My town, Winchester, MA, prides itself on its social justice initiatives and being a welcoming community for all. So, when I realized my sexuality and decided to come out to my friends, I was confident in being well-received. Sure, none of my friends were outwardly homophobic when I came out to them, but their reaction still caught me off guard.
Instead of responding with casual acceptance alongside loving reassurance, many of them reacted with overwhelming enthusiasm. They were cheering and making a big deal out of it, as if they were moments away from showering me in confetti and cueing the parade. Then, when I came out to my Mom she just said, “Okay, well I love you.” At first I felt underwhelmed. Yet, the more I sat with it the more I realized her calm response was actually what I had hoped for. It didn’t even phase her and that was the whole point. She accepted it as a natural part of myself, no different than my identity as a cis woman. So, the more I reflected on my friends, the more I realized that this exaggerated response was, in a way, a sign of non-acceptance.
True acceptance in a space means treating someone’s identity as “normal,” not as something remarkable. It felt like my friends were putting a spotlight on my identity, as if it were something rare or unusual. Their response, though well-intentioned, differentiated me from the group when I just wanted to be one of them, as my true self. Their reaction highlights a deeper issue within general allyship. People want to be seen as accepting, progressive, and socially aware, but in doing so, they sometimes overcompensate. By making a spectacle out of someone’s identity, they inadvertently signal that it is something that requires special recognition. Personally speaking, I just want my identity to be fully integrated into their perception of normalcy.
Ironically, the people who over-celebrated my coming out were often the same ones who saw Winchester as a fully accepting town, a place where inclusivity was a given. But true inclusivity doesn’t require a standing ovation; it requires normalization. When someone comes out and the reaction is as simple as “Cool, thanks for sharing,” that is real acceptance. It acknowledges without sensationalizing, embraces without exaggerating, and, most importantly, allows people to simply be. Real support is consistent acceptance that doesn’t need to be performed, because it is already assumed.
I’ve always been enamored with the mundane and everyday elements of life. There is something so raw, real, intimate, human about the unintentional marks we leave on our environment. Last year, while living in Squirrel Hill, I would walk by a USPS blue collection box on Beeler Street on the days I couldn’t catch my typical bus line. The reasons varied, but it was never a walk I took by choice or with enthusiasm. Often, I found myself alone, walking down a cracked and weathered sidewalk as the rain drizzled and the leaves muddled with the runoff flowing down the steep slopes of neighbors’ houses. On this route, there stood a lone, rusted, chipped, and absolutely-not-blue, USPS collection box. I was initially drawn to the box on a day similar to one just described. The collection box seemed to blend into its dreary grey environment like it was camouflaged. Despite its age, there were never any stickers or graffiti on the box; its only adornment is the worn orange tag on the side of the box. This observation felt jarring– USPS blue collection boxes are usually rotating displays of new tags, slap-ons, posters, flyers, stickers. It felt abandoned on a street so bustling with energy and life. I never saw anyone use the box either, so I remained wondering. Did anyone interact with this mailbox? As an artist, this lack of community interaction with the box in any format felt intentional. Its weathered appearance raises the question of “was it ever blue?”. It's odd how a once bold stand-out feature of our built environment could devolve to a decaying feature blending into its natural environment. The box always felt like a wallflower, and I was the only one who ever acknowledged its presence.
I find myself drawn to USPS blue collection boxes because they act as a community hub. While the intended purpose of these boxes is to mail letters or postcards, it is also a place of creative expression of thoughts and imagery. When walking through the neighborhood of Oakland, where I live now, I see bright blue, rather pristine, collection boxes covered in stickers, messages, graffiti, and missing pet posters. No matter where they are located, all of these collection boxes are constantly adapting and changing in relation to the people around them. Every mark is purposeful, every mark is a testament to the human spirit. We crave connection and interaction with our environment. Whether this interaction is mailing your mother on the other side of the state a birthday card, or writing “LOVE THY NEIGHBOR,” on the box in bold letters it all has the same purpose. The contrast in its intended use and the social function it exhibits in its community is fascinating: it allows for communication in the local and the global. These public fixtures are not owned by any one person and as a result, they may be considered a mundane object to the average observer. They exist, but not beyond the realm of that fleeting moment you pass it on the street. It is not a desired object, not something someone wishes to possess individually. I find this to be a rare feature in the modern world, as almost everything is attainable with money.
USPS blue collection boxes are a community staple. Even if someone were to purchase a retired USPS blue collection box, its allure and social function would be negated. They rely on the people around them to function and the environment to welcome them. The box I am most familiar with has aged drastically, bearing witness to children growing up and new generations being born. It still functions as a mail receptacle, while also wearing the stains of time and the marks of people who once occupied this neighborhood.
The world of athletics is certainly not the same as it was years ago. Now players could earn more money off the court with brand deals and partnerships. With the ever growing importance of social media and growing one’s own brand, the tunnel walk emerged. The tunnel walk, pioneered by NBA and WNBA players, was a COVID-era event where players would show up in manicured outfits as a way to produce more content for quarantined fans. It became an immediate hit. The tunnel walk stuck and evolved further into an opportunity for athletes to create their own identity in the fashion world.
During COVID, the average gameday experience changed for both fans and players alike. Fans now had to watch at home and follow along as the team’s social media accounts posted updates. On the other hand, players could now take advantage of this growing online presence. Fashion-forward players like the WNBA’s Sabrina Ionescu and Aja Wilson and the NBA’s Jordan Poole and Chris Paul easily floated from streetwear looks to more formal attire. Through this, the players produced a clear sense of style that fans could identify with. It essentially became a runway with the athletes double timing as quasi-models.
The brands the athletes were wearing in the early years of the tunnel walk were largely connected by one thing- the designers and brands were Black or Black-owned. The players were already supporting these brands, and saw the tunnel fits as a way to promote the brands they liked.
Nowadays, the tunnel fit evolved. Stylists and high end designer brands got involved. Other sports started taking note and incorporated the tunnel fit into their social media presence. Because of the explosion of the tunnel fit, the most stylish players have been invited to major fashion events like the Met Gala and Paris Fashion Week- Lebron James even becoming a co-chair for the previous Met.
The tunnel fit is also not specific to players. Player’s partners, referred to often as WAG’s, have used the fan culture generated by the tunnel fit to build their own brands, separate but connected to their partners. One specific WAG, Kristin Juszczyk designed her outfits, as well as the gameday fits of other famous WAG’s- one such as Taylor Swift. Juszczyk creates fashionable outfits that are more than just the team’s logo and colors.
Bringing it home to the 412, Kiya Tomlin, wife of Steelers’ head coach Mike Tomlin, has her own self-title clothing brand. Opposite of Juszczyk, Tomlin had her own brand established before she started producing NFL branded apparel. She wanted to make clothes that she felt comfortable in and could wear on gameday. Fashion and social media are two of few industries where women dominate the space. Sports is often labeled as the opposite. Similarly, athletes have never had as much presence in the fashion world as they do now. Both sports and fashion as industries have deep ties to racism, misogyny, and prejudice. A silent takeover of the two is happening as Black athletes and women take up more and more space.
I crave perfection. I crave results. I crave approval. I crave success. I crave admiration. I crave love. I crave peace. I crave meaning. I crave acceptance. I crave a routine. I crave, I crave, I crave. I crave so many things, and will never have any of them. No matter how badly I want it, perfection is unattainable. There is never a right time, or a right moment, and I have to accept that. I will never appease everyone, but must learn to appease myself. But how do I appease myself when all I’ve wanted is the validation of others? Who am I when I’m not giving to others?
I have always been an overachiever. My father measures people in terms of quantifiable success. So does the rest of the world. I was raised on gold medals and extra credit. I was pushed to be involved in anything I could be. My days were filled with rigorous course work from my prep school with notable alumni such as Joe Biden. My nights were filled with community service, work, theater, student council, yearbook committee, anything that I could win. I was raised on perfection.
My junior year of high school, my dad came to see the musical I led. Head Over Heels. I had the largest role. I had the final bow. My name was at the top of the cast list. I always ask my parents what they think of my shows. Who the standouts are. Who the weak links are. When I ask them what their favorite part is, the answer is always the same. Me. Not only because I’m their child, but because I am the best. I have to be. I’m the lead. Not only does the lead have to be the strongest part of the show, but I have to be the best. I don’t know what to do when I’m not succeeding. This time was different. I asked my dad what his favorite part was. He said my best friend, Robert. Truthfully, at the time, it didn’t bother me. Robert was also my favorite part, and this was his biggest role to date. I laughed it off, “Okay. But what was your favorite part I was in?”
My dad, similar to me, doesn’t like his authority being questioned and jumped to the defensive. “Well, you were good, but you sounded strained at times, that’s all. I could just tell this role was a lot for you, but they had no one else to do it,” I was stunned. I anticipated him to respond with the title of any of my multiple solo songs. Instead, he told me I was good, but strained. I was ok. I was not the standout; I was the weak link. I have never been the weak link. I drove to my show hysterically sobbing in my car. I almost called out of the show. My dad and I made up, the mechanics of it don’t matter. When I bring it up now, he gets defensive saying that three years later I must see his side of the story. And truth be told, I do get some parts of it. I had the hardest part and the least support. People always assume I can handle a heavy workload because I insist I can. I don’t know how to say that I can’t. I don’t know how to not carry my own cross. I don’t know how to not give people what they want because I don’t know what I want.
Whenever I call my mom crying, she asks me how to help me and I always respond in the same defeated tone, “I don’t know,”. I am the person with the solutions, so when your rock doesn’t know what to do, you panic. I was at a party while my best friend got broken up with, I found a sober person to drive me to her. My little brother is confused about his English homework, I help him with his assignment and stay up later finishing my own work. I’m at a bar and a drunk girl I’ve never met comes up to me throwing up and crying that her friends left her, I’m getting her home. I fix the friendship drama. I compartmentalize my own issues. I don’t get confrontational with people, I justify their actions and move on. When my research advisor asks me to pick up slack I do. When my internship boss complains about a low quality of work I help others fine tune their projects. I crave perfection.
I hate that I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I know what I’m good at, but I don’t know what I want to do. I only know how to do what others want me to do. Can I make a decision? Sure, but it’s for the collective good, not my own well being. I spend so much time prepping for interviews, but when I’m on a date and asked what I like to do in my free time I freeze. I laugh it off explaining that I don’t get free time and instead list my resume as an explanation. These experiences have haunted me. I know what I can do. But what do I want to spend my time doing? Who am I in those fleeting moments of silence? I’ve been so caught up in other people’s metrics that I lost sight of what matters to me. So, what does matter to me?
Honesty matters to me. Kindness matters to me. Being a team player matters to me. Stopping in the middle of the street to pet a dog matters to me. Helping other people matters to me. Family matters to me. My friendships matter to me. A sunny day matters to me. Curating the perfect playlist matters to me. My summer camp matters to me. So many little things matter to me.
During therapy I discussed my warped metrics for measuring success. My therapist asked me to describe what I thought were the key aspects of my identity. I’ve never had to think about my go-to adjective: hardworking. While I was raised on perfection, hard work took precedence over that. My father grew up in poverty, got a full ride to Syracuse, and now heads a global company. To be a Kessler is to work hard. When I responded my therapist stopped me. “Liv, you’re more than your work. You work hard because you’re passionate. You care so deeply, that’s why you do everything that you do,”. After my initial pushback, I reflected. She was right. I didn’t even realize it. Yes, I work hard in my own life, but I work hard to help others.
When I was in middle school, the stereotypical group of mean girls started cajoling a new girl who sat next to me in English class. They made fun of her Jansport backpack as they donned Vera Bradley bags. I was pissed. I knew what it was like to be a new transfer into this daunting prep school. I wish someone stood up for me, so I stood up for her. There was a time where I labeled this instance as me simply being outspoken, it was driven by empathy. Qualities such as leadership and public speaking so often outshine basic kindness. I know people will describe me as determined, and I’m okay with that. I still crave perfection, and maybe a part of me always will. But I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that I need to focus less on results, and more on myself. My accomplishments are worthless if I can’t go to sleep at night feeling okay about myself.
So, how would I describe myself? I am my father’s daughter. I look for the best in myself and others. I work hard, but I work out of love. I do care what other people think about me. I want my parents to be proud of me. I love to sing. I’m a terrible dancer, but regardless, I still try. I’ve learned that I love to work with kids, they make me laugh. I’m a good friend. I’m my friend's biggest cheerleader. I’m supportive. I cry at sad movies, and sad books, and I have cried at the closing performance of every show I have ever worked on. I cry a lot, and that’s okay. I’m a big sister. I’m my mother’s daughter. I smile at strangers and spend my free time painting. I’m still learning how to define myself and learning what I crave, and that’s OK – Olivia Kessler.
I love my noise-canceling headphones. Sometimes life can be too loud, too stressful, and too much. I cherish the way I can block out all of that commotion–live my life in spite of everything going on around me. It makes me feel whole; it makes me feel seen.
I love my noise-canceling headphones because it feels like the songs I listen to are mine. The soft yearning of Cigarettes After Sex or the joy of Olivia Dean. The tunes that float out are for my ears only. It’s like a deep breath. I get to listen to songs that help me process my emotions the way I want to. No one is telling me what I should do or how I should act. There is something personal about that, I think.
I find that I am the most creative, too, with them on. I feel like I finally have the power to see clearly. I can untangle my knotted thoughts and visions and turn them into a poem or a story. Even while I write this blog, I'm wearing my noise-canceling headphones. Society is constantly chattering in your ears, every second of every day– but with the click of a button, external opinions and demands are silenced.
I am my own person when I have my headphones on; I’m in my own world. I have my own thoughts–thoughts I can ruminate on in the quietness of my own mind.
When I have my headphones on, nothing else matters. Not the six-page paper due or how others perceive me. I don’t care if my hair is frizzy or if my makeup is flaking off in the cold weather. All of my usual worries quiet down along with everything else around me. I am allowed to do what I need to do without a care in the world.
But most importantly, I love my noise-canceling headphones because I am able to appreciate the hustle and bustle of the crazy atmosphere around me a little bit more when I finally decide to take them off.
I am already predisposed to only favor hobbies that I consider myself “good at” and capitalism surely doesn’t help me overcome this tendency. Just a few months ago I was sitting outside with my friend who is an art major. As I admired her work, she encouraged me to try drawing. I immediately responded, “No, I’m not any good at it.” Her reply was simple but eye-opening: “That’s not the point, it’s about being creative and I think everyone is creative.” She handed me a pen and I started drawing, trying to accept that it was okay to aim for a pigeon and wind up with a chicken.
Her statement not only challenged me to face my own commodification of creativity, but it was also a quiet rejection of capitalism’s insistence that every activity must be tied to skill or productivity. It suggested an alternative perspective where creativity exists for its own sake, rather than as a means to an end. Under capitalism, hobbies become side hustles, and creativity is stifled by performance pressure. Now, social media reinforces this by turning hobbies into sources of validation through likes and shares. Endless content creators who once started on TikTok or Instagram to share their talents take a step back when they experience “creative burnout,” a term that should be coined something like “capitalist exhaustion” or “productivity fatigue” instead. Ultimately, rejecting this mentality affirms the right to joy, exploration, and self-expression without the burden of performance. Engaging in activities for the fun of it allows for a deeper connection with the self, a relationship capitalism has fought so hard to omit.
Now, thanks to my friend, when I journal I add a little image alongside my daily thoughts. I wouldn’t say my artistic skills have improved, but my ability to appreciate them has. I still fight against my inclinations of perfectionism, but every step of appreciating art and creativity for their intrinsic merits is a step towards dismantling a system that alienates the self from their work and their human capacities.
Check out some of my most recent doodles of defiance 🙂
This past week, I traveled alone to three new cities: Milan, Florence, and Rome, Italy in three days. Steering an unknown path without a conversation in mind and automatically understanding the public transit systems were two of the few things I could recall making this solo experience a special one. No plans in the beginning, Milan was a good one. The Duomo being the main thing to see was a slight understatement. So much art gives prosperity to its surroundings; this time to myself was quite necessary on the contrary to a walk alone. Florence held a smooth breeze that gave me the energy to continue towards the Ponte Vecchio bridge along the sunset. Rome, but replace Times Square with the colosseum. Down the boot; from the borders closer to France to a city where another sits within: Vatican City. It was an adjustment of 72 hours that taught me to take advantage of the days of rest, as the enjoyment continues in a new spot at any time.
I’ve gained a space of comfort internally that had yet to be discovered before arriving. Noticing things…everything, evoked an expression that displayed even the simplest forms of naturalism. What mattered most to me during those three days of traveling was time. How time is spent and what it can be used for without the presence and pressure of others. Ultimately, I was given the time to navigate through meals of its origin, architectural sites, and journals of those whom I cannot understand, yet immediate comprehension from an immobile figure.
There wasn’t a single person relying on my urgency to move along through the city. Nothing to wait for and nothing to take a short glimpse at. Instead, reading each description of pieces and sculptures where there are shared stories of how one’s livelihood was kept, tying a knot to mine as well.
Instead of speaking, I was observing. Those with families, locals, artists, pets, children playing on the courtyard, skaters, or other travelers much like myself. Initially, the tension was there; a nerve-racking feeling where it would be odd to travel alone. It’s something you should be doing with friends at this age. Nor that idea, however, using this age to be without anyone. And I’ve come to the conclusion that noticing others in groups together, chatting and laughing was something that I missed, displaying the experience that I was meant to have. Toward the end, I didn’t notice togetherness, much more being still. Still trees, bicycles, cars, and buildings that aren’t being controlled, ensuring a similar feeling for myself of being still and simply enjoying the observation.
He sang in an excruciatingly dramatic southern drawl that always made me laugh.
Everything that I got, is just what I got on.
He cocked his head playfully towards me as his fingers drummed on the wheel.
Resting my feet on the dashboard I pulled my sunglasses down; flashin’ him a look of playful annoyance.
When that sun is high in that Texas sky, I’ll be buckin’ at the county fair, we sang in unison with our bags packed in the trunk. I watched as we drove through tunnels, over bridges, and across state lines.
We knew there was someplace better for us. There had to be.
And as day slowly crept towards night, we watched the earth flatten from skyscrapers, like giants in the air, to the flat-earth, cattle-crawling land of tornado alley,
Amarillo by mornin’
and finally to the red rocks out west.
Amarillo I’ll be there
With a year gone and winter approachin’ he danced with me every night despite the weariness in his eyes and the callouses that plagued his hands, he turned on the old radio and held me close.
They took my saddle in Houston, broke my leg in Santa Fe.
But one night, instead of dancin’, he took me on a drive to “see the stars.”
Smellin’ the scent of stale whiskey and tobacco on his breath, he led me to the old Volkswagen in the garage and drove me forty-five minutes North.
Lost my wife and a girlfriend somewhere along the way. But I’ll be lookin’ for eight, when they pull that gate.
As he pulled the car to the side of the road, I watched as weariness turned to anger, and the callouses on his soft hands morphed into fists.
He came round to my side and ripped me from my seat.
And I hope that Judge ain’t blind.
I felt my body plunge towards the cold earth.
Rock in hand, I felt a white-hot searing pain expunge from my temple
Amarillo by mornin’
Feeling the warm blood from my head trickle down my face, everything went black.
Even the stars.
With a sudden gasp, my eyes lurch open as my deterioratin’ vision desperately tries to adjust. A sharp jolt of pain fully awakens my senses.
Sitting up, I lock eyes with the vulture; plunging its beak into the bloody wound on my thigh. I beg for it to stop.
Bendin’ my skull back to see the stars, I feel the slight patter of rain hitting my bloodied face and burying the sins of whatever happened that I can’t seem to remember deep into the ground.
A light in the distance emerges, wailin’ for help as the figure comes closer and scoops me up. He lays me down in the backseat, and as we drive off I see his thumbs drummin’ the wheel–
Amarillo by mornin’ up from San Antone, Everything that I got is just what I got on.
In order to find closure you must get everything off your chest. It’s hard. It’s uncomfortable. It’s vulnerable. It’s necessary. If you don’t lay everything out on the table, you’ll constantly wonder if things could be different. You don’t want to live your life without loving loudly and speaking your truth.
I had a massive crush on one of my friends, and we started talking. One night the line of friendship was crossed. We agreed we needed to talk about it. When talking I was caught completely off guard that he wanted nothing. I didn’t say what I really felt. In part this was because I was shocked. For the next two months he continued to lead me on. He didn’t know I still wanted him because I told him otherwise. How was I supposed to get over him if I resented him for dominating our conversation, and his continued faux interest in me? I needed to get it all out.
Jumping into the New Year from the comfort of my hometown friends and bubbles of champagne I call him and briefly explain how he made me feel. He apologizes. It’s not enough. I block him. I can’t leave things like that. I still see him everyday. I still haven’t explained my side. He doesn’t know how I feel.
We come back for the second semester and we talk. I am so panicked that no matter how hard I thought about it, I still don’t know how to articulate how I feel. I panic. I read to him from my journal. I find the way to walk him through my feelings. There’s no blame. There’s no judgement. It’s about how I feel, and helping myself get the closure I need to move on. Unfortunately, it’s not about him.
Life is too short to not tell someone how you feel. You need to have vulnerable and candid conversations to work your way through a difficult situation. Without truth you can never have closure. It’s your life, get it all out or be held back by the anxiety that you could have done more.
Nothing beats Halloween. As a kid, you'd wake up in the morning with a smile on your face, and the only disappointment was that nighttime couldn't come soon enough. School was filled with exciting Halloween themed activities, questions about your costume, a spooky lunch, and of course, tons of candy. After school, you'd walk past all of your neighbor's decorations and get into your costume. For dinner, it was "bloody" hot dogs and mac and cheese made to look like fingers.
Your dad would dress in a vampire costume and chase you around the house saying, “I want to drink your blood!" in the worst accent ever. Your dog would begin to bark after you, so your mom would yell at you and your dad for riling up the dog as "Spooky Scary Skeletons" played in the background. As the sun finally started to set, it was still warm enough to go out without layers and grab your basket and run around the front yard with your brother as you both waited for your dad. You meet up with your friend and hit your first house which features full-sized candy bars! Throughout the night, other groups of kids complement your costume, multiple houses let you have a whole handful of candy, and not one house gives out dental floss! You finally get back home and run to your front door, ring the doorbell, and yell "trick-or-treat!" as your mother acts surprised. She has hot chocolate ready for you and your brother. You both dump out your candy and make your official candy trades after counting and sorting it all out. Your dad takes some as "the dad tax" and your mom tells you not to eat it all at once. You promise her you won't as you shove another bar into your mouth. Then, you change into your pajamas and fall asleep on the couch, excited to brag about how much candy you got the next day at school.
Written by Mal Creveling
McCall Road
The street I grew up on was a childless one. There were very few families with children and even
fewer with children under ten. Every year I would don my elaborate costume complete with face paint
and accessories. On Halloween of 2013, I was a vampire princess. Covered in an elaborate gown, frills
and all, I walked up and down my street with my apathetic father in tow. Many of the houses had their
lights off with no fake skeletons or pumpkins on doorsteps. When we finally found a home with their porch lights lit, I rang the doorbell and waited patiently. The suffocating silence of the empty street surrounded me. An elderly couple opened the door, arms outstretched with a plastic pumpkin full of candy. I was invited to take as many as I wanted as their scruffy Bichon Frise nipped at the hem of my dress. The warmth from their home spilled onto the doorstep, filling my nose with apple cinnamon. The walk back home felt long. An endless expanse of grey pavement lay in front of us.
When we arrived home, I sprawled out on the couch, cradling my pillowcase of candy like a newborn infant. My mother proposed watching a Halloween movie—one made for kids like Coraline or
The Nightmare Before Christmas. I vehemently refused, shaking my head violently back and forth until
my brain pounded against my skull. I was an easily frightened child. Once after playing the Halloween-themed Just Dance level, I couldn’t sleep for days. My parents had tried to get me to watch The Nightmare Before Christmas countless times, convinced that watching it was a quintessential childhood experience. Every time they attempted, I would snatch the remote and shut it off as soon as the “boogeyman” came on screen. We opted for Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith instead, which was arguably more violent than The Nightmare Before Christmas.
We left the windows open, allowing the cool breeze to waltz through our home, dancing around the living room. The few older children that were still trick-or-treating giggled as they ran down the street. The warm glow of the street lights blanketed my face as I slept that night, a gentle embrace, a quiet night.
Written by Ariana Cator
The Last House
I was a late bloomer, so every Halloween from the age of 1-16, I went trick-or-treating with my younger sisters. When I was 16, I invited my friends to come with me, since my neighborhood was small enough were we could save ourselves from the embarrassment.
At the end of my neighborhood, about 40 houses down from mine, there was an older couple who always gave out king-sized treats. Even though it was freezing, raining, and we had to walk up a hill, our goal was to make it to their house. My younger sisters got tired along the way, so after taking them back home, we headed to our final destination.
When we arrived, we rang the doorbell and were greeted by my neighbors. The woman asked us if we wanted to step inside for a second to warm up, and the man went to grab the candy bars. When we finally processed what was going on, we realized how spooky their house was. Their foyer was massive with a grand staircase leading to the second floor. There were china cabinets, antique trinkets, and crystal chandeliers. Hanging on the walls were paintings of their children as babies- not photographs, but large 5ft by 5ft paintings. The house looked untouched, like no one had lived there in decades. We proceeded to chat with them for over 20 minutes, and even though they were being nice, we were still spooked.
That was the last time I went trick-or-treating.
Written by Giulia Mauro
Patrick Bateman
I love Halloween. It’s my favorite holiday, and I go all out.
This year, I went as Patrick Bateman (#performativefemale) —complete with a mini skirt and fishnets. This year, Halloween was different because I was going to my first ever Halloween party thrown by my ex-boyfriend and his best friend.
The party was huge. So many people from my high school were there, including all of my best friends. It was a blast until my evil ex got involved. For some background, this man broke up with me, and in public he pretended to hate my guts. We were also leads in the musical that year and had to be close to each other often.
He got with a lot of women after we broke up and was very mean to me, but at this Halloween party, he flirted with me the entire time. I, however, had a bigger secret he was not aware of; I wanted his best friend.
His best friend pulled me aside many times and told me I could not tell my ex that we were even chatting because my ex had told him and everybody else at this party that they weren’t allowed near me. I was in shock. I had no idea this man thought about me at all. Multiple times while I was talking to my ex, his best friend would be making eyes at me across the room, trying to get me to be alone with him. It got to a point where I could not drive home, and my friends asked my ex if I could stay the night. He of course said he would take very good care of me and sent them on their way. He sat me on the couch with a big blanket and laid down right next to me. We were watching a movie, but the whole time I was secretly texting his best friend. He ended up moving closer, and I ended up on the couch in between them. I fell asleep next to my evil ex and his best friend.
Months later, my ex found out I was dating his best friend. He threatened me and spilled drinks on our cars. I am now doing long distance with his best friend. We have been together for almost a year and are still going strong.
Written by Gabrielle Bleice
Furry Head
My favorite Halloween memory would by far have to be when I stole a furry head from a frat house. Freshman year of college, I was at a Halloween party with a large group of my friends. The party was split between two backyards with a fence dividing them. We made it to the original party but heard a rumor that there was a bathroom in the other house. I hopped the fence with my friend Luke in an attempt to use the bathroom. We got inside and walked down the hallway, but two guys were blocking the door. They let me use the bathroom just fine, but not my friend Luke—simply because he is a guy. They told him to “whip it out” outside, and I was fed up. On our way out, there was a furry head sitting on the kitchen counter and I grabbed it, ran, and then hopped the fence. I then flaunted my prize to the other party and walked away unscathed. Even up to this day, my friends and I sporadically put the infamous furry head on.
Written by anonymous
Trick or Treat
Trick-or-treating falls on the Thursday before Halloween every year. And every year without fail, it’s 30 degrees. And if you’re really lucky, it's raining. It’s Ohio, so what more can you expect? However, this means that every costume from ages 0-12 (because at 13 I was too cool to trick-or-treat) was also stocked with thermal leggings, winter coat, mittens, and a hat. Trust me, this was not my choice. Every vampire, bee, and snapchat filter was over taken by the marshmallow that I was underneath. And as I think of what I am going to be this year, I laugh at what my younger self would think. She’d be proud that I’m sticking to the authentic vampire, corset and all. One thing I know, however, is I was never cold those nights. Embarrassed, but not cold. I’m hoping only one of those things will be true this year.
Written by Cassidy Hench
My Halloween Memory
I have a distinct memory of the first Halloween I didn’t spend carving pumpkins, watching Halloween movies, trick-or-treating, and trading candy. It was my freshman year of high school at a new school. My friend had a small Halloween party, and I was so happy to be invited. I dressed up as a go-go girl with my four other girl friends. I had a fun time that night, but the only memorable part of it was how I felt. Although I was so grateful to be included, I was heartbroken that I left my mom alone that night. And although she was happy to see me socializing with new friends, she felt the pain of letting go. This is why fall is such a hard, but beautiful time for my mom and me. The Halloween season and cooler weather brings change, as the trees begin to let go of their leaves and my mom lets go of me more. But, as the leaves always come back in the spring, I will always return too. Fall always reminds me of this moment, the feeling of love and letting go.
Written by Avi Mucci
Hippies
In sixth grade, my friend group and I dressed up as hippies—AKA wore tie-dye and circle glasses. We trick-or-treated in my friend, Del’s, neighborhood. I remember the streets being filled with parents and kids running around. This memory has always resonated with me when I think of the fall. Being with a group of girls (that are still my best friends) reminds me of the friendships I have built. To this day when I drive through Del’s neighborhood, I get flashbacks to this moment in my life.
