Death.

The most earth-rattling, indescribable word.

How is it possible that it only takes a matter of seconds to never see someone again? Never talk to them again. Never see their life-changing smile again.

You try to come up with any and every possible reason why they were taken away from you, but you never find one that can heal the pain.

Everyone experiences all types of pain, from physical ache to heartbreak, but this type of pain is unbearable.

You can never escape it.

Sure, you learn how to suppress it on occasion, but that pain becomes a part of you.

It is a giant hole in your being, because the person you lost helped shape you.

I envy those who can find overwhelming peace by turning to the Lord in this unbearable time.

I wish I had that kind of relationship with God, to not have a doubt in my mind that everything was going to be okay. That the person I lost was the happiest they’ve ever been in the gates of heaven.

But the sad truth is that I do not know. I do doubt.

I don’t always understand.

At only 21 years old, how have I already experienced so much loss?

How was my best friend’s boyfriend so unhappy at the naïve age of 16 that he took his own life?

How could the most uplifting coach, mentor, and teacher be killed so suddenly, leaving behind his two little children without a dad?

How could three boys that were just about to embark on the best four years of their life encounter such a tragic incident, leaving one mentally handicapped and one gathering the community for a funeral?

How could everyone’s favorite Auburn Tiger, with the most God fearing family, no longer walk this earth?

And how could five beautiful college girls, that have made such a remarkable impact, have their futures cut short?

I have to believe everything happens for a reason.

I have to believe that heaven is one hell of a party.

I have to believe that these beautiful people served their purpose on earth, even in such a short time frame.

And I have to believe that eventually… we will all be okay.

This particular work of art was presented to my drawing class last spring for a critique. Our assignment was to draw whatever we wanted, however we wanted, and with whatever we wanted. No rules to break, no limitations to adhere to.

I chose to draw a nude figure with acrylic paint and indie ink and make a mixed media background for it with newspaper.

When presented for the critique, my classmates thought I was making a statement of sexual abuse.

When I heard this, I was shocked. Not because of the seriousness of the subject – because art deals with dark and serious issues all of the time – but because this could not have been farther from my intentions when I went to create this work.

I simply wanted to practice my figure drawing skills while using media I thoroughly enjoyed working with. I expected to be critiqued on my technical skill work with the figure’s anatomy and perhaps the interaction between the figure and the background.

When I expressed my intentions for the work to my classmates, everyone simply shrugged their shoulders and we moved onto the next student’s work hanging on the wall.

Later that day I called my mom, a professional oil painter, and I explained my classmates reactions to my figure drawing. My mom is a portrait artist by trade, and she also is a master of the human figure.

This work that I created was her favorite of mine up to that point in my life, which is something I am very proud of. She told me that she experienced similar things in the art world that I had experienced that day in class. Sometimes she felt that her art was boring compared to art other people were creating in the art world today. I can assure you, my mom’s paintings are far from boring. However, I knew exactly what she was talking about.
My generation of art students, at least based off of my observations for the past year and a half as an art student, is so caught up in being the next new crazy thing that the world has ever seen.

I fear that this desire to be different causes young artists to lose their appreciation for the traditional art.

I am not saying that every classical nude painted in Europe in the 18th century is fascinating, but I am saying there is something important we must take from work like that. Not all art has to have some deep, bizarre interpretation that may sound crazy to many people.

Some artists, like myself when I presented my nude figure, wanted to be appreciated for the technique and the creativity behind the work. I do not mean to say that I do not create work that has a deeper interpretation than the surface level, and when I do, it is up to the viewer to determine what that is.

I do hope, however, that while we, as art students, are taught to think and interpret creatively, we hold onto what interested us in the art world in the first place. For me, that was the love of drawing and creating, but I had to learn how to draw before I could even become decent at it. As many say, you must know the rules before you can break them.

A lot of people have things they don’t like.  And you know what I hate the most is being called a bitch and nigger.

First, do I have a tail? Four legs with paws and do I have fur all over my body?

Also, do I have my tongue sticking out of my mouth?  Do I bark to communicate?

When I was born could my mother fit me in the palms of her hand?

Let me think; ah no!

As I recall, I stand on my two legs, I have hands and I use words to express myself.

I don’t recall being born with a tail.

And then people try getting away with saying bitch by making some type of complement.

By saying dogs bark, and bark is on a tree, and a tree is nature and nature is beautiful.When people call me a bitch I want to peg a dictionary at their face and beat them with it and have them look up the word and see that being called a bitch is a sign of disrespect. I am not an animal, I am a human being. I will not tolerate being called anything else but my actual name that is on my birth certificate.

For the cherry on top then people call me a nigger.

I have an education, I dress properly. I have brown color pigment in my skin and they call me a nigger. I don’t go around calling people a cracker so don’t call me what I am not. If you want to talk to me like that, you don’t have an education then clearly you should go talk to someone who cares because I clearly don’t give two flying f—what you have to say to me.

By: Arielena Aquino

For 18 years I lived a cold story repeated over and over, in the winters of my mind.

One night I stood outside and looked up to the stars with my watery, hollow eyes questioning my self-worth. My emotions were an amusement park in a tornado of confusion. In 2012, my world almost ended… The Mayans were almost right. I blamed myself for everything. Why I wasn’t in the cool crowd, why didn’t girls share the same feelings I had for them and why can’t I be like everyone else? I was outside for hours torturing my mind with these questions.

Do you know what’s it’s like being mistaken as a basic, living in someone’s shadow or losing when you gave every fiber of your being to win?

It’s an endless abyss with little light hitting the bottom. Its like building up a championship worthy team and get to the playoffs and lose in crucial game 7’s. That heart-breaking, gut-wrenching, sickening feeling that overwhelms you when all your energy is… just wasted on an golden opportunity. Your body goes numb, emotions constantly fluctuating and burdens begin to get heavier on your frail back.

It took some deep meditation and some years, but I came to a groundbreaking conclusion. I know my value, my worth and what I deserve. I know and believe that everybody was created equally, but at the end of the day I feel that I’m better than most people. I mean no disrespect when I say that, it’s just that’s my motivation that forces me to work hard at everything I do.

I had to learn to stop comparing my life to others and focus simply on mines. I had to learn that if people don’t connect with me, it’s simply them not me. I had to stop questioning and beating myself up when people don’t like me because I’ve beat the odds. I’ve been getting slept on for way too long. And I’ve been waiting patiently for way too long.

I see myself as a first overall pick. I see myself as an All-Star.

I see myself as a king. I respect and hold myself in the highest regard. I don’t come second to no one in my opinion. I’m not a joke and I’m not here for people’s entertainment. I’m not conceited or pretentious. No, I’m just a real person with real thoughts, feelings and emotions.

I just be myself all the time and some people accept that, others don’t. I’m comfortable and at peace with that. I’m comfortable with who I am. I’m an open, honest and real person. I’m passionate, down to Earth and caring. I have a big heart. I’m also humble and cocky.

I don’t need a partner or person to determine my worth because I know it.  I’m not out here trying to be something I’m not just to impress a handful of people. I don’t need likes or shares to validate me either. I’m open to constructive criticism, but I really don’t care about other people’s opinions about me. I’m the biggest critic on myself, so I don’t need other people to coach me or give me pep talks. I give them to myself on the daily basis from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep.

It honestly takes too much energy for me to be fake or hate people. So much energy is wasted and drained from that. It gets to the point where its useless and stupid. Why spend the positive energy you have, get converted into negative energy on people who want to bring you down to their level? Believe me when I say  it’s all love on my end. It truly is, I’m going to give you love regardless even when you sticking a knife in my back. I believe that’s the best thing you can do for people, this eye-for-an-eye stuff only leaves people blinded. Why blind people even more with the world we live in today? For the people that wronged me at some point, I forgive them and keep it moving.

I know what you’re thinking, maybe I should change or conform because I’m a bad person.

That’s not the case at all. I’m a human being that’s wants to make the world a better place. I sincerely do, I don’t go out my way to do spread evil throughout the world. I mean I make my mistakes, but again I’m human. I smoke weed, drink and curse that’s about it. I don’t steal, cheat, hurt or do any serious things.

I’m not making this up to get attention or put me in your good graces, no this is me. I’m not saying I’m Jesus either, I just truly try to help make the world a better place and spread love.

Being that type of person in this world today is extremely difficult. The world is a hard place, it constantly tries to break people wills and swallow them up. Swallow them up until they’re hollow, generic shells that conforms to majority rule.

Every day i’m faced with that battle. Sometimes I feel like just selling out and joining the club, but I can’t do that. Some days I be at the point where I’m about to break, mentally and physically. But I can’t conform to society standard and be brought down to that level. I can’t transform into a person hating on the next man when there’s no need to. It’s hard being the type of person I am in this world. Sometimes I feel like I was born in the wrong era and feel foolish to try to uphold my standards and morals. But that’s my identity, that’s just who I am.

I’m not writing this to get sympathy or attention. I’m simply just a writer writing out his frustrations. It just disheartens me to keep getting overlooked, underappreciated and underestimated. I don’t want to have a chip on my shoulder when I’m doing things just to prove other people wrong. I feel as if I’m doing them out of spite, even though I’m passionate and willing to do them on my own free,  joyful will. I don’t want to entertain or give those people a show. No one deserves that and it’s sad people do that for free.

Shoes!

They come in different colors, textures, patterns, sizes, prices, and brands. The joy that I get when opening or trying on a new pair is just unexplainable. The fresh smell, the never been worn aspect and bright colors, untouched by nature, is just so enamoring.

It’s like being knighted from the queen, being told you’ve inherited fortunes from a relative you never knew you had. It’s like winning 20 Grammys in one night, showing Adele that she isn’t the only one killin’ em, ooh.

Shoes bring joy and something to talk about with a complete stranger. A culture movement or cultural clash that you can argue about. A forever changing and unstoppable evolution.

Shoes are my kryptonite!

The Battle, Upon Losing

the

hurricane

of

havingherheart

t-o-r-n
f
r
o
m

h
e
r

BREAST

her grief
threatening
to drown
the
mosh pit dancer
of a ballerina

in a river
of
her

own tears

as all await

that

first

sal. t. y.

d. r. o. p.

to. s. l. i. d. e.

d
o
w
n

her

high

rosy
cheekbones

an

e t e r n i t y

passespassespasesspassesby

for she willNOT
bend
nor
give THEM
thesatisfaction

of finding even a pin tuck
out of place
in the

pink tutu
that is her
unassuming armor.

heartwrench
beitasitasandwillbe

she will stand

she will plea-eh?

and she WILL
do battle
just
as

hertwinsouldid

gloves high
toes en point

lithe legs
covered
in pale
pink tights
pink tutu of armor
guarding her

and
HIS
GLOVES

laced up tight

GIGANTIC
atop seeming f r a i l t eeeeeeee

there will be no vanquishing
becauseofthis

heartbreak

THIS MAGNIFICENT LOVE
may
perhaps
be
gone
from this tangible plane

but
these sweet memories

will only serve

to strengthen
her resolve

to be

the

second

greatest

fighter

in

herstory

and so

a
pirouette

Grand Jetè

and with the grace of Giselle

she

is

once again

at ready

lithe legged
chignoned

pale pink tights

pink tutu

Cassius Clay’s
worn black
gloves

laced up

t.i.g.h.t.

and thus armored

with
one heroes

gloves

and one heroes
gentle arm

u
o n
r d
a

her shoulder

a quiet whisper in her soft ear

“you’re my girl”

off she dives once more

chignon first

into the mosh pit
I

Looking at myself in the mirror, I focus on the gentle bulges across my hips and thighs. I see the new found curve along my waist. I see me, not just the shadow of myself I saw a few years ago.

I’m a recovering anorexic. For me, anorexia is like alcoholism in the way that you are never fully ‘cured’. Relapses happen and it takes persistence and constant self-love to stay healthy.

I’m at the heaviest weight of my life and I’ve been told I have never looked healthier. To me, that is one of the best compliments I can receive. I had always been persistently underweight for my 5’9 frame since I was 15. Spiraling downwards into diet-restricting and over-exercising, I was a mess mentally and physically before I sought out help my sophomore year of college.

But I’m not here to explicitly tell about my battle with anorexia. I’m here to talk about recovery.

About the twinges of doubt and sadness that come with compliments saying that you look well.

About how old habits are hard to fend off when you’re old jeans fit too snugly.

About how when I stand in the mirror I see a woman. Not just a wisp of one.

I see a woman. A woman with a little extra padding to cushion her mind and her heart. A woman who tries on new clothes and makes an effort to never be discouraged by the size tag. A woman who speaks out about body positivity and lifts others up on her journey to wellness.

But the journey to wellness isn’t always easy.

Wellness isn’t just about the number on a scale or a healthy BMI, it’s about how you think and feel about yourself. It’s about how easily you can accept and be kind to yourself. Wellness is something we all struggle with.

I may be at a healthy weight, but when I see myself in the mirror I sometimes find myself cursing each new curve.

But when I take the time to stop and think about where I got those, I find myself smiling. Each curve came from living life. From eating cake with a close friend in England to grabbing a pint of cider in Germany. When I was at my worst, my world revolved around food and what I didn’t eat. Now food revolves around the new life I have built for myself and the new woman I am today.

A woman one who knows she should probably get back into shape, but slightly fears how it could control her life again. A woman who realizes that the best thing that ever happened to her was studying abroad. How it helped her break her routine and simply focus on living her life again. Meaningful experiences became more important than image.

It is with that thought that I wish to stay in the travel frame of mind. To focus on living my best life and, honestly, just try to stay happy.

My sophomore year, when I first started reaching out to receive help, I wrote a poem to share in my creative writing class. It was one of my fist times sharing such a personal part of myself. Soon, I found that being vocal about negative body image was key to helping you change the way you think.

The poem read as follows:

When I Look Into the Mirror

I notice the asymmetrical curve of my hips,

The slight left slant of my nose,

Off-centering my face.

I focus on every pore of my skin,

Scarred like the surface of the moon

From only nineteen short years of life.

I fold into myself,

Shying away from the newfound weight held around my waist;

An unwanted sign of recovery.

I feel the wetness as my eyes gloss,

Reaching for the white-capped pill bottle,

The one that ebbs these thoughts that haunt my mind.

I take a step back.

I see sunlight reflect the gleam in my eyes

Conveying warmth and summer’s sweet melody,

Crinkled up at the corners when I laugh.

I see my mother’s nose,

My father’s chicken legs,

Stretched for miles and built for speed.

I see long, slender fingers,

Of which my Dad relates to E.T.,

Perfect for reaching under the couch for refugee change.

I see a lopsided smile,

One that finds solace in a slice of chocolate silk pie

Or changes from raspberry to coral with a swipe of lipstick.

I am only but a body,

Focused by a lens,

Transformed through the brain,

Yet,

When I look into the mirror,

I see it all.

It has been just over a year since I wrote that poem.

Since I finally came to terms with my struggle, I couldn’t be prouder of how far I’ve come. And you know what? I’m delighted to share that. Whether or not it is seen as boasting is not my business. To me, there is no wrong in being proud of what you’ve worked hard to accomplish.

Earlier this week, I went in to the doctor. In the back of my mind, I was slightly terrified. It was the first time I was going to be weighed in a year; ever since I sought help back at university. Back then, I was getting weighed blind and felt entirely helpless to the fact that I wasn’t allowed to know my own body. It was a year ago that I walked out of that doctors office and decided that the number on a scale would no longer define me. And it was a year of bliss not knowing. But it was time.

I got on that scale and was weighed by a nurse who did not know what that moment meant to me. And that was exactly how I wanted it.

To be perfectly honest, it was fine. Maybe even better than I thought. My overactive imagination had conjured up some insane number in my head, so it was reassuring to see that wasn’t the case. I’m exactly where I need to be.

The journey to wellness is life-long. But it doesn’t have to be a battle. It’s important to bend with it like a palm in the breeze. If you stay too rigid, you might just snap. Life is ever-fluctuating. It curves left and right like a country road. Ebbs and flows like the oceans’ tides. It’s your job to learn to flow with it.

I don’t think I will ever buy a scale. I can finally say that I know myself and know that it can be all too easy for thoughts to become obsessive. But, to me, I now know that what really matters is how I feel. Healthy.

Mentally, physically, and spiritually. And honestly, I simply cannot wait to continue riding the curve on my journey to wellness.

You will never be special to them.

Not unless you have the assets that he ultimately requires.

They want you to be “bad”

Bad as in you smoke marijuana, get drunk, and party all night.

They expect you to be beautiful in the face, thick in the waist

And a ten in the behind.

They observe your teeth, and your style of dress.

Judging you by every step.

Your face has to be acne free.

Completely washed away from natural given beauty.

Your face simply caked up to the maximum

It’s the only thing attracting them.

They want your shoe game “on point”

When you’re over to their house instead of ”hello beautiful” its “ayo baddie pass me that joint”.

What is the TRUE definition of special?

You hardly know it at all.

But again what does “bad” mean?

I found out in the urban dictionary it means “really cute, hot, very fine or good looking”

Superficial definitions, for superficial words.

He will never think your special

By: Dasia Jackson

It’s been four years.

Four years with almost no word from you.

Four years of working on fixing what you broke.

Four years of pushing every boy away that tried to get to close.

Four years of trying to remember what it’s like to love someone as much as I loved you.

The story of us ended so long ago it seems as if it didn’t really happen.

When I think back on our memories, I feel as if I’m almost fabricating the good times to overcompensate the bad ones.

It’s not that I even miss you anymore. I don’t miss our memories. I don’t miss talking to you.

I have moved on from you.

What I do miss is me. My self-confidence. My ability to trust.

You not only took three vital years of my life, but with that, you took my ability to feel.

The scars you left me with were so deep, I had no choice but to shut off all emotions.

I never wanted to risk feeling that extent of hurt and self-hatred again.

For four years, I have been empty.

For four years, I have never been able to take a compliment.

For four years, I have never trusted a boy that tells me he “likes me.”

How could they like someone who is so damaged?

You knew me so well, and you consistently pointed out all that was wrong with me.

If the person I was so madly in love with could see how awful I was, it was only a matter of time before those boys would find out too.

These letters usually include a “thank you” to the boy that broke them.

I do not thank you. I am not thankful you were in my life.

I have held back from so many experiences, and for that, I hate you.

I hate you for making me hate myself.

I hate you for walking away from this relationship without any understanding of how deeply you traumatized me.

I hate you for providing me with the idea that being in love was accompanied with abuse.

I hate that I ever made excuses for your behavior.

I am writing this now because this is the first time in four years I am willing to feel something besides hate.

I am ready to let someone tell me they like me, and believe it.

It is not easy, and it absolutely terrifies me, but I am ready to trust again.

I am ready to believe that there is something about me worth liking.

I am ready to let myself be as happy as the day I first met you.

I try over and over, and I tire with every effort put forth.

I want to combat this.

I want to be better, but somehow the things that make me better can sometimes make me worse.

It is hard to explain to people who haven’t been here, walked under this cloud that fogs my visibility and speaks uneasiness into every step.

They don’t know what it is like to pray with each new step that it might be your last because the pain is becoming unbearable.

They don’t know how it can convince you that you and it are one. It is part of you, in you, and it is your fault.

You want it to be there because it is your only friend, the only constant.

I walk around living in the reality that the cloud is not only over me, but has rooted itself so deep within me that it can control me like a twisted puppeteer.

I have found that there is one thing that always helps for a while.

When a friend steps out of their sunlight and sits down on my bench, under my cloud and rainstorm, it wakes something new in me.

Every time, it catches me off guard because the puppeteer tells me that there isn’t anyone in the world who would want to risk their happiness to love me.

“Why are you here?” I say as my words catch in my throat.

“Because, I love you, and you don’t have to feel this,” they respond unknowingly.

They then slowly walk me out from under my cloud unaware that I carry it inside myself.

It is always so nice to feel that sunlight for a little while, but then the cloud speaks up again urging me to run from this love.

“It is unpredictable. They will get tired of you. You are a burden that no one wants to take care of,” it whispers into my ear.

“But they said they loved me. Were they lying?” I respond in anguish.

“No one could ever want you,” it replies, “You are not even worth my breath.”

And the cloud falls silent as I roll into a ball shaking unable to make any sound at all.

My mind whirls and searches for the moments that I felt loved that I knew it was real, but somehow they all seem artificial and insincere.

“Did they mean it when they said to call them when things got bad? They are busy. They couldn’t possibly want to come sit on my bench.”