masked
stories and poems from u.r. creative writing workshops
AN ANTHOLOGY
contents
Olaposi Peters Desert
2
Grace Feng A Love Letter
this anthology contains poetry and prose. the lines between fiction and nonfiction blur, but all of it is true. this anthology contains little pieces of our 2020 selves, in our little corners of the world. we all submitted these pieces for review by our peers and professors at the University of Rochester, for a grade, because we were driven to put them into the world somehow, and felt that they contained something important. there’s no way for one person to write about everything that happened in 2020. we can’t contain it. no number of writers could, even if we wrote about nothing else for the rest of our lives. as students, we lost a lot to 2020 that can’t properly be understood by anyone but us. in many ways, I risked my future to attend UR, and I’ll be dealing with the fallout of COVID’s impact on my education for the rest of my life. those are the impacts others will find easy to sympathize with, as long as I don’t bitch about it, but they’re also the most difficult to write about, because how do you describe the loss of a future you couldn’t anticipate to begin with? how do you convey the impact of a loss of a family member, or watching coworker after coworker drop off the schedule? this anthology contains several pieces that attempt it, including Prince Ou’s “Golden Era” and the work of Marion Deal, Olaposi Peters and Katherine Serna. their courage is an honor to showcase. it’s easier to write about the smaller things, the concrete things. we feel these as deeply, and sometimes, if we write them authentically, the shapes of these smaller things can project a shadow that matches the shape of the big things. that’s why “No Riot Here” focuses mostly on the physical experience of a handful of protests; I’m not a good enough writer to convey the spiritual, psychological or ethical impacts the BLM movement has had on me, but I can tell you how it felt to get tear gassed. “No Riot Here” is not all of the BLM truth, or even all of my experience of it, but it casts a shadow that overlaps with the shadow of Rylee Neumann’s “We’re All in this Together” and the shadow of Abby Johnson’s “He Would Have Flipped a Table,” and maybe that composite shadow outlines something bigger than any one could. we write the smaller things for other reasons, too: because some of the smaller things are joys, and we need as much of that as we can get. this is clearly the driving principle of several of the pieces this anthology contains, like Grace Feng’s “A Love Letter” and Serah-Marie Maharaj’s “I Didn’t Mean to Kill It!” these authors offer us something invaluable, and sorely needed. where the pieces overlap, you see 2020. where they don’t – that’s us. us as writers, us as students, us as a handful of people living a moment that will quickly solidify into history. this anthology is proud to showcase both. -- Tiernan Chase, April 2021
Serah-Marie Maharaj I Didn’t Mean to Kill It!
Katherine Serna Grocery Aisles Open Flame Sister Cities
21
Rylee Neumann Untitled
3
9
Xupei Ou Golden Era
23
Marion Deal Danse Macabre Seventh Symphony
7
8
18
12
Abby Johnson This Desk The Apocalypse
Editor: Tiernan Chase Co-editor: Serah-Marie Maharaj Advisor: Joanna Scott
Abby Johnson He Would Have Flipped a Table
1
Tiernan Chase No Riot Here
This Desk
I have always been afraid of driving on the highway and I suppose that now I should be grateful that there are no cars But it’s all wrong - highways are not meant to be empty and the world is not meant to cater to my wishes.
Seventh Symphony
ABBY johnson
(hospital waiting room)
The Apocalypse
She dances with her elbows and knees drawn abrupt and thin: stilettos set to a rhythm by something more compelling than the living. "Danse with me." Grotesque is the word. It's not, it's exquisite, exquisite corpse limbs bravado and akimbo -- "Danse with me kid, you know it's gonna be okay." We are sitting side by side, healthy corpses, healthy corpses loving each other in how lonely we are. He twitches, grimacing contorted the way he might have been in a bathtub face a mincing rictus: his limbs play the crêpe-paper, harsh-angle game of a danse daubed on the walls of German chapels shells pulled up to a puppet-sly life "merrily we go, kid, get your telephone so you can talk to God along the way." His face shifts slime mold shadow "I don't think you're going mad but you very well might be. Don't worry, kid. See. I'm proud of you, danse with me." My body stays warm as long as I am writing.
Right now, I sit at this desk that isn’t mine and I know that I should pretend, at least for the time being, that I like to sit here But I feel bad pretending, I’ve always felt bad pretending and this desk doesn’t know that This desk doesn’t know my favorite color or how I like to decorate my walls This desk isn’t my friend. This desk doesn’t know what I sound like when I am Honest, only that I am resentful I never sat at this desk when I lived here and we both know that I didn’t choose this desk I didn’t choose this stapler or this notebook and I sure as hell didn’t choose to sit here And I feel sorry that I am bitter because I suppose it is unfair So I apologize to this desk but if it knew me I wouldn’t have to
(Shostakovich in Chicago, 2020) Shosti says we all have to worry and that's why we're writing. Shosti says nothing can save us from the end because as long as we don't run out of ink, there's still a choice to be made. Shosti says the guns of Leningrad weren't concerned about style so we shouldn't be either -- we step as we can to summon "Mercy" Shosti says, and he doesn't raise the glass he's clutched in wired, whitened palms. "We do not show mercy in times like these, we show forgiveness for others' fear and for our own."
Marion Deal
Danse Macabre
4
One voice, clear over the ungainly mass movement – brushing shoulders, boots on the asphalt, plastic clacking storage-tote lids with duct-tape forearm straps, crew winding through with water bottles held up high and bicyclists in black keeping the perimeter – the voice says, “No Justice?” like a challenge, like a fuck-you, like a can-I-get-an-Amen, and she gets her Amen: “NO PEACE. FUCK THESE RACIST-ASS POLICE” and then, a pithy after- thought, “Fuck Twelve!” There are more drummers today than usual, baseball bats bashing against makeshift shields, marching-band drums, djembes. They keep the beat of the call and response, and the unity feels like triumph, like trust, like we could win a war together. Most marches are flamboyant and cheerful, with chatter and laughter and singing, with families and children. Today is different. We all smell it: yesterday’s tear gas, yesterday’s fear. The fresh marchers catch the scent from the ambushees and square their shoulders. Yesterday we were a meandering crowd. Today we're in sections: at the front, a fleet of ten, twenty personal vehicles, blinkers on, all doors open, blasting political rap with colorful black-heritage and BLM flags stick- ing out everywhere. A parade, Today they’re also a vanguard. Behind them, a hundred or so in purpose-bought riot kit, respirators and shatter-proof masks, helmets, tactical vests, fiberglass shields. Then the less protect- ed white shield, who get shot at less than protestors of color. Behind us, a mass in street clothes and COVID masks stretching back for blocks and blocks, and then a whole retinue, dozens of cars that just got cut off by the perimeter-bicyclists on the way to wherever and joined the demonstration. Once in a while the blocs ahead of me stop and crouch, and then I hear the command making its way backwards: “SHIELDS UP.” It echoes back and back, blocs crouching in a wave, packing close, pushing tote lids, trashcan lids, plywood boards up into a canopy that dapples the light and changes the colors of our skin. Head down under the canopy of shields around me, face tucked into my shoulder, I make eye contact with a butch lesbian. Her face is lit buttercup-yellow by her storage-lid shield; half her blue undercut sticks out under her skateboard helmet. Her eyes, when they catch mine, are searching – alert, guarded, uncertain, looking to the people around her for direction. She doesn’t have the muscle-memory of a soldier under fire. None of us do. I think of black-and-white videos of race riots from the sixties, grainy in dark, hushed classrooms. I imagine some other sheltered ten-year-old watching a video of last night, moved but understanding nothing. Thinking violence is stupid, these people are stupid, when I grow up I’ll just be a pacifist. I know it's useless to be ashamed of your childhood conceits, but I'm ashamed anyway. “Who protect us?” The call goes up when we get going. “WE PROTECT US!”The response is an accusation. Yesterday, we marched into their – listen, there’s no other word for when the entire police department, plus reinforcements, blocks off every outlet of a busy down- town thoroughfare with wailing squad cars and sound canons and drones. We marched, singing and praying, into a setup. They announced that our gathering was illegal. Since peaceful demonstration was the only legal form of protest we did have, thank you very much, we stayed. We milled. I didn’t know what the hell was happening, or whether there was a plan, or what, but nobody was “dispersing.” The first time I watched a fucking phalanx of riot-kitted cops advancing on me, I wondered if I was going to end up getting hurt. I wondered if I was okay with that, and decided I was. What did I know? I was a white college kid in America; the worst fight I ever got into was with my brother in my grandparents’ backyard. All I got was a black eye everybody at school assumed was paint, because I was the art teacher’s protégé. Yeah. This time there wasn’t a phalanx, and I discovered that the fight that gives you time to wonder is the only one that definitely won't kill you. One minute, there were the cops with all their bewildering lights and noises on the other side of their little barricade, and there was us, milling, tensing, chanting but not together – and then a snapping. Everything moved, everything swarmed. I stopped thinking. I was a reflex with a pair of eyes. The clarity was corrosive. I still have photographic snap- shots: little packs of a dozen or fifty or four protesters being kettled by tear gas clouds, individual skirmishers, organizers, random berserker cops. Pepper bullets, impacting harder than I feel, bursting against chest, arms, throat, impact-clouds scudding away siren-red and blue on the wind. Tear-gas cannister shrilling by one ear. One clattering against the ground a foot away. Nearby voices: “Throw it back! Throw it back!” and the searing screaming metal weight against gloved fingers and the arc right back into gas-masked ranks. I breathed it in. I have asthma, which made it worse, but apparently everyone who gets a good lungful feels like they’ll never take another breath. My throat was molten, fused closed. I’ve always misused the phrase “on fire” when it comes to physical sensation. I’ve used it to describe moderate spiciness in food. I’ll never do that again. My eyes swelled shut. My heart pounded so fast I thought it had stopped. I don’t know what my body was doing, but I’m sure it wasn’t helpful. Someone behind me grabbed me under the arms and pulled me back through the crowd. I was passed from hand to hand, pushed toward uncontaminated air as everyone herded away from the cloud. I remember the pressure of so many hands on my shoulders, back, arms, strangers’ voices reassuring me, a desperate trust in the nebulous, composite, essential good I heard in every one, and then the ground. The medic who flushed my eyes and mouth is a wisp in my memory, mostly deft hands and medical authority, the ridge of a nose, duct tape red crosses. She wouldn’t let me go until she was sure I had an exit plan. I remember an uncanny distance. I slid back into the chaos, tangible as pool water, but it might as well have been on another planet. I walked away from it without even flinching at the sonic booms and the canisters the cops were still shooting into the smaller crowds they’d successfully separated. Fires and detritus and spent canisters, smoke and gas and screaming. I saw all of it and felt none of it. The battlefield extended by a block every time I heard a scuffle or breaking glass out here in the residential streets, or the sirens still racing periodically back and forth. I realized I needed to pee at the exact same time I started feeling pain. Streets signs loomed, none of them right, maybe I was lost, but I didn't quite care until I saw my brother’s car, parked right under the promised street-lamp, and I don’t remember getting home. This morning there were reports of police injuries. Few, and minor. No mention of protester injuries anywhere. I meant to Google “tear gas lingering effects,” but the reports won, so I kept digging. I found Daniel Prude’s story online. I knew the general strokes, but I wanted to understand. I read the national news accounts, which don’t say much except that he was having a mental episode, naked in the street. Wikipedia had more. I followed the links to inflammatory articles designed to be clicked. Some of them skew far right – their verdicts are “sometimes people just die when you restrain them, nothing to be done,” and “the police standing around didn’t know what was happening, they’re good cops.” Others are centrist, their wording more subtly absolving the police of any wrongdoing, and mostly omit any contradictory details. Some skew left. Those ones have the most neutral wording, but no more detail. No more data. Didn't all this start because the police finally released Mr. Prude's, report? To who? Where the hell was it? Where is Vaughn's body cam footage? I have only third-hand, fourth- and fifth-hand sources, all biased, all motivated. But some things I know. I’m a DSP, trained to prevent and deescalate episodes like Mr. Prude’s with zero injuries (it's not complicated, but you usually catch some hands and almost always get spat on, so prevention is better). I know brute force is more likely to exacerbate a psychotic episode than mitigate one, and that decisive force seems to be the best-used tool in police force arsenals all over the country. I know that the police are legally not obligated to protect anyone. I know that US police forces are legally empowered to use debilitating and sometimes lethal chemical weapons on civilians. I know that the US reserved that right specifically. I know that lawmakers see no problem with repeatedly signing documents that further restrict the cruelty of soldiers against other soldiers actively trying to kill them, at the exact same time that they give free reign to police forces against their own unarmed citizens. Who do you protect? Who do you serve? Not us. That’s the law. The call: “Who protect us?” The response: “WE PROTECT US.” And they did, over and over, every night. Me, last night, and who knows how many others. I bought a gas mask. So of course, after all our drilling and preparations an upgrades, the cops just stand there. The protest organizers ask everybody to sit down, if they can, if they have room. Hundreds do. It’s a show of good faith, a demonstration of peace. And the police in their line formations, behind their barricades, let us be. They let us listen to our speakers, let us set up sound systems across the street, let us eat pizza and dance. The demonstration becomes a block party, there in the front of the fortress. Cops go back inside gradually, until there’s just a token presence, one line armed with pepper guns on each concrete staircase. Maybe they’ve done some thinking since last night, figured out some things. Maybe they’re trying to show they won’t escalate things again. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. At my first protest, the RPD completely ignored substantial damage to marked cruisers, and calmly herded hundreds of peaceful protesters away from personal cars set on fire by a handful of agitators in the parking lot (after firing tear gas into the peaceful majority, of course), and didn’t even blink when people threw water bottles. Now they set up riot control pens along march routes. Our behavior hasn’t changed. More of us have bought better helmets, and we’re all more conscious of escape routes, medical contingencies, and vulnerabilities. Our goal is to keep each other safe and healthy in the face of escalating riot control measures. We brought more sugary snacks and thicker tote lids. The RPD brought more force. The deaths we protest won’t end just because they took stood down for one night. Until that bloody lineage ends, we plan on standing right here, between them and the black men and women and trans folk, the lawyers, artists, lobbyists, doctors, poets, queer activists parents siblings cousins godparents preachers parishoners atheists singers cashiers baristas bus drivers birdwatchers Netflix bingers potters linguists nurses patient techs broke-ass bitches rich fucks hopefuls scrubs ballas drunks carpenters welders teachers students fitbit obsessives Dorito-conniseurs novelists readers tree-huggers grill-experts gangstas queens all the people who pick up a mic every single night, and ask for justice. There isn’t a riot yet. But I have a gas mask now.
No Riot Here
Tiernan Chase
"Gearhead": a protester decked in surplus tactical anti-riot gear turns toward a SAVE ROCHESTER organizer as she begins a speech over her bullhorn, Feb 23, 2021
an officer on the perimeter line makes "eye contact" with the iPhone across the barricade, Sep 6, 2020
5
agitators flip cars across the street from the Public Safety Building, May 30, 2020
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peaceful protestors with their backs to less peaceful destruction May 30, 2020
OLAPOSI PETERS desert
Rylee Neumann
Over the river and across the bridge lies the desert. a desert that lacks the heat that scorches the little hairs on your arm, and makes jist of the sunscreen you applied before stepping out of your house. Don't be deceived, the desert is not a large piece of land, rather a small island in the midst of the city sandwiched houses and sidewalks peppered with cigarette butts and spotted with abc gum, a few parks, graffittied swings a random community garden established in hopes of eradicating the desert. Paradise found in Dayquane’s mother’s arms He asks… mama what for dinner She sarcastically responds canned beans and some stale wonder bread Again… Dayquane responds He appreciated his mothers efforts to try to put food on the folding table, which had rust on its hinges and was decorated with vibrant flowers that baby Ella drew onto the white plastic rectangular panels. Flowers in the Desert? Not many, maybe a few wild daffodils that sprouted from the foundations of the old brick buildings. Momma had to walk a half a mile and take 3 busses to cross over the bridge that lies above the river, to get to the green grocer. A journey that cost her more than the goods. So She settles for processed sugars and fats sold at Uncle Mike's convenience store. Dayquane and his family surrender to their circumstances and enjoy their routine meal for it was the five digit code that determined their fate The routine has been interrupted for a year now and has brought uncertainty to regular canned beans and stale wonder bread. The virus feasts on the inhabitants of this neighborhood. Parched and famished Dayquane thirst to leave the desert
Desert
Someone yelled for us to move forward. My ankles ached and my throat still burned from the last round of gas, but I stayed with the line as we crept up, the asphalt beneath our knees splotched with white powder. It wasn’t long before the gas came again, pop pop pop as the pellets hit the ground. The man next to me, a big man with dark hands and dark eyes, looked down. “You good?” As he spoke, a siren blared in front of us. I nodded. He nodded back, adjusted his shield. “We’re here together, aight? We’re all here together. They can’t do nothin’ to us.” I nodded again and looked back at the rows and rows of feet behind me. We’re all here together. The big man linked his arm with mine, our shields knocking together. “And I got you. You got me, I got you. They can’t do nothin’ to us.” “Thank you,” I said, and he didn’t hear me over the siren, but his arm stayed looped through mine. He’s got me, I’ve got him. He looked up towards the line of men in front of us, their shiny riot helmets glaring under the streetlights, guns pointed at us. He wasn’t afraid of them. I looked down at my boots, grey with powder. The announce- ment ordering us to disperse came again. “Man, fuck y’all,” I heard the big man shout. Plastic bottles flew over my head, up to the men in front of us. Pop pop pop. My leg stung and I looked down to find a circle of powder just above my knee. I held my breath and kept my head down low. The big man wasn’t beside me anymore. I hadn’t noticed his arm leave mine. We’re all here together. We’re all here together.The gas finally got to my eyes, burning and burning and burning as I tried to keep them open enough to see where I was going. I grabbed a shoulder somewhere beside me. “I can’t see,” I told it, and an arm held me up. “I can’t see,” I tried to say again, and I started to cough and couldn’t stop. Up ahead, through the haze of gas, the wall of plastic shields and umbrellas reformed, ready for the next round. I knew their eyes burned and their throats hurt and their ankles ached, and I knew they would keep forming their wall, again and again, protecting the crowd behind them. We’re all here together.
Untitled
by Serah-Marie Maharaj
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"I didn't mean to kill it!"
wilted coral cactus by Jackie Liu
PANDEMIC PLANTS: WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
avocado seedling, stock
10
"He fell over and died."
I grew up on a hill, constantly surrounded by jungle-like vegetation, and was appalled by the lack of greenery in Rochester – particularly during winter. So, I developed a borderline obsession with growing plants of my own. If nothing looked alive outside, I’d make the inside teem with life. My dorm was henceforth refered to as “the Greenhouse” by everyone on my floor, and despite the occasional side-eye, I loved it. When quarantine hit, it seemed lots of college kids who previously couldn’t understand my love of plants were suddenly cultivating plants of their own. They’d post their new plant on social media and show off every new leaf it sprouted.It’s now been a while since I’ve seen any updates on their plant journeys, and since college students aren’t known to be the most responsible group, I began to wonder… what happened to those previously prized pandemic plants? Armed with a burning curiosity, and my personal meeting ID, I set off to find out where all those poor plants are now. Thanks to the magic of Zoom, I was able to interview Lowestoft-born James Crowther in England. At 22, James had never had a plant for long before killing it off. During lockdown, as his father ate an avocado, James was struck with the realisation that “it would be really cool to have a big avocado tree and eventually lots of avocados.” So he germinated this avocado seed (or “stone” as it’s called in Britain) in a fish tank until Señor Avokadoo sprouted. “I didn't expect this emotional connection,” he divulged. “I’ve become really attached to him.” His joy was short-lived. “Avocado trees are meant to be kept warm or inside during cold weather,” James informed me. “Earlier this year, I forgot about the existence of Señor Avokadoo and it snowed. On the last day of the snow being there, I remembered his existence and I felt really bad because I completely forgot to give him a little blanket.” “I was very upset. Nearly cried,” he said. “I’ll never forgive myself.” Luckily, Señor Avokadoo has since recovered, but James suffered another emotional blow soon after. It turns out Señor Avokadoo is a male tree and will never produce avocados. James won’t quit on him, though. “It’s almost like I’ve raised him from a baby and he’s my child.” James is determined to be a more responsible plant parent now, and will ensure Señor Avokadoo is always well-blanketed as he continues to grow. Not all inexperienced new plant owners were this lucky after they screwed up, though. 21-year-old Shannon Murty from Buffalo, NY is currently caring for a succulent by the name of Janthony II. I asked her why she’d chosen to name him “the Second.” “He’s Janthony II because Janthony I died.” Now I was curious what exactly had happened to Janthony I. “It was just downhill since I first got him. It was a very slow death until he lost all his leaves and shrivelled up.” It turns out Shannon had condemned Janthony I to a tiny pot that dehydrated him to death. She insists, though, that Janthony II is carrying on Janthony I’s legacy. We’ll hope his fate is less tragic. Bradley Martin, 21, from Fulton, was feeling sad during quarantine, so in an effort “to feel something more out of life,” he bought a bonsai kit off Amazon. “There’s the entertainment aspect of very slowly watching it grow and high-fiving the branch when it grows a new leaf!” I was fairly certain young plants didn’t appreciate high-fives, and unfortunately, Bradley confirmed my belief. “He fell over and died,” Bradley admitted. But Bradley is determined not to let this failure discourage him from future bonsai-growing. “One day I shall try again,” he declared. “If I tried enough times, eventually I might be able to do it. That might cause a whole bunch of death in my wake to learn but it’s okay.” Since his first son’s death, Bradley has proclaimed himself a plant-father, and while telling me about his two new sons, Barry the Bonsai and Cactus the Cactus, I asked after the potted succulent he’d had sitting behind him this whole time. “I completely forgot about it!” was his response. I wish all his future plant sons luck. 19-year-old Christin Lee from Trinidad couldn’t decide between a pandemic pet or a pandemic plant — so she got both. She’d had both James Bonsai, a 6-year-old Chinese Elm, and her puppy Rafiki for about 3 months before The Incident. James and Rafiki had shared everything: the same sitting area, Christin’s love, and even the same water. That’s right. Whenever Christin remembered, she would pour water from Rafiki’s water-bowl into James’ pot. Yikes. One day, Christin says, she chained Rafiki up, and two minutes later, heard the chain rattling, followed by a loud thud. On investigating, she found James Bonsai on the floor, snapped in half, and Rafiki’s dirty paws betraying the innocence in his eyes. Distressed, Christin ran to James, scooping up as much dirt as she could. She then proceeded to “basically perform surgery on James, suturing him back together with twine and tape.” Unfortunately, the top half of James Bonsai now lives in a shot glass filled with water while his bottom half stands headless in his original pot. Rafiki, Christin reports, has shown no remorse. 20-year-old New Jersey resident Julia Granato hasn’t a single plant in sight in her room. That’s probably a good thing considering she exploded her last one. Julia told me she found it “hard being indoors most of the time” and that she liked “the idea of plants,” so, she got herself a pretty big coral cactus. “I genuinely thought it was doing fine, because it looked fine, from the outside, until it burst and then you could tell from the inside it was goo.” When asked about her care routine, Julia divulged that she had practically been drowning the unnamed cactus in water multiple times a week. “I woke up one day and it was everywhere. It was as if it had exploded on my shelf. I felt it and it was soggy and looked like it was rotting. It literally looked like it had been shot with a pistol. It was traumatising.” Julia has since realised plants are not the answer to her quarantine blues and will be steering clear of cacti from now on — much to their relief, I’m sure. Finally, 21-year-old self-proclaimed plant-mom, Vanessa Acevedo, actually did have plants before the pandemic, but decided to add to her collection of ivy, dumb cane, succulents, pothos, aloe, a swiss-cheese plant, a peacock fern, and her cacti, Sunny and Beatrice. Vanessa’s viney pothos could b seen hanging down her wall, and trailing across her bright, sunny window. She told me she’s now “obsessed with the cottagecore aesthetic” and “wants it to look like there’s a plant monster growing under [her] house and overtaking it and drowning [her], but it’s not; [they’re] best friends.” Unfortunately, Vanessa got her wish with her newest addition, lovingly dubbed “The Evil One.” Vanessa described The Evil One as “tiny, gorgeous, dainty” and “baby pink with polka-dots” when she first got it from Walmart at the beginning of lockdown. As it grew, its leaves turned “deep red and scary-looking.” The Evil One grew upwards, to a startling 3 feet, rather than bushing out as it was supposed to. She tried trimming to contain it, but it would not be contained. It creeped her out so much, she always “forgot” to water it, yet it never died. Deciding that the plant now gave her “creepy evil vibes,” she put it outside where it was cold, got barely any sunlight and no water at all, yet it still wouldn't die. One day, her cousin was weed-whacking and “completely chopped its head off.” She thought this was the end; she would finally rid herself of this possessed plant, but it kept growing up tall. “I kinda want to burn it or something,” she remarked. “It’s evil.” So, it would seem the answer to this reporter’s question is simple: most of those previously flaunted pandemic plants are in the composting pile now. But it may be that the plant killers are the fortunate ones compared to green-thumbed Vanessa, whose pandemic plant may someday kill her…
DAILY NEWS
Xupei Ou
"Completely chopped its head off"
I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and close my eyes, trying to meditate and be tired. It has been three hours and I still cannot fall asleep. I hear birds tweeting, which means I have stayed up the whole night. The tweets are like a “good night” to me in the morning and I quickly fall asleep when I hear them. I open my eyes and close them again. Though I am awake, I don't want to get up. After a ten-minute nap, hunger drives me to do something. I check my phone and it is 2 pm now. My phone tells me that I received an email from EgyptAir so I open it. It states my flight from the US to China is canceled again. This is the third time I have received an email telling me I cannot go home. I throw my phone onto the bed. I want to cry, but as an adult, it is hard for me, so I just stand there, frown, close my eyes, and breathe strongly to calm myself down. I thought I would not stay in the US for long. I would go back to my family and enjoy the holiday with them, but now this bright future is gone again. I cannot see hope. I go to bed again, just lie on it, and breathe, not doing anything, not thinking anything. I don’t know how long has passed, maybe minutes, but then I realize I need to get up. Many people have lost something during this pandemic— their job, freedom, and even loved ones, but they are still struggling to fight against these horrible truths. Being trapped in the US is not a big deal. I can still make my life become meaningful and fulfilled. I get up to tidy my quilt, and my phone falls on the ground when I move the quilt. I pick it up, put it on my desk, and go to the bathroom. When I am brushing my teeth, I can see the deep, dark bags under my eyes. The right side of my head hurts and it feels like a worm is wriggling in my brain. I yawn frequently and I can feel my heart beating. I don't really care because I have experienced this for many days after the pandemic. To feed myself, I then spend about half an hour cooking noodles. I bought the noodles from a Chinese grocery store and they are authentic Chinese noodles, which are white, smooth, and resilient. With some salt and two eggs, they can become very delicious. When I moved to my room and began to live alone, food was the problem. Though I could buy it in Walmart or get some from my university’s food pantry, I did not know how to cook. For the first two days, I survived by eating cereal and cup noodles, and then I realized I had to learn to cook, so I asked my mom for advice and watched Youtube videos. For a green hand, my mom’s advice is more helpful than that of the master chef in videos. Cooking was not easy for me. At first, I made many mistakes and ruined my food a lot, but luckily, I was tolerant enough to swallow it. My meat was either overcooked or too raw or it ate like plain meat without any flavor. I even started a fire alarm when I tried to fry some chicken legs. However, hard work pays off. My food finally began to be eatable and even delicious. When eating my hot noodles, I watch Detective Conan. This anime is the only thing I found that can kill much of the time because it has more than one thousand episodes. In the anime, Conan is a high school detective who becomes an elementary student by being forced to eat a special drug and he still tries to solve murders as a child. The fantastic ways he solves all the murders and his perfect explanations often impress me. However, Canon is like “death” because wherever he goes, someone will be murdered. When I see Canon smile and someone sends a bullet comment saying, “See, the death smiles. Someone is gonna die,” I burst into laughter. Fortunately, there are no noodles inside my mouth. Eating the noodles I made and watching Japanese anime alone; these are the things I would never expect myself to do at this moment before the pandemic. What I expected was to go home and meet my family and then go back to the US to work as a biology lab assistant. Now I am not going home and my job got canceled. I finish my lunch and wash the dishes. I remember I plan to go to Walmart and then read The Adventure of Huckleberry Finn after lunch, but my headache allows me to give up these plans, or I am too lazy so I find an excuse for myself. Then I lay on my bed and feel very alone and hollow inside, so I try to call my family on WeChat. Due to time zone difference, the only person I can talk to is my brother who is in the UK now. We chat about our daily lives, like what we eat and what we do in our free time. He also tries to stay in his room because the pandemic is severe in the UK as well. He asks if I want to go home and I tell him my flight got canceled again. This is the third time and I got this news two days ago. I have booked three tickets from three different flight companies, but all flights were not available due to the strict flight ban in China. I really want to go home, to eat Chinese food, and to see my family face to face. I have been gone for a year. I have never left home for that long. What is ironic is I flaunted how well the pandemic was under control in the US four months ago to my family. I remember I said, “Oh, you have to stay at home, have a course online, and wear masks. Here, it is pretty safe. The US has the best doctors and hospitals and the US government completely took control of the virus. My friend’s parents even fled from China to California to avoid the virus.” I remember I joked with a friend at the gym about how the Chinese government faked the number of infections caused by Coronavirus. “Only fifty thousand people got infected. It seems not to be credible,” many people thought. However, yesterday NBC Nightly News stated that thousands of Americans got infected every day and many stores, except grocery stores, closed. People were encouraged to stay at home but many people were still outside attending unnecessary events like parties, risking their life. People across the country were also protesting for George Floyd. The racism issue finally enraged Americans again and people are trying to end it. This is a special period for this country and I am witnessing it now. Millions of people are gathering on the streets, speaking out their voices. I am impressed by their determination to fight for equality because they choose to protest during the pandemic, but I also worry about their safety because gathering will increase infections and some people even refuse to wear a mask. For the past hour, I chat happily with my brother. He says he is going to buy his lunch so we end the call. Suddenly, I don’t know what to do. I sit on my bed and look outside the window in a daze. I can see a small pine tree and a blue sky. Not knowing how long it lasted, I have my consciousness back when my head lowers spontaneously. I slap my face a few times to be more conscious and energetic and shake my head, and then I decide to read How to Read A Book, which is a book that teaches the readers how to read a book. I like some of the methods it talked about and I really use them in my reading. They make my reading more efficient. However, I am a lazy person, so after about twenty pages, I stop reading the book. The book tells me to insist on reading continuously if started, but this just does not work for me, especially in this special period. To have fun, I open my computer and begin to play an online card game. I started to play this game three weeks ago when I was super bored. The reasons why I like this game are because I used to play with my friends in high school. Moreover, I was good at it, and also this game allows players to chat with each other by typing. I am always the one who sends out lots of messages and many players even berate me for that. My parents asked me not to meet my friends and also most of my friends have gone, but I seek interaction with people and try to use it to fill the huge, hollow hole inside me, but it was never filled, not through the game. I don’t know how long I played until my phone reminds me to look at the time. It is 6:50 pm now. I quickly finish the game and feel a little giddy. This is what people will do after playing games for hours. I detest myself more now because I spent three hours playing video games. I really want to pound myself. At the beginning of summer break, I planned to read books and short stories, chat with my family, and do regular housework every day to fulfill my life, so it is hard for me to forgive this asshole that just wasted three hours in the video game. My phone reminds me to join Eason Chan’s online concert, which will start at 7 pm. I sit excitedly, open the link of the concert, and grab some chocolate candies. Because the concert is hosted on a street and started in Hong Kong’s early morning, I can barely see anyone’s face at first. Sun has not risen yet. I recognize Eason Chan immediately though because his conspicuous fat face cannot even hide in the dark. Because of his fat face, we fans call him fat Chan sometimes. However, as the sun rises, I am impressed by Hong Kong’s beautiful morning. I can see the gentle, cold wind from Eason’s flowing hair. I can see people jogging on the street and bright, yellow flashes from numerous skyscrapers along the Victoria Harbour. As Eason is singing Golden Era, the sun rises. The faint morning sunshine is on every corner. The ground is golden, people are golden, and all the extremely tall buildings are golden. I did not listen to Golden Era before because it is an old song that young people barely know, but once I hear it I know why it used to be one of the most popular songs in Hong Kong. The melody and lyrics are classic and comfortable, and I am attracted to this song immediately. By watching this beautiful scene and listening to wonderful music performed by my favorite singer, my heart is cured. When Golden Era ends with Eason's naughty “good morning, everyone,” I forget all of my troubles and only try to enjoy this special moment. Now I am singing the songs he performs. I do not usually do this because it used to feel embarrassing to sing. I even do not do karaoke with my family or friends, but whatever, I am alone and nobody will hear me. I am willing to express myself in any way, speaking or singing, even to nobody. I have stayed in my room alone for half a month and my mind starts to break down. I once heard someone say people will die without interacting with others and I did not believe it. Now that I am experiencing loneliness and pain, I confirm that must be so. The online concert only lasted for half an hour, shorter than I expected, but this special gift gives me some hope. I stand up, play an Eason Chan song, put on my earphones, and go to the kitchen to make dinner. Before I open the fridge, I have no idea what I am going to cook. I see a few chunks of beef in freezing vapor, so I take them out. I decide to cook some steaks for dinner. I poured some oil into a pan first and heat the oil to the right temperature. My mom taught me that one way to check the temperature is putting my hands above the oil and feel it, so I do it. I don't have lots of experience so I put my steaks into the pan after I personally feel the oil is hot enough. When the steaks hit the oil, I can see white fumes coming out of the pan and the hot oil is sizzling. I turn on the ventilator and flip the steaks multiple times with my spatula in the next minutes. When I see no blood is coming out, I begin to add seasoning like salt and black pepper. This time I don’t add BBQ sauce because it spoiled my food once. Soon I finish the steaks and put them onto a ceramic plate I prepared. While I am enjoying the steaks, I watch Detective Canon again and this time Canon “kills” three people within two episodes. What a professional “death” he is! At the same time, I call my grandma on Wechat. She has not seen me for a year. I remember the last time I left her, she cried. Although there were no tears, I could see her watery, red eyes. Every time I call her, she always asks me to come home. The call is on and I see her face. We used to talk only by calling but to see my face, she learned how to use WeChat. “Did you have your dinner?” she says in my hometown language. This is usually the opening dialogue in my hometown’s culture. “I am eating it. How about you?” “Not yet. What did you have for your dinner?” “Some steaks. I made them.” “You know how to cook them?” “Yeah, but I am not a good cook yet. Mom taught me to cook them.” “How’s the food? Is it delicious?” “Emm…So-so.” “After the cooking, make sure you turned off the fire and all the electronics in the kitchen.” “Don’t worry. I told you so many times that I used electronic heating to cook. There was no fire.” “Hah, hah, did you?” Then we talk about what I do every day. I lie to her by saying I have fulfilled every day by waking up early and having many things to do, and then she asks, “Did you buy the flight ticket?” “Unfortunately, the flight ticket got canceled again. I will try to buy a new one and hopefully, it won't be canceled.” “Right, keep tracking on that. Also, your cousin Qian knows a friend who is selling flight tickets from the US to China. Do you want me to ask his friend?” “You don’t have to do that. I will contact him if I am not able to buy another ticket. This time I will make sure the flight will take off.” “Yeah, make sure the flight can take off…You go on eating your dinner. I am going to make breakfast.” “Okay, bye.” “Bye, call me tomorrow.” “I will. Bye.” Soon I finish the steaks and wash my dishes and it is 8 pm now. Time to take a shower. After the pandemic, I had a bad habit: I bring my phone into the bathroom and play Cantonese songs. Most of the songs are sung by Eason Chan. To be honest, I can only understand part of the songs without looking at lyrics because I only learned Cantonese by listening to songs or watching Hong Kong’s TV channels. However, I still like them so much. Their lyrics are deep and the melody is beautiful. Also, Cantonese has more ways to be pronounced than Mandarin and its songs are more powerful and emotional in my opinion. I make the music loud enough so that I can hear it even when surrounded by the sound of water falling and dropping. Sometimes I sing if I remember how to pronounce the lyrics, but often I don’t. I don't like taking a shower only with the sounds of water. It just makes me hollower. After the shower, it is usually so quiet in my room. In the daytime, I can hear sounds of construction of a new art history building on campus, but now, I can barely hear anything except for my working air conditioning. Even bugs all shut up. To eliminate the horrible quietness, I usually self-talk. I watched the movie Cast Away and the protagonist Chuck always talks to himself when he is trapped on a desert island to get rid of loneliness, so I do the same thing for the same purpose. I briefly summarize what I did today and comment on important things, like canceled flight tickets and video games. Most of the time I tell myself what I did wrong, what I should do, and what great things happened today. Self-talking has become the most powerful treatment for my “disease of loneliness.” I call it a disease because I can feel something is wrong with me psychologically. I feel my mind is not healthy. I put my clothes into the wardrobe, and then I sit on my bed for a break. I don't know why I become tired so easily. It is like my body becomes weaker. The night is usually my reading time and I am reading Norwegian Wood. Norwegian Wood is a special book for me. Japanese people in the late 1960s Tokyo and the elements of modern romance and sexuality make me preoccupied with this book. I am reading the part that after Naoko left Toru, Toru hangs out with a new girl Midori and even cooks dinner in her house. Then Toru and Midori find out there is a fire a few blocks from the house, so they bring some beers and sit on the rooftop to enjoy the fire. Drinking beers, appreciating big fire, chatting with people you love, and not caring for anything. How romantic it is! As a “child” who strictly follows parents’ rules, I don’t know modern adults can be so free and rotten until I read this book, and it gives me a desire to be like them. Maybe everyone sometimes wants to discard their old life and to live more freely and romantically, even though others say it is bad to do so. Now without the constraint from my parents, maybe I can try out the life I want. When I have finished a few chapters, I look at the time and recognize that I spent one and a half hours reading and it is 10 pm now. I have not been rapt in reading like that for a long time. I usually did not have as much free time as I have now for my interests. Many experts said taking a walk before sleeping can help you fall asleep so I usually do it though it is seldom helpful. I take my phone and earphones with me. Some Cantonese songs will make walking more enjoyable. When I open the door and go outside, a cold wind blows through me. I am in a T-shirt and shorts, so I feel chilly. I then walk on a street on campus with many lamps right beside me. Many smart spiders construct their tarps on the lamps. They must be having big meals every day. Countless mayflies are around the lamps and many of them are on spider nets. They can only survive for days as an adult, but this spark of their lives creates an unprecedented scene for me. Orange light shines on numerous mayflies, and lamps become thickly dotted. Almost all the lamps on my way are like that. Mayflies are rushing at these lamps, chasing something I don’t know, sacrificing their lives. They know they are going to die but infatuation with light makes them not stop. They are small and will only live a few days, but they are still risking their lives to thrive. Spiders are sitting on the center of their nets, even though they have already gotten many mayflies on the nets. They must be so full that they don't care. Though so many mayflies are eaten by spiders or burned by hot lamps, next year the mass of mayflies will appear again. Although so many mayflies make me a little uncomfortable, I am glad that I can see this. I turn a corner and see a basketball playground and the unfinished art history building. I take off my mask and put it in my pocket when I am sure nobody is around. The college wants the building to be built with red bricks and to have a brown roof, like other buildings on campus. A few orange lights are showing its basic frame made of steel girders. I could hear the sound of construction from it in the daytime, but now constructors are gone, leaving this lonely building showing its stalwart body in faint orange lights. I stop and look at it. It sits so quietly there. For no reason, I feel it is beautiful, even more beautiful than the other finished buildings beside it, so I take a picture using my phone. I keep walking and I see a firebug shining, so I get closer. Suddenly, I see more and more of them above the farmland. They suddenly appear and suddenly disappear as their lights turn on and off. I try to see them closer, but in the dark I can only see their bright yellow light. I take off my earphones and sit down on a lawn, facing those incredible creatures.If I was back in China, I might never have had a chance to encounter this beautiful scene, breathe the clean, cold air, and enjoy the loneliness. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and open my eyes. Everything around is so calm. Nobody is out there. There is only the sound of wind floating through leaves on pine trees and many yellow dots flying in front of me. I sit there, completely alone, and enjoy the special gift given by this era.
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golden era
Serah-Marie is a self-proclaimed plant mom and aspiring editor. She enjoys cooking exotic foods, reading more books than she’s got time for and playing with her two puppies. She’s currently working on showcasing all of her favorite writing and editing projects at serah-marie.webflow.io but it turns out coding takes far more time than she realised.
Post-Surgery James Bonsai, photo by Christin Lee
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He Would Have
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This sentence has been humming through my head ever since I heard it. On Thursday, September 3rd, I attended the candlelight vigil for Daniel Prude in downtown Rochester. This event was supposed to start at a church (I don’t know which one), but upon arriving, we were swiftly marched away with the crowd at command of the organizers. We walked to 453 Jefferson Ave, the address where Daniel Prude was brutally murdered by members of the Rochester Police Department. This was where I learned why we had quickly left the church - police officers had shown up, and their presence was certainly not welcome. “I’m so sorry that you guys showed up to this gathering of peace and mourning to see them there.” The speaker was livid. “And I can tell you,” he paused. “If Jesus was in that church, he would’ve flipped a table. “Do you think Jesus was sitting pretty with the apostles? No, Jesus would be out here walking the streets with us. “That’s a building.” He pointed to a different church that we were all seated next to. “The church is right here.” And his arm swept over the crowd. “If Jesus was back there, he would’ve flipped a table.” These are the sentiments that have stuck with me throughout these past few weeks of protesting, the words that ring through my brain as I stand down in front of the police line in order to protect those behind me. These are the words that echo back to me as we take off to march again and again and prepare to be brutalized again and again. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” 5:3 “Black lives matter.” When we chant this in the streets, it certainly feels spirited, but underneath that spirit is the collective pain of a disenchanted community. Black people have been continually beaten down and brutalized by a system that is supposed to protect all of its people since these systems were founded. This is a call for the recognition of black lives as human lives that hold the same weight as white lives. Those fighting for these rights are poor in spirit because they have been treated so cruelly and unfairly. The words of the Gospel offer affirmation to this community and assert that they will be rewarded for their fight. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” 5:4 “Say his name.” “Daniel Prude.” This call and response is an act of mourning. Every vigil, every gathering, every march is an act of mourning. Saying his name is an act of recognition and it is a promise that we will continue to mourn. We won’t forget about Daniel Prude or Breonna Taylor or any of the countless other lives that have been taken by police brutality. The connection between this Biblical phrase and this chant strikes me in a particularly ironic way because of the context in which I have experienced this chant. Thursday, September 3rd, that first gathering that I referenced above, was described as a vigil. It would be most accurately described as a day of mourning in comparison to the other days of protest. We marched to the RPD building and stood in front of the barricades shouting his name and repeating this chant. We were mourning, and we were shouting his name, recognizing his human death when we were tear gassed for the first time. According to Jesus’ words, we should have received comfort. We should have been allowed our space to mourn. Instead, we were attacked and forced to scatter. It instills within me the deepest sense of irony that I can describe. I will remember that moment for the rest of my life. I will remember that we should have been comforted. “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the Earth.” 5:5 “This is a marathon, not a sprint.” Meekness in this context refers to patience and a subtle sort of determination. When the organizers tell us that this fight is a “marathon, not a sprint” it instills this sense of meekness within all of us. It reminds us why we have been protesting every night, and why we will continue to protest. When the speaker said that Jesus would’ve been in the streets with us, he was referring to our position to fight for liberation. He could have also been referring to the steadfast determination of the protesters and the organizers. The organizers are confident that they will win this fight, and through their meekness, they will inherit the right to build a more just system. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” 5:6 “No justice, no peace.” This simple mantra is the core idea behind protesting. Protesting is meant to disrupt the comfort of the status quo, to infiltrate the lives who are comfortable living within this oppressive system that serves them. There will be no peace until there is justice because we are fighting for righteousness. As the Bible asserts, we should be filled and we should be victorious. Fighting for the right thing can be difficult and trying, but as long as we are striving towards the just goal of liberation, we should be successful. “Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.” 5:7 “Disarm. Disband. Free them all. Free the land.” Those who we are attempting to “free” with this chant are those who have fallen victim to this unjust system. I believe that this chant specifically ref- erences those who were imprisoned because of their participation in protests. We want to free them because they never should have been criminalized for doing their civic duty. This chant adheres to the role of mercy (forgiveness) as a core idea in the broader framework of abolition. Abolition aims to defund, then eventually abolish the police as we see them now. The idea of public safety in an abolitionist framework revolves around mercy and rehabilitation, instead of punishment. Punish- ment and imprisonment is retroactive in terms of attempting to “stop crime” and “better society,” and the resources used to punish people should be reallocated to systems that would actually help them. “Disarm” and “disband” are principles of mercy, and abolition as a whole relies more on forgiveness and betterment than it does punishment and evil. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.” 5:8 “Which side are you on, my people? Which side are you on?” This chant is sung, and for that reason, it is one of my favorites. It is incredibly powerful to sing in unison with a crowd - unison not only of pitches and words, but ideas as well. I believe that the tone behind this chant is reflective and encouraging - it forces you to examine your place in this fight. Which side are you on? This separation reminds me of this specific phrase of Jesus’. There is a difference between those who are pure in heart, and those who are not, much as this is also a divided issue. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” 5:9 “Why are you in riot gear? We don’t see no riot here.” The imagery that accompanies this chant makes me incredibly emotional. It brings me to a vivid moment: I am a young woman, I am five feet and two inches tall, and I am standing at the front of this rag-tag crowd of protesters. I am wearing all black to ward off the police drones overhead. I am wearing a helmet to protect myself against potential rubber bullets. I am wearing goggles in order to let as little tear gas in as possible. I am wearing a face mask to protect myself from coronavirus. I am holding a tiny, shitty umbrella in front of my face in case they start shooting. And in front of me, in front of people of all ages dressed exactly like me, is a line of police officers. They are dressed head to toe in riot gear - helmets, face shields, armor, big hefty shields, padding everywhere. They are holding batons. There are guns in their waistbands. We are shouting to them, trying to get them to listen, trying to make our voices heard. We are not rioting. We are singing. And they are prepared to attack. We are the peacemakers. “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” 5:10 “It is our duty to fight for our freedom. It is our duty to win. We must love and support each other. We have nothing to lose but our chains.” This chant is my favorite. I love the message of community and support, and it is so beautiful to shout this with strangers and know that you mean it.Protesting is scary. You put yourself out there, exposed to potential brutality from police officers or counter-protesters, or god forbid, COVID-19. But we are putting ourselves out there for the sake of righteousness. It is our duty to fight for our freedom. And that’s why it is worth it.
abby Johnson
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Flipped a Table
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Grocery Aisles don’t get too close we dance around bodies we don’t know an improvisation in grocery aisle 7 we take our cues from footsteps it’s okay, I’ll come back later there’s just too many people between the bread and me eyes dance to say what your shielded mouth can’t too many bodies I never used to know what six feet looked like but I know exactly what it feels like now Open Flame The people are angry After years of being silences Used to build the land you walk on so freely But this land is only free for few And for centuries the wrong systems have been used And this silence has never led to the change they are due The people are tired Of your silence Of trusting systems that were never meant to serve the people who don't look like you Of waiting for your world to finally work in their favor And if the institutions meant to protect and serve Won’t Then the people have every right to burn them to the ground
Katherine serna
your wall will destroy a home Laredo texas 96% Latino on the Rio Grande River your wall will destroy a home I don’t have to be affected to be angry but I am both third generation but not separated from the land you threaten I can touch the river from where I stand and see the cars of nuevo laredo hear them laugh and breathe if I stand close enough and I have third generation Abuelito knows Mexico in a way I never will but I know him in a way America never will he is my link a nd he lives and breathes the light of Guerrero he is his father’s hands and his mother’s eyes and his grandfather's land your wall will destroy lineage and you’d call it a success your wall will not separate us from his Mexico but it will tear down landscape architecture it will infect our water our blood
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Sister Cities
your wall will destroy a dream Abuelito’s vision lives in me a legacy and how convenient for you that the only people unaffected by your aggressive borders are Laredo’s 3.6% of white Non-Hispanic/Latino checkboxes located in the north past Del Mar too far away to be impacted approximately 10.56 miles away from everything you’re tearing apart your wall will destroy a home a dream but no matter your efforts to separate Laredo knows better and knows her sister too well Nuevo Laredo we’ll hear their cars and feel their breath we’re connected by the same river in a way you never will be your wall will never destroy that --a piece of laredo, the daughter of mexicans-americans, the great grand- daughter of immigrants, a victim of your hate.
To the boy in the shampoo aisle at Wegmans, with sandy hair that fell just so, the little swoop of caramel highlighted under harsh industrial lighting, thank you for being the image of perfection, even though you were wearing vans and basketball shorts. Your eyes were the most captivating part about you, blue and green and brown all at the same time, brought out by all the different colors of conditioner around you. You achieved suave and playboy all at once, hands tucked into pockets, phone out, baseball cap on. Very Instagram. I think I am in love, Or perhaps that’s just the quarantine talking. Regardless, you were beautiful, even with the N95 mask, a true 2020 miracle.
We'd like to thank University of Rochester Creative Writing students and faculty; Professor Mannheimer, chair, Department of English; Kathy Kingsley, coordinator, Literary Arts Program
We first read Tiernan Chase’s “No Riot Here” in our Advanced Fiction Workshop in the fall semester, 2020. We were in the midst of the pandemic, our classes were being conducted over Zoom, and we were all navigating an array of intense challenges, some wholly unfamiliar, some systemic in our society. Our students were producing powerful work in response to these challenges. Tiernan’s piece, with its vivid record of participation in the Black Lives Matter movement, showed our class how important it is to look at and not away from suffering and struggle. I remember that after we discussed the piece, I floated the notion of gathering representative student work from the year in an anthology, but I didn’t follow through with the project. The semester ended, students moved on to other classes, and I forgot about the proposal. Then, in the middle of the spring semester, I received an email from Tiernan, who indicated that he had a little spare time and wanted “to do something cool.” Tiernan asked if we could revamp the idea for the anthology. He offered to help. What happened, in fact, is that I handed him the reins, and he took off! He gathered material and with his co-editor, Serah-Marie Maharaj, he proofread, edited, and organized the submissions. Using many of his own images, he put together a high-quality publication. The result is “MASKED”—a collection of moving, expressive reactions and responses to a year that was like no other. I thank all our students who share their creative work in our classes, and special thanks to Tiernan Chase for making this anthology a reality. ~ Joanna Scott, Director, Literary Arts Programs
from our team
attributions
Cover: Untitled by Jim Montanus, cropped Contents: stills of “Flying a Drone Over Rochester New York,” video by Oleg Semchuk Pp.1-6: “Roadside Portent," “Eye Contact”, “Gearhead," “Flipping Your Shit” and “Property Damage," photos and manipulation by Tiernan Chase P.7: “Heroes Until Payday” by Michele Pawlak, cropped P.8: “Jubilant” by Tiernan Chase P.9: “Avocado Tree Nature” by 2301862, Pixabay, desaturated P.10: “wilted coral cactus” by Jackie Liu, desaturated P.11: “Post Surgery James Bonsai” by Christin Lee, desaturated P.12: “UrbEx Terminal: Outside In," by Tiernan Chase, desaturated P.13 “Rearview of a young businessman sitting alone at a desk n a dark office working on a laptop late in the evening” by mavo P.14: “The Live Is So Much Better With Music Eason Chan Charity Concert,” Eason Chan Facebook P.15: “Pouring vegetable oil into frying pan” by Ben Bryant P.16: “Taste the Atmosphere” album cover by Wing Shya P.17: “Firefly flying in the forest. Fireflies in the bush at night in Prachinburi Thailand. Long exposure photo.” by Wut Anunai P.18-21 “Dissenter on a Soapbox,” “Zealous Streetlight” and “Nobody needs that much hand sanitizer” photos and manipulation by Tiernan Chase P.22: “Mexico-USA Wall” by Jos Macouzet, desaturated, rotated P.23: “March 21, 2020. Grocery Aisle.” by Nina Ionta Credits: "Color Study" by Tiernan Chase
I’d never contributed to the creation of such a masterful work of art before. It was truly an honour to aid in the communication of so much raw, poignant exposition which so beautifully reflected on our current states of existence. There’s a lot of heart in this anthology; a lot of time and hard work was poured into its creation, and I got to work with some incredibly talented and very kind humans along the way. I'll hold this experience close to my heart for years to come. ~Serah-Marie Maharaj, Co-editor
A L VE LETTER GRACE FENG