Becoming Alice

I like to joke that I-94 and I-80 are my second homes. I’ve spent thousands of miles on them, miles that trade scenery for ease — hop on and drive, no directions needed. The “check engine” light on the dashboard of my old car kept me company, a constant presence lingering in the corner of my vision. It was accompanied by a symphony of other warning lights who came and went as they pleased. My brain felt a lot like that dashboard: internal problems and topics I didn’t understand simmering away under layers of metal and avoidance.

Paradise and reality aren't so far apart

Content warning: This piece contains graphic descriptions of gender-based and sexual violence.

“Her mother said she was sorry that she hadn’t been there to protect her daughter, and that, of all the places she had warned her about, the post office wasn’t one of them,” read a news report  of her death.

For the chance of knowing something

NEW HAMPSHIRE | Seven people, clad in sleeping bags and down jackets, are gathered in the tiny cabin atop Mt. Cabot, an elevation of 4,170 feet. Outside, the White Mountains roll for miles, sliding in every direction after hours of rain. Inside, there’s one picnic table, four large plywood bunks and clothes drying on every available surface. The conversation drifts from directions to the nearest water source to hypothermia to poetry. Each student was instructed to bring a few poems, found in the camp library, that address the concept of the unknown.

Quarantine thoughts from a terrible dancer

What does a pandemic look like? 

For me, it’s a monotony of days peppered with bouts of depression in the apartment my grandparents pay for and waves of overwhelming guilt and helplessness. Neither are productive emotions in a pandemic. There are also good days, where the sun is out and my coffee tastes just right, and I remember that this is only temporary. I live alone, though a friend lives upstairs. I never thought I’d be grateful to be an introvert. The sadness of the world sometimes feels far away, accessible only through Twitter headlines or the New York Times articles my mother sends me … hourly. Other times it feels like it’s moved into my apartment, stitched into my clothes and seated across the table. It feels as if we’re under- and overreacting at the same time. A pandemic smells like solitude, an endless supply of lavender candles lingering in the corners of my apartment. It tastes like too much whiskey, consumed alone. 

Two generations, a hundred yards and six feet apart

For the first 18 years of my life, I lived about a hundred yards away from my grandmother’s house. As a kid, I’d skip down the street to her house for a dinner of PopTarts and games of Kings in the Corner, “PBS NewsHour” always playing on the TV in the background. The TV volume muffled the sound of the back door, so I’d tiptoe as far into the living room as I could before announcing my arrival, to surprise her. We’d catch the end of the broadcast before dessert: white wine for her, an ice cream bar for me, “Antiques Roadshow” for us both.

Back to school: How we're failing those who support us

My mother has always told me I’m allowed to be an English major, but I’m not allowed to become a teacher. As a senior studying creative writing and literature, I haven’t strayed far from the world I grew up in — one where education was a daily topic of discussion. 

When thousands share one emotion

Last Saturday I stood in Chicago, across the river from Trump International Hotel & Tower, surrounded by a crowd of strangers. I’d found out the election results half an hour earlier, by way of a CNN push notification, on the 23rd floor of my dad’s apartment building. Within minutes, the honking and cheering pouring through the 12-inch glass window was too loud to ignore. I saw the camaraderie as an undeniable invitation to the celebration, ditched the homework I’d begun only minutes before, grabbed my camera and jumped in the elevator.

Always on: the problem with having our work within reach

This past month, I’ve spent more days than not sitting in the same brown wooden chair at my desk, logging on and off Zoom, scrolling through Facebook, chipping away at articles, messaging and texting and emailing and attending more virtual meetings and FaceTime calls before realizing that the sun set hours ago. I haven’t been outside. I’ve snacked here and there. And I feel like I’ve accomplished almost nothing.

Photo Essay: An intimate look at the 2020 Presidential election

In early February, I found myself in a high school gym in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, watching an energetic Elizabeth Warren bop around the stage in her textbook blue cardigan and black pants. She spoke of her days as a teacher, her husband Bruce and her dog Bailey, as well as her plans for the country.

The Youth Justice Fund — A three person mission rehabilitating Southeast Michigan's formerly incarcerated community

Navigating the return to everyday life for formerly incarcerated individuals is no small feat. Youth Justice Fund (YJF), a non-profit based in Ypsilanti MI, works to assist formerly incarcerated youth reacclimating to society. Executive Director Aaron Kinzel, who spent 10 years in the prison system, aims to provide mental and financial support to get formerly incarcerated individuals back on their feet.