Put your fist in the air like you really do care

By Janel Hicks

The “resist” symbol, a raised clenched fist, represents solidarity, strength, and comradery. This symbol has been a part of history on numerous occasions: the Spanish Civil War, the first wave of the Feminist movement, and in support of the LGBTQ+ Community after the Orlando nightclub shooting in 2016. Even though I was aware of this symbol in many different movements, I personally knew it as the Black Power Salute. 

Similar to most students’ American history experience, the Eurocentric lessons taught in my small, conservative town highlighted the white-cis male pioneers who built the racist infrastructure that continues to oppress Black people today. But an education in my town is the furthest thing I want to complain about. I know I am privileged to even have an education. However, while history was taught to me, history further explaining my ancestors was limited to slavery and civil rights. I had very limited exposure to the history of the Black community in the United States. Groups such as the Black Panthers were displayed as strictly radical and extremist.

They said Black Power was “too much” for the time. Except it wasn’t. If a non-peaceful approach to demand equality was in fact “too much,” than the violence ensued by Jim Crow was certainly “too much,” as well. 

My white peers—the majority of peers that surrounded me—saw the Black Power salute as rude, destructive, and abrasive. Perhaps because this symbol actively challenges a system that they benefit from. Their fear made it seem as though the outstretched fist in the air was trying to punch them in the face. As the only Black person in most of my classes, I felt the pressure to fit into the narratives that were taught. They said black power was bad, so I agreed. I feared being “too much.” To be agreeable and polite was the only acceptable way to gain respect, right? But how can you be polite when an entire group’s human rights are at stake? 

When the Black Lives Matter movement first came to the scene in 2013, I was too afraid to express my appreciation, because saying “Black Lives Matter” was again “too much” for my cohort. As Michael Che jokes in his Netflix comedy special, “Black Lives Matter is a controversial statement. Black Lives Matter. Not matters more than you, just matters... That’s where we’re starting the negotiations. Matters. Can’t agree on that s***? What the f*** is less than matters? Black lives exist? Can we say that!?” 

I always thought there might be another way to see Black Power, but I never had the support from faculty or fellow friends to pursue and come to terms with the view of history that acknowledges the racism that remains in modern America. It wasn’t until I left the confines of rural Pennsylvania that I began to find confidence in my identity as a Black woman. Back home, Black Lives Matter was extreme and disrupting, but I was learning to see it as liberating and empowering. A movement like this invokes justice and unity. It makes me proud to be Black and know my worth enough to shout it loud and proud. When I see the resist fist, whether it’s the embroidered one that I bought on this website, or by an activist in the streets, I know now not to be scared. I choose to embrace the strength it takes to stand tall, fight for the oppressed, and hold my fist high in the sky. 

Not Black enough for the Black kids, Not White enough for the White kids

By Taren Swartz

One of my first memories of encountering racism occurred in first grade, when I was playing at recess. My friend mentioned something along the lines of “all black people are niggers.”

I was raised in the village of Boiling Springs, Pennsylvania by my grandparents. Not dissimilar to the rest of the town, my grandparents are very white and very conservative. To this day, neither of them acknowledge my siblings and I are Black. Rather, they say we are “mixed.” They completely erased my sisters’ and I’s identity as Black women. It was made clear from a very young age that we would never be fully accepted--even in our own home.

My appearance was always seen as proof of my otherness. My hair was constantly questioned, touched, and “boinged” by students. My eye color was questioned. Other kids placed their arms next to mine and said, “look I’m almost as dark as you,” when they returned from vacation. These comments were almost always followed by questions about my true ethnicity and race. These general microaggressions were accompanied by personal attacks: questioning everything from my flesh to my integrity. 

I remember my crush telling me I should kill myself because I was a nigger. I remember being told “no boys will ever like you because you’re Black.” I remember when a classmate of mine looked me in the face and told me “You’re a stupid nigger, you’re not supposed to be smart, you shouldn’t be getting better grades than me because I’m white.” I remember refusing to listen to any rap music because I didn’t want to be called ghetto or uneducated. I remember the countless times other students counted us, the Black students, in the hallway and barked at us when we walked by. I remember students on XBOX Live calling me a “coon,” “nigger,” and “mixed breed.” I remember being stared at during the few lessons about slavery or Black people. I remember when our school allowed an athlete who was caught with blackface to continue to compete. I remember being told to go back to Africa. I remember being told, “I wish we were back in slavery days so you could be my slave.” I remember crying everyday and being terrified to go to lunch, often eating under the stairs or in the bathroom until I got caught. I remember getting off the bus one day and having one of my neighbors drive by and scream “nigger” as I ran up my driveway. 

These comments haunt me, echoing in the back of my mind anytime I’m the only Black person in the room. 

I found ways to cope. I became desensitized to the slurs and comments. I started using self-deprecating humor so others couldn’t beat me to the punch. Then, like my grandparents, I did everything I could physically do to erase my blackness. I hid from the sun in the summer for fear I’d get too dark. I used lightening creams on my skin. I bleached and relaxed my hair to destroy my thick dark curls. I did anything to make my features appear less Black. I did anything to be more white, to be more liked. I even went as far to try to explain to people that “because ethnicity goes by your mother, and my mom’s white, I must be white too.” 

The year before -- my senior year of high school -- I  approached a student who was wearing a Confederate flag T-shirt with the line “ask me about my flag” and of course, being the outspoken individual I am, I did. This, in addition to other racist confrontations, was witnessed by teachers and staff. They reacted to these interactions not by punishing hateful comments, but by mediation, ensuring an argument didn’t escalate to a physical fight. We, as Black students, were expected to be calm and rational, to accept the overt discrimination as a difference in opinion. In essence, they were telling us to be quiet. Silence allowed them to ignore the overarching issue of racism within the district. 

My story is not unique. There are many other minority students in South Middleton School District who suffered through self-hate due to varying levels of discrimination: whether it be due to race, religion, and/ or sexuality. Anything outside of the white-cis-hetro norm was targeted.

I’ve been struggling to find the words to explain the pain surrounding this issue. A lot have been blocked from my memory. Unearthing these repressed traumas was extremely difficult. But if I am going to continue to ask others about their experiences in order to learn, grow, and hopefully make positive changes towards inclusivity, I need to be forward and transparent about my story as well. 

To say that I do not harbor a lot of resentment and anger towards SMSD would be a lie. I’ve chosen to leave out the names of my oppressors and bystanders, but I will never forget their actions, or lack thereof. I’m not searching for apologies. I don’t want to be the ground for white people to express their guilt in order to foster self-improvement. I often find myself in Facebook arguments with people from my hometown who never quite grasped the severity of their words and actions. Oftentimes I’m asked, “Why do you bother arguing with them? It’s not like you can change their minds.” My goal when engaging in arguments about my race is to ensure that my voice is being heard. It’s not to change the other person’s mind, but rather to provide an opposing viewpoint which is inexplicably hard to refute.

No one can argue my Black experience. 

You’re trying too hard.

You’re trying too hard. 

Speak how the rest of them do, you’re all the same. 

Stop trying to act white. 

You’re trying too hard. 

Do you like cornbread?

What about fried chicken?

Collard greens?

Grape Kool-Aid?

Watermelon?

You’re trying too hard. 

Speak up. 

Don’t be too aggressive. 

You don’t actually care, more sincerity. 

You aren’t loud enough.

You’re too loud. 

Take it. 

Defend yourself.

Take it.

Your skin is too white.

Your nose it too black. 

You don’t count. 

Why would you ever want to be darker? 

You’re trying too hard. 

You have blonde hair. 

Stop trying to look white. 

Your eyes are green? 

You’re trying too hard. 

That’s such a white girl thing to like.

That’s such a black girl thing to do.

You aren’t like the other black kids, you’re different. 

Nigger. 

Coon. 

Half-breed.

Hybrid.

Go back to Africa. 

You’re Jamaican, do you smoke pot?

You should get dreads. 

Don’t you know how to do your own hair? 

That’s such a white outfit. 

You look really ghetto in those shoes. 

Take off your hat. 

Never keep your hands in your pockets in public places, 

people will think you’re stealing. 

Always look the clerks in the eye and greet them.

Don’t touch that.

Can you afford that? 

You’re trying too hard. 

You’re not black, you’re white. 

You’re not white, you’re black.

You’re trying too hard. 

Never stand too close, they’ll think you’re going to rob them.

Don’t wear nice clothes. 

Change your hairstyle. 

I liked it better when you looked more white. 

Be who you want to be. 

Be who you are. 

Who am I? 

What am I? 

I am a person. I am bi-racial. 

The GOAT

By Betty Licitra

Before my 84th birthday, I knew that goats could be found in petting zoos, farms, and mountainsides. But a special birthday card gave new meaning to the word, it seems that “goat” is an acronym for Greatest Of All Time.  I appreciate the sentiment and have to say that my family is the goat too!

There is No Planet B

By Lisa Bowers

Surprises and kind gestures have such beauty.  And surprising kind gestures have such beauty. I was the recipient of a beautiful and surprising kind gesture when I received a lovely needlepoint with a message that deeply resonated with me: “There is no Planet B.”  I thought it was so sweet that the creator knew that cross stitch would have meaning for me.  This common clarion call for environmentalists emphasizes the need to take care of what we have now.  We can not create another planet if we destroy Planet Earth. 

While my mother was living out her last years with Alzheimer’s disease, I thought that having something she could carry around with her, like an iPad, would give her comfort and control.  The iPad became a source of both calm and joy as we would stream Mom’s favorite songs on YouTube.  What a blessing to see Mom belt out “Do Re Mi” from The Sound of Music, the Carpenters’ “Close to You,” and the Temptations’ “My Girl.”

My Mom was known to be very giving and generous.  When she died, we had an extra iPad and of course it would be given to someone who might be able to use it.  That is my Mom’s legacy of giving.How appropriate that the iPad recipient, from whom I expected nothing at all, would give me a needlepoint so thoughtfully created.  Mom’s legacy of giving just sparked more giving.  The original desire to give the iPad to Cece stemmed from my fondness for a dear high school friend and her family.  I had something that might be useful to my friend’s sweet daughter.   It made me very happy that she might find it useful, even if only for a few weeks.  (Ironically, giving away the iPad also enabled me to “reuse and recycle,” rather than keep it or put it in the equivalence of an electronics landfill.  The creator of “There is no Planet B” would be proud!)  

The many factors involved in creating this needlepoint also signify the seemingly random nature of the things that happen to us. I got my Mom an iPad.  We experienced hours of joy that we might not have had otherwise. My Mom dies. I want to provide a “reuse” for her iPad.  I have a long-time high school friend I was visiting.  She has a daughter who could use an iPad.  Her thoughtful daughter wanted to express her thanks.  Her daughter makes beautiful needlepoints.  I receive a package with a needlepoint.  The result?  A needlepoint with a powerful message, nicely framed and sitting on my living room console, which reinforces a warm feeling about the giver and her family.  Random events coming together?  The stuff of life, although I’m not sure these events are really random. 

Surprising kind gestures. Wouldn’t it be great if there were more of them in the world?  Thank you, Cece, for helping me continue my Mom’s legacy and for touching me with your surprising kind gesture.  And for helping me remember that “There is No Planet B!”

I Never Look Back Darling

By Shannon Susi

I worked with Cece on this design and asked her to create this gift for my best friend, Allie, because Edna Mode is an icon. More importantly, her famous quote, “I never look back, darling. It distracts from the now,” is something Allie has taught me to live by every day. It’s so easy to look back on certain times or events in your life and think of your favorite moments or moments when you made a mistake or a bad decision. This leads to a lot of “what ifs?” and spending so much time thinking and stressing over things that have already happened and can’t be changed. While looking back on the past is normal and healthy, it can easily become unhealthy and distract from what is going on around you at this very moment. This quote always reminds me to stop and look around me. It reminds me to be present every day and enjoy all the small things going on right now. If you look back, you could miss the amazing moments right in front of you. Be like Edna Mode. Be present, be grateful, be iconic.

Right Up The Road

By Theresa Doolittle

The first four months of 2019 were riddled with lasts. The previous three years, it seemed, had passed in a dizzying blur, and all of a sudden we stood six feet from the finish line, looking back. It was the home stretch, the long goodbye, the endless celebration. The semester in which nothing mattered anymore, except for the things that matter so incredibly much. The lasts grew less significant as April drew nearer: the last post-class beers, the last first warm Saturday, the last trip to Trader Joe’s to fill the fridge in my last college apartment. The last night as undergrads, sitting on our front porch with a bottle of wine, and watching the streets slowly empty until we were the last ones left. 

I have a hard time writing about my sorority because there’s honestly no way to do it without sounding incredibly sappy, or incredibly dismissive. I’ll spare you my best attempt because even that isn’t very good; if you get it, you get it, and if you don’t, that’s fine too. Sororities are a weird thing, and they’re not for everyone—I know this. But I also know that mine was— and in lots of ways, still is— so incredibly important to me. That’s why I had Cece stitch this.

Another last: the last night of my last Panhellenic recruitment. We stood in a low-lit room under an emerald green ceiling, white roses laced through interlocking fingers. Someone was sniffling; mascara had been running down our cheeks all afternoon. I know that sororities are weird, but what I don’t know—what I will never understand—is how a single group of women could come to mean so much to me in such a short amount of time. I looked around at the room of women that I had surrounded myself with for the last four years, and wondered if we would ever be here, together, again. I bargained no; that life after April would be drastically different and undoubtedly worse than it was at that moment.

From a corner of the room, someone began to sing:

Sometimes in our lives, we all have pain

We all have sorrow

But, if we are wise, we know that there’s

Always tomorrow

After April, there would be no more piling six of us on a sagging couch, no more over-caffeinated late-night study sessions, no more leaning off of front porch railings in the sun, watching our little corner of the world go by. No more dancing barefoot, or at bars, or on them; no more Sunday morning recovery bagel runs, laughing about Saturday’s indiscretions. I grasped at those moments desperately, trying to keep them from slipping through my fingers; trying to hold on to them forever. It was during these most mundane of days—sitting at a sticky bar table, or on a sofa, or in the grass, talking about everything and nothing—that I would be overcome with a strange mingling of reverence and melancholy, struck by the realization that life would never be so simple again.

The soloist carried the first chorus by herself:

Lean on me, when you're not strong

And I'll be your friend

I'll help you carry on

For it won't be long

’Til I'm gonna need

Somebody to lean on

For the first time in four years, I had no clue where I would be in six months. Until that point, I could be reasonable sure at any given time what my next steps would be— I would be here, in Pittsburgh, or home, in Boston, or, briefly, abroad. I was always someone who Had It All Together, until that January, when I started to unravel. The ground that I knew was about to give out from beneath me, and I had no clue where I would land.

Then all 40 women came together for the last verse:

If there is a load

You have to bear

That you can’t carry

I’m right up the road

I’ll share your load

If you just call me

Later that night I lay in bed, feeling lucky and sad and content and anxious all at the same time, with the words to “Lean on Me” still moving through my mind. If there is a load you have to bear… thinking about the women in that room and everything I knew—have known, will know forever—about them; all of their dilemmas and dramas and straight-up baggage that comes with being a woman, with being a human, with being alive … that you can’t carry… and this is why we do this weird thing, right? This weird sorority thing? It’s because no one cannot – should not have to— carry that baggage on their own backs, especially not now, not when life gets to be so simple … I’m right up the road… because even though we’re all leaving this city, this campus, each other, we won’t be THAT far—nothing that a road trip or a plane ticket can’t fix … I’ll share your load… because I’m sharing it now, and I will tomorrow, and no one cannot—should not—have to carry it on their own back, even when life stops being so simple … if you just call me… or text me or slide into my DMs for God’s sake… I’m only right up the road.

Right up the road.

Today, the cross stitch hangs in my bedroom, above my calendar. I look at it every single day, and I think about April— and all the months leading up to it—when the ground came out from underneath me, but I, miraculously, landed on my feet. I have a big-girl job in a different city 600 miles away, and life is anything but simple. There is much less barefoot dancing, and no more leaning off of front porch railings, but it’s still beautiful, only in different ways. And if at any point it’s not? Well, there’s always someone or something or somewhere right on up the road. 

Hungry Grl

By Jessica Iacullo

As I'm writing this, I'm staring at my stitch on my bookshelf, and I think that's so special for the story I'm about to tell. In December of 2018, I was home in New Jersey for the holidays when I got a message on Instagram from Cece. She sent me a stitch design of a noodle bowl and a bottle of Sriracha and asked if I would be interested in a design like that and if so, she would make it for me. 

I run a food blog called Hungry Grl Big City and it started when I was a student at Pitt, which then turned into the business I run today, back in Pittsburgh. I was so flattered and honored the Cece thought of me enough to make me something so on-brand and personal without ever having met me.

When it came time for Cece to deliver it after Pitt's winter break, I suggested meeting up for lunch in Oakland to thank her for the beautiful stitch. She even stitched 'HUNGRY GRL' which made it that much more special. We ended up going to Roots, which was a new salad spot on campus, and the picture I took of our lunch lead me to become the business' social media manager today!

What I love about my stitch is that it brought me Cece, who has become a friend I can lean on and vent to, in addition to giving me one of my favorite clients. You never know what can happen when you initiate a conversation or business proposition (or just doing something nice) with someone you don't know!

Click here to find out more about Jess and Hungry Grl Big City.

Food is Medicine

By Mary McDonald

I am so lucky to get up every day and talk about food.  Yup, that's my job.  I am a Family and Consumer Sciences teacher.  For those of you that went to public school prior to 1994, we were known as Home Economics teachers.  This is a natural role for me since I grew up in a traditional Italian family, which included living with my aunt who was born and raised in Sicily.  Every meal was made from scratch.  The importance of food, culture, and tradition were ingrained in me from a very young age.  I learned how to buy food in season and make your meals based on what was fresh in the store.  Meal planning happened when you stood in the vegetable aisle and scouted out the best looking artichoke.  My food philosophy was set when I was a child as I helped make our Sunday sauce for the weekly Sunday dinner at 4 pm.  Since then, I continue to educate myself on food preparation and nutrition, having earned a certificate as a Certified Health Coach among my other degrees.  What I have learned is that food is a powerful medicine for both physical and mental health.  When you look at the top causes of death in the US, heart disease and cancer are number one and two and both of these can be reduced or prevented through food choices.  That is why I get up every day and preach the importance of cooking from scratch and including more whole foods in our diet.  At some point in my lifetime, I hope to work with the medical community and share this knowledge with medical professionals so that we can work side-by-side with a patient.  Some of the new medical models include this in their vision.  For example, the Wheeler Clinic has a model that is revolutionary and one of very few in the country.  When a patient is diagnosed with an ailment, they have the ability to work with a nutritionist in the Corsini Kitchen which is located in the lower level of the medical facility.  I have a deep appreciation for this approach, especially since Ray Corsini was my father and the inspiration for this kitchen.  This approach is so simple and yet this practice is not part of our current medical model.  It is my hope to continue to spread the word about the power of food as medicine to help friends, family and whomever will listen so that we can move towards reducing the physical and mental ailments that afflict so many in the world. With all that said, that is why I love my Food is Medicine sign.  It sits proudly in my kitchen as a reminder to me and to all that come and visit our home that food is the best medicine out there!

Good Bones

By Haley Platt

The murder at the Tree of Life Synagogue affected me a lot more than I ever imagined it would. Many people from my past reached out with words of advice on how to handle the emotions I was experiencing. No words were able to help me cope with the fear and sadness that I was experiencing. When it all became too much and I felt hopeless, I did what any 22 year old girl would do: I Googled it. "How to heal after a tragedy" led me to Good Bones, a poem by Maggie Smith. The last few lines of the poem read: 

Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

Cece stitched the last line for me and I keep it on my desk at City Hall. My stitch is a reminder to myself that it is my duty to my community to strive to be the best citizen and leader that I can be. Even when the world feels cold and helpless, we can all work to make it more beautiful. 

Rocco

By Oriana Garcia

Rocco the Bernadoodle.

This is my dog, Rocco. He's a Bernadoodle, and the most gentle giant. He is a bundle of energy and a loyal family member. He needs attention, but only allows affection on his terms. He is a drama queen, and I swear, he is on the verge of speaking.

I have a family of dog lovers, but it took over 20 years for us to finally get one of our own. Rocco came into our family because of my dad. My dad was diagnosed with cancer towards the end of 2010, but it was caught in its latest stages. As all dads do, he fought. Chemo, radiation, midnight hospital runs, remission, relapse, clinical trials, holidays in the hospital, remissions, relapses... a pattern that could not have been harder. Among hospital treatments, he was prescribed an extensive medley of pain relievers with severe side effects, of which he combated with more medication. It all took a heavy toll on his body, but more so, his head and his heart. It is common for cancer patients to undergo depressive states, and while medication was one answer, so was Rocco. Doctors had mentioned to us the benefits on having a dog, but among the most stressful things in life, we didn't know how caring for a dog could fit into the mess of an equation. But, we did it, and I could not be more grateful. Rocco was my dad's best friend. After years of pain, my dad was able to become active again. I mean, the pain was still there, but he put Rocco's needs before his, as he did with all of his loved ones. He walked Rocco everyday, played with him everyday, he met amazing friends in our neighborhood because all of our dogs loved to play together, he found so much joy in making Rocco happy. Rocco reciprocated the love. He was my dad's shadow, following him wherever he went - even into the bathroom, haha! Rocco snuggled with my dad's feet when he was at his desk doing work, and he pawed when he needed more cuddles. They had a language of their own. The craziest thing of all is that Rocco knew whenever something was wrong. He could sense when my dad was in pain and needed help, and he would become concerned. Knowing this, my dad really wanted for Rocco to do more than just help him, he wanted Rocco to help others. So, we enrolled Rocco in therapy dog training. All my dad wanted was to see Rocco's picture up at the hospital with the rest of the dogs that would volunteer to visit patients.

My dad passed in July of 2019, finally resting after one hell of a fight. Rocco's spirit always brings me back to my dad. He has been such a blessing to my family. And come on, he is so damn cute!

Run Like a Girl

By Lexi Gihorski

Kate is a sophomore, D1 athlete at Quinnipiac University. She is a member of the cross country, winter track, and spring track teams. She practices multiple times a week, sometimes multiple times a day, while balancing her academics and her social life. It is not easy being a college student, and it impresses me every day that she handles herself with an extreme amount of poise and grace. Run Like A Girl reminds Kate that 1) she can do absolutely anything she sets her mind to and 2) she should be proud of being a strong woman who does it all. I am immensely proud of the woman she has become and it has been an honor to say that she is my little sister.

That's Amore

By Molly Dowling Grassi

One of the first dates Chris and I had was him just making us dinner at my apartment. He comes from a super Italian family and his dad is a master chef when it comes to all things Italian. Chris picked up a lot over the years, and like his dad, uses his cooking to show others love. Just the other week he made me homemade soup and bread from scratch because I had a cold. During that early date he made spaghetti and meatballs for us. I had this profound moment (as I have had many times in our relationship) as I watched him flip the pasta in the strainer, thinking that I could watch him do that for the rest of my life. It was legitimately one of our first couple of times hanging out in a “more-than-friends” way and I was already seeing a future with this guy. And because of something so simple. 2+ years and many profound moments later, we’re married!

This too shall pass, honeybee

By Shane Kaliszewski

As long as I can remember I’ve been afflicted with an unparalleled sense of wanting. It’s like my feelings for the things I desire are so overwhelming that it consumes my every thought. I long for things so hopelessly that simply being faced with living without presses on my chest until I can’t breathe.

As I grew up, this never-ending feeling of wanting led to me successes that I could not have imagined. I used to think that this attribute was a positive phenomenon in my life. When I thought about a grade, or job, or award that I wanted, it became my only purpose. They felt much more like a need, and I did everything I could to acquire them. When I would fail, I equated that failure with my self-worth. I often laid awake at night, feeling like I wasn’t whole, fixated on a wanting that paralyzed me.

I began considering hurting myself during my junior year of college, while I was pursing a certificate in opioid addiction treatment. In the program, we studied the neurochemistry of opioid addiction, in an effort to help those who experienced these addictions overcome them. During these lessons I learned about the biological similarity of inflicting pain on ourselves to taking a painkiller. Although it was more uncomfortable upfront, creating physical pain through cutting eventually resulted in the same feelings of euphoria and relief that taking a narcotic produced.

In November of that year, my best friend suddenly passed away. The events surrounding her death were particularly traumatic for me and a few of my close friends. These ‘wanting’ feelings were no longer manifesting in a desire to have something, or to succeed. Now, I endlessly longed for the presence of someone I could never get back, and longed to forget an endless stream of images that haunted my conscious.

This wanting grew until it became unbearable. I felt like I was constantly missing a part of me, and those parts that leftover were unsalvageable. I wanted nothing more than to start over, wanted nothing more than to be made whole by an endless list of desires. A list that was constituted of nothing more than an amalgamation of things improbable, as much impossible. It loomed over me, and the threat of the permanence of such longing left me desperately searching for an escape.

After months of this feeling, I sought to perform a neurological con-job, and replace these endless unanswered wants with relief. I pulled my razor apart with a pair of tweezers, and didn’t even think twice as pulled the blade across my skin. What started as a clinical endeavor of endorphin production quickly devolved into an emotional manifestation of all the pain I had been feeling the past few months. A desire to relieve the never-ending wanting merged with a deep seeded desire to punish myself for all the reasons I felt incomplete. I remember thinking that it would be a one-time thing, but once turned into twice, and twice turned into months. Before I knew it, years had passed. Although the frequency changed, I still found myself so often needing relief from an insatiable and paralyzing wanting.

This cross-stitch came to me about two weeks into yet another attempt to quit cutting. I was just about to start law school, and was pessimistic about my likelihood of relapse. I knew I was on the brink of one of the most stressful times in my life, and I felt naïve hoping that the wanting that had been stalking me would politely cease, and allow me to face my first year of law school unshackled from it.

It came to me as a gift, from the hands of a guy I was seeing at the time. Unlike I was, he was hopeful for a new beginning, and wanted to get me something special to celebrate this hope and my starting of school.

I used to jokingly recite ‘this too shall pass’ in a way that felt almost satirical. I felt so hopeless that I would utter this phrase in a way that almost challenged the universe to let my wanting pass, to let me feel whole. To let me feel the type of complete that I didn’t need release from.

On the inside of my right bicep I have a tattoo. It is a bee, and if you look just closely enough it might look the slightest bit like the honeybee that adorns the bottle of a certain brand of whiskey. If you look even closer, you’d find three tiny letters fixed in the wing. A few days before I lost my friend, after a night out fueled by a certain honey whiskey, she slept in my bed with me. The day she died I came back and collapsed in my bed, only to look over and see the bottle she left on my filing cabinet that doubled as a nightstand.

The tattoo came after a long week of drinking, story-telling, and fondly remembering a person that meant so much to so many people. It’s sloppy, faded, and by all accounts looks like absolute shit. Looking back, this quality makes sense. It cost me $20, and with all the liquor I had in my system at the time of application, I’m lucky it didn’t slide clean off. Still, despite its aesthetic shortcomings, it is my favorite ink that adorns my skin. It never fails to remind me of all the nights we spent laying in my bed, laughing and drinking honey whiskey until the sun came up.

It has been almost six months since I last cut. No one is more shocked than me that, in what should be the most tumultuous and uncomfortable period of my life, is where I made the most progress. It’s hard to say exactly what has made this time different. And perhaps, the difficulty in pinpointing this variable is that there is no one thing. More likely, this progress is due to the unified presence of so many positive influences in my life. A reinvigorated feeling of purpose, the support of so many incredible friends and family members, and the silent encouragement of a tiny cross stitch that seems to whisper “keep going” when I need it most.

I still feel that insatiable want from time to time. A tiny demon named longing still sits on my chest and seems to pull the air from my lungs. In these moments, I can’t help but remember all the things I’ve lost, all the things that never were, and all the things that never will be. It is here, more than ever, that I’m grateful to have this reminder sitting on my desk. I think what’s different now is the presence of new ideas, forged by the thousands of times I uttered a mantra I didn’t entirely believe. The first, is that just like all things, this too longing too shall pass. The second is,  no matter how far off it may feel, I’m never without my little honeybee.  

Yes, I met my boyfriend at a funeral

By Anonymous

To protect the author’s privacy, names and distinguishing characteristics have been edited.

It’s not every day when you hear someone say, “I met my boyfriend at a funeral.” This sentence is usually met with a furrowed brow or tense shoulders.  You probably have the same look on your face, so let me tell you about my love story.  

“I am going to set you two up.  I am going to make it happen. No matter what it takes.” I used to laugh it off when Sue would tell me this, but now I know she really meant it. Sue is my mom’s larger than life best friend. When I was little, I thought Sue had superpowers because she could always make me feel better simply by engulfing me with one of her massive bear hugs.  

One Thursday night, I came home to a dark quiet house, one that’s usually filled with my family bustling to eat, finish homework, and submit papers. It was not until about 11 o’clock that night when I heard the garage doors open.  My heart raced as I ran down the stairs to see what had occupied my mom’s entire day. Her droopy, lachrymose eyes met mine, and I knew something was seriously wrong. We sat in silence for what felt like hours until I finally mustered up the courage to ask. Choked up, the only word my mom’s weak voice could say was “Sue.”  She had gone into an unexpected cardiac episode. 

Just a few days later, Sue passed away, and everyone was shaken to their core.  The day she died, the world was gray and rainy. Absolutely miserable. At the funeral, I (why me?) was responsible for setting up Chinese Lanterns to release at the end of the night. Like Sue, Chinese Lanterns are a light source in the darkness.. It was one of her few requests for her funeral: Chinese lanterns to be released and “Seasons of Love” from the Broadway musical Rent to be played. As I began setting up the lanterns, of course I broke one. Though I felt clumsy and frustrated at the time, I now see that was just Sue’s way of working her magic. I called her nephew, Josh, into the chapel to help me. And it turns out he was cute, like really cute. We exchanged meaningless conversation, somehow fixed the lantern, and ultimately found happiness in each other’s company that night. We ended up releasing Chinese lanterns together — for Sue.

Josh and I have been dating for over a year now. We all miss Sue, but it’s not surprising that she made something good happen out of something so bad for all of us on earth. If it weren’t for those Chinese lanterns, I don’t think I ever would’ve ended up talking to him. I thank those lanterns and my clumsy self for messing it up every day.