hate really are. I truly believe that if more commercials like this aired, or if schools taught more about racism, prejudice, and hate, we might actually see a decline in these issues.
The world is shaped by social media and education, so if we can integrate more awareness into these spaces, things might start to change. It won’t happen overnight, but any progress, no matter how small, moves us toward a better world for everyone.
Media Analysis: NFL 100 Super Bowl Commercial
by Gracie Haug
The Super Bowl: where communities come together to watch their favorite teams battle for the title, where millions of viewers huddle around their TVs to see the next play, and where those of us who don’t watch football might watch the beginning of the game and leave of boredom at the end. The fact of the matter is that the Super Bowl is a widely popular event that most Americans watch, and the best part, to me, is the commercial leading right into kickoff: the NFL 100 commercial.
The NFL 100 Super Bowl commercial was created to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the NFL, and it sure was a celebration. The commercial is set in a fancy ballroom at what appears to be a commemorative dinner. The commercial starts with a speech from Roger Goodell, the NFL commissioner, exclaiming to highly decorated NFL players, “Welcome to the 100th season of the National Football League.” As everybody applauds, there are cuts of the various NFL players and then a shot of Marshawn Lynch, a running back who played for the Seattle Seahawks, eyeing the large cake next to his table. He slowly leans towards it and grabs a chunk of it, which makes the golden football on top tumble to the ground. Tension builds as the football rolls to a stop on the ground, and eventually, Mike Singletary, known for his wide-open eyes he had while playing linebacker for the Chicago Bears, takes his glasses off and yells, “FUMBLE.” Chaos breaks out as players jump for the ball. The rest of the commercial is a football pandemonium featuring multiple prominent past and present NFL players. Highlighted moments from the NFL, such as the Immaculate Reception, were recreated in this dinner party football brawl. Towards the end of the commercial, the football lands in the hands of Sam Gorden, a 16-year-old female football player, who then dishes the football to the insanely athletic Saquon Barkley, who hurdles a defender and runs off-screen. Then, the NFL 100 logo and slogan appear on the screen, signifying the end of the commercial.
This commercial is captivating for a number of reasons, checking all the boxes of ethos, logos, and pathos. First, this commercial includes many prominent NFL players from every era of the game; this connects the audience from every generation to the commercial. Second, by connecting the past, present, and future of the NFL, this commercial argues that the audience should continue watching the NFL. If it’s already this good, it’ll surely get even better; continue watching the NFL because
the future is bright. Third, this commercial conveys a very positive message about the NFL, considering it is very funny and nostalgic. All these reasons combine to make this commercial unforgettable for the viewers.
Most viewers are represented in some way throughout the commercial, which makes it even more appealing. We already know that different eras of the game are represented in many different forms. The coolest comparison, in my opinion, is the Franco Harris and Odell Beckham Junior (OBJ) scenes. Franco Harris, who played fullback for the Steelers, recreated his “Immaculate Reception” by catching a ball at his shoelaces; this connects with older fans. OBJ, a wide receiver for the Giants at the time, recreated his three-fingered one-hand catch while crash-landing onto a set dinner table; this connects with younger fans. Additionally, at the end of the commercial, Sam Gorden appears, as I mentioned previously. She represents girls in the sport and even younger generations, as she was a 16-year-old superstar on the football field. Not only were different generations of football fans connected throughout this commercial, but non-football fans could connect as well. This commercial included the most popular gamer/streamer of the time, who went by the screen name “Ninja.” This commercial connected all generations of football fans and even non-football fans, making it memorable for all.
This NFL 100 commercial is effective and memorable for many reasons. All of the players featured in the commercial fight for a football, showing the competitive nature of the NFL. However, you can tell all of these players are bonded; they’re all in a community with one another, the NFL community. The NFL community is a strong, fun, and nostalgic community with a bright future. Everybody watching the commercial should feel this energy and be excited to watch the Super Bowl and the many seasons of the NFL to come.
Contributors
Bonnie Johnson-Bartee is the author of two chapbooks of poetry, Bildungsroman 38 (2004) and Named, but Unknown (2006), and a full-length book Cord Blood (Sandhills Press, 2023) which won the 2023 Nebraska Book Award, Poetry Honor Award. Bonnie is also the editor of Teachers College: Essays on the Art of Education (WSC Press, 2007) and is an editor for the WSC Press. Her work can be found in Words Like Rain (WSC Press, 2005) and editions of Voices Out of Nowhere, Judas Goat and Nebraska Life. She teaches creative writing and literature courses at Wayne State College in Wayne, Nebraska, and at Northeast Community College in Norfolk, Nebraska, where she also serves as the director of the Visiting Writers Series and is the faculty editor of Northeast Community College’s annual student book, Voices Out of Nowhere.
Gabriel Cox is a sophomore at Mount Marty University.
Abigail Cuka is a passionate reader and writer who majored in English at Creighton University. She enjoys writing pieces that provoke thoughts on setting and environment. Abigail is employed at Mount Marty University as Assistant to the Deans and plans to continue her writing recreationally.
Alexis Gosch is a sophomore at Mount Marty University, who is majoring in Radiologic Technology. Alexis is a member of the cross-country and track team. A resident of Sioux Falls, South Dakota, she loves to travel and be outdoors. This is her second publication in Paddlefish.
Caitlin Guenther, from Crofton, Nebraska. She is part of the volleyball team and is majoring in elementary education. In her free time, she enjoys baking, reading, being outdoors, and spending time with family and friends.
Molly Hanse, is from Claremont, South Dakota. She is a 2023 graduate of Presentation College and earned her M.Ed. from Mount Marty University in May 2025. Molly currently serves as the Creative Marketing Coordinator at Mount Marty, where she enjoys capturing everything that makes MMU special—from athletics and events to the natural beauty of campus flowers and landscapes.
Neil Harrison’s poetry collections include In a River of Wind, Into the River Canyon at Dusk, Back in the Animal Kingdom, Where the Waters Take You, and For the Love of God (Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2023). His stories have appeared most recently in Panoplyzine, The Closed Eye Open, MetaStellar, and in the anthology TENacity by Brilliant Flash Fiction. A former English and Creative Writing instructor, he lives in northeast Nebraska.
Gracie Haug is a sophomore majoring in elementary education. She’s from Castlewood, South Dakota. Gracie plays on the Mount Marty softball team while also participating in the Education Club, FCA, MMU Bible Study, and Student Government. This is her first publication in Paddlefish.
Patrick Hicks is the author of over ten books, including The Collector of Names, This London, Adoptable, and In the Shadow of Dora—he also wrote the critically and popularly acclaimed novel, The Commandant of Lubizec. His work has appeared on NPR, The PBS Newshour, American Life in Poetry, and his first novel held company among only 20 books selected for National Reading Group Month. After living in Europe for many years, he now lives in the Midwest where he is the Writer-in-Residence at Augustana University as well as a faculty member in the MFA program at the University of Nevada Reno at Lake Tahoe. His latest novel is Across the Lake.
Grace Holys is a Senior Nursing student at Mount Marty. She is Historian of the Student Nurses Association and a part of the Student Government Association. In her free time, she enjoys hiking, running, and reading.
Kendra Horsley is a 2025 graduate of Mount Marty University. She triple-majored in psychology, human services, and English writing. Kendra was also a member of theMount Marty volleyball team. She loves being an aunt to her sweet niece and nephewsWren, Isaiah, and DeAndre. Kendra has a deep passion for her faith and writing, andshe hopes to use her voice to advocate for and help others.
Rory Huntley is a junior at Mount Marty University, majoring in English writing. She grew up in Yankton, South Dakota. Rory has a passion for writing fiction, poetry, scrapbooking, eating desserts, character design, and fashion.
Johanna Jablonoski studied English at Mount Marty and graduated in 2014. She returned to Mount Marty in 2021 as the Director of Alumni and Family Relations and continues to find great joy in reading, writing, and language. Johanna is married to Anthony and together they have three children in heaven and two children on earth.
Amber Jensen teaches courses in writing and literature at South Dakota State University in Brookings, South Dakota. Her work has been widely published in literary journals and anthologies to include Oakwood, North Dakota Quarterly, O-Dark-Thirty, and Red, White, & True: Stories from Veterans and Families, WWII to Present. The Smoke of You is her first book.
Jonas Kelp graduated in 2025. During his time at Mount Marty, he played football and majored in accounting. He was born and raised in Germany and has lived in the United States for six years.
Hannah Killinger is a sophomore majoring in Human Services and plans to minor in psychology. Hannah is also a member of the MMU track and field team. She enjoys spending time with her family and close friends. Hannah has a deep devotion to her faith, and she hopes to impact people’s lives through offering guidance, support, and being a light for others.
Aiden Lieber is a student-athlete from Mitchell, South Dakota. He plays basketball at Mount Marty University, where he is studying elementary education. Aiden has a strong passion for writing and enjoys expressing himself through creative and reflective work. His love for storytelling complements his goal of inspiring young minds both in the classroom and on the court. This is his first time being published in a book.
Christa Lotz is a senior finishing up her last year of nursing school with a minor in writing. She is vice president of the SGA on campus and works in the theatre during the week. In her free time, Christa loves being outside and hiking big mountains.
Isabella Martinez is a sophomore majoring in Pre-Forensic Science and is minoring in Criminal Justice. Martinez grew up in Aberdeen, South Dakota. She is a part of the Mission Scholars and enjoys helping out the community. She also enjoys reading, drawing, and running in her free time.
Kaela Martinez is a senior at Mount Marty University majoring in Secondary English Education. This fall she will be student teaching in Crofton, while also competing with the university’s Women’s Basketball team. She is from Sioux Falls, South Dakota, but hopes to eventually branch out, as she loves to travel, learn new things, and meet new people.
Katie Mauer is a sophomore from Plainview, Nebraska. Katie is pursuing a major in English and Secondary Education. In her free time, she enjoys reading, kayaking, and spending time with her friends and family.
Reese McIltrot is a freshman at Mount Marty University. She is an English writing major and is a member of the Mount Marty softball team. Her hometown is Broomfield, Colorado, and when she is not reading or writing, she enjoys spending time with her family, crocheting, and baking.
Christian Mickelson is a 2025 graduate of English and secondary education at Mount Marty University.
Jonathan Nyamweya is a sophomore English literature major at Mount Marty.
David Phillips is an English writing major at Mount Marty University and runs Cross Country and Track. He hopes to someday be able to explore the world and tell his stories. Hailing from Crofton, Nebraska, this is his third time being featured in Paddlefish at perhaps his most personal.
Lauren Stiefvater, from Salem, SD, is a 2025 graduate of Mount Marty University with a BA in Mathematics Education, minors in Special Education and Theology. She will begin her teaching career at Sacred Heart Middle School in Yankton and is forever grateful for the person MMU has helped her become. Throughout her time at MMU, Lauren shared her talents and heart with the Mount Marty community through her participation as a Mission Scholar, Admissions Ambassador, playing the trumpet in the band, and various leadership positions in the Student Government Association. This is her second time being published in Paddlefish.
Zoey Thorsted is a sophomore at Mount Marty University, hailing from the small town of Yankton, South Dakota. She is majoring in radiologic technology, and in her free time, she enjoys spending time with friends and family, as well as paddle boarding and golfing.
Jonathan van Lien is a sophomore from the Netherlands. His passion for track and field brought him to MMU, where he competes in the Decathlon. When he’s not in class or at practice, he enjoys playing volleyball and frisbee golf, and sharing the gospel wherever he goes.
