Healing is a really weird process.  I learned from my internship that all healing happens within relationships. We talk about trauma-informed approaches all the time, and how to deal with the kids in a way that won’t retraumatize them. This ultimately means that we should lead ourselves with curiosity, remain calm and consistent, and become a “safe” adult in their lives because oftentimes they don’t have that at home. We discussed Developmental Trauma Disorder (DTD) to describe childhood trauma instead of PTSD. Childhood trauma isn’t characterized by just one event like PTSD defines, it shapes how you are as a person. We talked about how children are ultimately powerless in their situations, leading them to form their entire personalities around surviving it instead. It’s sad—but that’s why my internship exists. That’s why therapy in general exists. Healing from trauma doesn’t just mean not being traumatized anymore: it also means building a sense of identity and community— understanding who you are so you’re confident in your choices again. Something I’ve personally really struggled with. 

But I love the kids there. I love forming inside jokes with them and applauding their successes. I love seeing them get their grades up after struggling with them. I love it when they ask for my help or want my opinion on something. I love the little rituals I have with them where I use the same prank every day and see if they fall for it, something they do right back. 

I even love it when I mess up - when I make a mistake, so I can apologize for it later. That look in their eye, that shock and curiosity. Their anger and passive-aggressive comments to see if you really mean it, until they finally realize that you do, and they turn back into a small kid again. I had to hold back tears when I apologized to the most reactive student there, and for once, he was soft spoken. For once, he was waiting to see what I was going to say instead of jumping into ‘fight’ mode, something he does with everyone. How odd is it that when kids cause that much trouble, we can sometimes forget that they’re just kids? They act in ways I’ve never even thought about acting, even now as a 21-year-old. Yet once you have enough experience with them, you realize they are just trying to feel like they’re on the same level as the adults in their lives. They want things to be fair, and they want to be heard. The adults are acting like children, and the children feel ignored because of it. So in response, they start yelling. They start bullying. They start wearing clothes that make them look way older than they are. They start swearing every other word and saying awful things. I know of kids who have started beating up old people on the sidewalk and setting fires around the boulevard. I know of kids who have gotten a hold of vapes, and even worse: knives and guns. I know of kids who steal, lie, and cheat.

They can’t leave their home situations; CPS would put them in a worse spot than they already are. So they have to learn how to survive it, even if it looks unrelated on the outside. Understanding this doesn’t mean we excuse it; kids get sent to juvie for these behaviors all the time…but nonetheless, we understand.

“I don’t think your reaction was entirely your fault,” I told him. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to say that, but I felt as though it was true. Even if it was an accident, I pushed him to his limit, and I acknowledged that. 

“I’m still sorry,” he said. I was shocked; he was not the kind of kid to do something like that, especially unprompted. Or maybe I just hadn’t seen that side of him yet. Maybe he still wanted to feel equal to me, even if it meant being vulnerable. 

The thing was, the week the conflict occurred really messed with me. I’m still learning about how much my past affects how I view my mistakes, and I think it is more than I thought. In many aspects of my life, making a mistake is life-shattering. I feel like I’m not good enough or that I’m just not in control of my life when the mistakes are accidental. It’s hard to trust yourself when every bad thing you do is a “sign” that you’re failing, because that is what people have made you believe in the past. 

So when I made that mistake at my internship, I felt like I had failed. That I was a fraud, and that no one should trust me because I didn’t trust myself. But after that moment of repair, it made me realize that true failure would’ve looked like avoidance. It would’ve looked like not caring about how you made someone feel, because mistakes are inevitable. It would’ve looked like never getting to see an explosive kid be small and vulnerable with you. It would’ve looked like never getting to connect with a student who constantly pushes everyone away. 

And not only did the repair ease the tension, it built respect. I’ve had many moments of repair with other kids as well. The kids who were once cruel and threatening towards me started to become incredibly nice and protective of me instead. Not that I need to be protected, but they made it known that I deserve the respect that I give out. 

Last week, for some reason, I tried wearing lip liner. I’ll be honest, it didn’t look good, but I gaslit myself into thinking that it did. Or that I didn’t really care what other people thought anyway. Even if I knew the kids might make fun of me, I knew that my coworkers would be supportive. They are all such nice people.

As I went into my internship, I saw the kids notice it, but they didn’t say anything. Until a student sat down and said that she liked it. She thought it looked pretty. She had the same excitement on her face and in her voice that my coworker and I give her whenever she walks into the room. At the end of the shift, another student who I’ve grown close to over the semester said that she liked it too. This student wasn’t the kind of person to compliment girly things either, so it really took me by surprise. And maybe they didn’t actually think it looked good, but they still wanted to support me. Because they have a connection with me, and they wanted to let me know that they noticed I was trying something new. 

It’s been a weird experience building connections and creating mutual respect with these kids, and honestly, it’s been healing. I think that healing truly does happen in your relationships, and I feel myself accepting respect from many other people in my life as well. People are kind to me, people do care. Empathy, kindness, and respect can come from everyone in your life, and no one deserves any less than that. The student who beat people up and set fires around the boulevard is back from his six-month ban, is finally on meds for ADHD, and has improved significantly. Not only does he act better, but he feels better, too. He’s extremely smart and good at math, and he enjoys doing art activities with me. He’s turned back into a 5th grader, in a way where we can see his vulnerable side again. His defense mechanisms are down, and he’s able to be a happy kid again. 

 These kids don’t ever have to know how they’ve contributed to my own growth, but that doesn’t take away the fact that they have. Learning and growing with them is an opportunity I’m really grateful for, and I hope that other people can have experiences as fulfilling as mine. Hurt people hurt people, and the only goal is to grow and get better, not shame and punish. Actions have consequences, but they don’t warrant disrespect. I admire my supervisor for being a founder of the non-profit that my internship is at, and I aspire to be like her one day.

Written by Mia Stack

Edited by Leigh Marks and Julia Brummell

Graphic by Tristyn Nguessamble

On a cold winter night, I peer through a window into a living room lit only by a stained glass lamp. Aside from the street lights immediately guiding my path and the larger light pollution all around me, I am enveloped in darkness. My gloved hands push down in the pockets of my hand-me-down black puffer. The cold shoots up my pant legs, and the wind whips at my sides. I’ll find a safe haven inside soon. Another room brightened by electricity, warm enough to shed my jacket.

 There is something magical about being cozy indoors – alone on my living room couch, amongst bustling bodies in a crowded restaurant, or fidgeting with the register on a slow evening – while the outside world is raging with snow, below freezing temperatures, or rainstorms. This sort of peace is inversely replicated as I walk down a snow-trodden street, looking into every house’s front window. 

I confessed this guilty pleasure to my roommate. I spoke of my affinity for looking into houses in the dark. Extravagant mansions and their minimalist decor, college apartments and their tacky posters, brownstones and their dutifully adorned fireplace mantles. My obsession with knowing strangers intimately, though not at all. She told me about the Danish and how they leave their curtains drawn open to prove their respectable place in society. A purposeful, seemingly accidental, act. Enough transparency to confirm the homeowner’s respectable place in society, but not too obviously manufactured to be seen as flaunting. 

I’m unsure whether this attitude translates well to Americans. On one hand, most windows show nothing more than a continuous television stream. The average person is probably similar to myself, an enjoyer of natural light who is too lazy to shut blinds when it gets dark. On the other hand, I’ve seen lavish housing that lends itself to peeping behavior. The astonishing floor-to-ceiling windows displaying, for all to see, the confidential confines of homes on busy intersections,s beckoning for glances and begging to be seen. 

It really doesn’t matter who the house belongs to, though. Wealthy or not, the beauty of a home lies within the inhabitant. Each window gives an insight to the life behind it. If I’m lucky, I catch bodies dancing or arms passionately flailing in heated discussion. If I'm really lucky, I see a cat perched on the window, glancing outwards as I look inwards.

Written by Clare Vogel

Edited by Nelly Forrest and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Sydney Williams

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. 

Written by Ellen Kurr

Edited by Angela Hoey and Julia Brummell

Graphic by Lily Wolf

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.

Written by Patrick Diana

Edited by Julia Brummell and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Giulia Mauro

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.

Written by Olivia Kessler

Edited by Julia Brummell and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Kate Madden

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.

Written by Alyssa Valdivia

Edited by Zoë Fontecchio and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Ariana Stranere

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 🙂

Written by Ellen Kurr

Edited by Jadeyn Lieu and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Sara Duffy

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.

Written by Alicia Sayaka

Edited by Daria Shepelavy and Julia Brummell

Graphic by Wendy Moore

The Perfect Halloween Night

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.

Written by Abby Cacoilo