Moneta:The Mount Holyoke Literary Magazine

Fall 2014

2013-2014 Editorial Board:

Editor-in-Chief: Emma Ginader ’15

Treasurer: Ashley Barnes ’15

Poetry Editor: Frieda Yueng ’17

Assistant Poetry Editor: Aria Pahari ’17

Non-Fiction Editor: Patricia Kelly ’18

Fiction Editor: Hattie McLean ’16

Assistant Fiction Editor: Libby Kao ’17

Photography and Art Editor: Sarah Burgert ’15

Layout Editor: Kaitlin Boheim ’18

Public Relations Representative: Mariza Mathea ’17

General Editors: Mia Mazzaferro ‘16, Ofelia Garcia ‘17, Kimber-ly Neil ‘17, Mariza Mathea ’17, Kathryn Fitzpatrick ’18, and Sa-vannah Sevenzo ‘15.

Cover art:

“Untitled” by Reagan Brown

With special thanks to:

Cindy MeehanThe MHC English Department

Everyone who submitted their work

Table of Contents:

“Lists Poem” by Becca Frank...pg 1“Moonrise” by Lizzie Whitaker...pg 2“Blue” by Anna Berlin...pg 3-4“Another Sweet Farewell” by Deirdre Brazenall...pg 5“Dance Series II” by Julisa Campbell..pg 6“Picasso” by Deirdre Brazenall..pg 7“Am I Bilingual?” by Enryka Christopher...pg 8-13“Midnight Boom” by Lizzie Whitaker...pg 14“run” by Carrie Carter...pg 15“Johnny Damon’s Menstruation” by Mia Mazzaferro..pg 16-17“98 Pounds of a whole lot of nothing” by W...pg 18“Hand Drawing” by Ionelee Brogna...pg 19“Soy” by Maria Jose Correa ...pg 20-21“Dance Series III” by Julisa Campbell...pg 22“Haunt” by Mia Mazzaferro...pg 23“The Real Ocean” by Savannah Marciezyk...pg 24-25“[Soliliqualms]” by W...pg.26“Sunday Drive” by Carrie Carter...pg.27“Untitled” by Reagan Brown...pg.28

The Lists Poem

1

You and I are Good at making lists. We like to load life up, sort it through, and compile full lists. Lists of things to do, things accomplished,things necessary and not.

Lists of the ways you wear your shirtsand how many socks I have,of how long we’ve known each otherand how many days until you leave.

It makes us feel better, I think.We can count down the days orup the ways we’re alike(our brothers, our sisters, our hands, our minds).

And we started with distance, not knowing each other,but the lists stretched like budgets between us,allowing more wiggle room, and we’re closer now. Your list of what to spend time on overlaps with mine.

We’re Good at making lists, you and I,because we like to lay it all out,like rugs on the grass or me on your bed.

And when we’re not together,we’ll just keep track of the miles we’re apart,and the lists will expand and shrink,bending two ends of a rope,we’ll come back and it’ll all be accounted for.

By Becca Frank

2

““M

oonr

ise”

by

Lizz

ie W

hita

ker

3

Blue

We met outside at a friend’s party. It was a warm sticky night. The white lanterns in the garden gave off a golden glow. We sat in the cor-ner on a bench together. We laughed a lot. I can’t remember about what now, but I do remember the soft goodnight kiss he gave me on my cheek, as he reached around me to open my car door, how he looked at me with his kind blue eyes. A year later we moved in together. We went to Home Depot and picked out colors to paint the walls. We painted while listening to Mo-town and after ate sandwiches on the dusty floor. We’d run together in the mornings, keeping pace side by side. The sky would go from dark blue to pink to yellow and lastly to a soft blue. We were going to get married. We were going to have kids. We were going to grow old together. We were going to be happy. It was un-spoken but sat gently together between us. I could smell it in our cotton blue sheets, hear it in our whispers, and see it in his glances. One day I came home and hung my coat on the brass hook and put my keys on the brown table. I had a thought as I stared at the blue walls. “We should repaint the hallway.” I said. “I like it how it is.” “It’s boring. We should paint it yellow. Yellow is bright, and shiny, and happy.” “Well blue makes me happy.” The next morning I told him I didn’t want to go for our usual run. I went out and bought yellow sheets for the bed. “Why did you buy new sheets?” He asked me. “Oh, no. We always had those sheets. I thought it would be nice to change.” “I liked the blue.” “Well the yellow makes me happy.” I left the house quickly the next morning. I swear he’d painted the

By Anna Berlin

4

while I’d been sleeping. They seemed so much more vibrant and loud then the day before. I came home for dinner. I hung my coat on the brass hook and put my keys on the brown table. I imaged taking a giant eraser and running it over the walls, or perhaps hitting them with an ax. I could rip the walls apart until they didn’t exist. “I’m going to order Chinese for dinner.” “Let’s order Ethiopian. It’s a new place. It’s supposed to be really good.” “I like the Chinese place. Let’s get Chinese.” I stared at him across the table. The food was tasteless. I noticed his shirt was a pale cool blue, like his eyes, like the hallway in the next room. I dried the plates with a yellow towel; it felt satisfying to see the plates go from dirty to clean. I let one of the plates slip through my hands and crash and shatter. He came in. “Are you okay?” “No.” “Are you hurt? Did the glass cut you?” “No.” “What’s the matter?” “I really think we should paint the hallway yellow.” “What, this again? Did you hit your head?” “No. I just really hate that blue, like I hate Chinese food.” “But I thought you like blue and Chinese food?” He tugged at his shirt. “I don’t think I like it anymore.” Webrokeuponacoldwinternightundertheharshfluorescentlights in our kitchen. I watched the sky go from blue to yellow to pink and then to black. I left. I walked to my car and opened the door staring into the dark black night. Tomorrow I’d wake-up. The weather this morning said to-morrow would be overcast. I could see lots of color tomorrow, if I want-ed, I wondered if there was a way to never see blue again.

5

Another Sweet Farewell

In the purse of nightI have found I am a pearl,

Or some other small, half-wanted object.Content with the chance of being summoned

Byafloundering,damphand,Choosing me to perform some duty.

With dusks’ periwinkle shawl dropped,I am somehow not the jewel of the King’s ring anymore,

Wailing when forgotten to be worn.Lassitude dissolves me back to sand.

Relieved at having given up on being clever, graceful…strong.My only desire now is to be good.

Cast iron shadows exile guilt.The olive-oil stain of house lightDraws the red from everything.

Warm and missing, I sit.Blood settled, crusades bedded.At last, another sweet farewell.

By Deirdre Brazenall

6

“Dan

ce S

erie

s II”

by

Julis

a C

ampb

ell

7

Picasso

You could have swallowed the seaAnd still lit your wick.Born to burn.You saw an olive ripen to regressAnd drop,UnsatedBy the unfed lips of no one.

By Deirdre Brazenall

8

Am I Bilingual?

MylittlepointerfingerfollowedtheJapanesecharactersasIslowlymadeoutthesounds.Thewordscameoutpainfullyslow,butasIcontortedmymouthtomeetthedemandsofmymother’slanguage,asenseofaccomplishmentdawnedonme.IdidnotyetknowhowtoreadEnglish,buthereIwas,fouryearsoldandreadingJapanese.IlookedupatmymotherasIstumbledovertheendofthefirstsentencetoseeawidegrinbrimmingoverherface.“Yokudeki-ta!”shesaidandclappedherhands.Myfatherthenwalkedintotheroom,wonderingwhatwasgoingon.MymotherexplainedtohiminherbrokenEnglishthatIhadjustreadasentenceinJapaneseallonmyown,andheaskedifIcouldrepeatthefeatforhim.Iwassi-lent.MymotherrestatedhisrequestinJapanese,andIrememberanoverwhelmingfeelingofshameeruptwithinme.Ishookmyhead,droppedthechildren’sbook,andranintotheotherroom.“Aw,shemustbeshy,”myfathersaid. No,Iwasn’tshy.Ididn’treallyunderstandwhyIcouldn’treadthesentencetohimatthetime.Ididn’ttotallyevenunderstandtheemotionIwasfeeling,butlookingbackonityearslater,IfeelthedistinctfeelingofshamejustasvividlyasIdidthatday. MyfatherhasneverspokenJapanese,andalthoughmymothercanbothreadandwriteEnglishsufficiently,shehasneverbeenafluentspeaker.Japanesewasmyfirstlanguage,andasmyfatherwasconstantlyworking,EnglishwasnotwhatIprimarilyspokeuntilIlearneditinkindergarten.IenjoyedknowingJapanese.Itwaslikeasecretlanguagebetweenmymotherandme.WheneverwewentgroceryshoppingatthelocalMartin’sIwouldsitinthechild’sseatbythehandlebarandlistentomymothergossipabouttheothershoppers.Iwouldfeelspecialknowingthatnoonearounduscouldunderstandwhatshesaid.However,thatfeelingofbeingspecialcameataprice.IrecognizedthatIwassounlikeallthepeopleIcameincontactwith.WhileeveryoneelsespokeEnglish,mymoth-erandIweretheonlyoneswhodidn’t.Itwaslikewedidn’tbelong.

By Enryka Christopher

9

IwouldspeakEnglishtomyfatheronhisdaysofffromwork,butJapanesewordswerespatteredthroughoutmysentences.Ifheaskedmehowmylunchtasted,Iwouldreply,“oishee.”Evenwhenhecalledmyname,Iwouldanswerwith“nani?”Ofcourse,heknewwhatalltheselittlewordsmeant,butmycommunicationwithhim,aswellastheworldoutsidemyhome,wasfragmented—halfinEnglishandhalfinsomethingnoonebutmymotherunderstood. InkindergartenIrealizedhowmuchofaproblemthiswas.Onedaytheteacherlaidoutcardsonatablewithallofthechildren’snameswrittenonthem.Weweretoldtopickoutthecardthathadournameonitandbringitbacktoourdesk.Ofcoursesomeofthechildrenpickedoutthewrongnameonceortwice,butIwasthelastpersonleftstandingatthetablebecauseIdidn’trecognizemynamewritteninEn-glish.Bythispoint,therudimentaryembarrassmentIfirstfelttowardmybilingualismwasdevelopingintoacomplexshameofmyidentity.HowcouldIbelivinginAmericaandnotspeakEnglishliketheotherkids?WasIevena“real”AmericanifIspokemostlyJapanese?IwastheonlyAsianAmericaninthebackhillsofmyruralWestVirginiatown.Mylanguagebarrierpreventedmefrommakingfriendsatthelocalpreschool,butotherfactorsplayedintowhyIdidnotfitinthereaswell.Thepreschoolteachersdidn’tunderstandwhyIwouldn’teatthefoodtheygaveme.Ididn’tpossesstheverbalskillstoexplaintothemthatIwantedriceandnattoinsteadofchickennuggetsormacandcheese.Theyjustlabeledmea“pickyeater”andtoldmeIcouldn’tgotorecessuntilIhadfinishedmymeal.Ididn’tlikewatchingtheAmericancar-toonstheyputonforusintheTVroombecauseIcouldn’tunderstandthem;ImissedmyAnpanmanandDoraemonanimeshowsfromhome.MytroublewithEnglishwasthefoundationforalltheseotherprob-lemsthatcontributedtomyidentityconfusion. OnceIgotintokindergartenandstartedactuallylearningtheABCs,IpickedupEnglishfairlyquickly.BythetimeIwasinfirstgrade,Iwasforgettingmyfirstlanguage.Afterthereadingincidentwithmyfather,Istoppedtryingtolearntoreadwithmymother.Atthestartofsecondgrade,myparentswantedtoenrollmeinaJapaneseSaturday

10

school — I refused. I didn’t want this language to be a part of me any-more; I wanted to reject anything that wasn’t “American.” I was now eating mac and cheese for dinner, picked hot dogs over tofu, and aban-doned Anpanman and Doraemon for Spongebob Squarepants. As time went on I spoke less to my mother in Japanese and more to my friends in English. The less Japanese I spoke the more Ameri-can I felt. English was finally my primary language, and I didn’t have to feel shameful about not being able to articulate my thoughts in En-glish. There was, though, a different feeling of shame that took over at this time. It wasn’t because of myself, but rather for my mother. I would hear her struggle to communicate ideas with my father. She would try to explain her feelings to him, but she had trouble remembering ab-stract terms. At restaurants I would always be the one who ordered her meal for her while she would just point at the name of the dish in front of the waitress. I wished her to be fluent, so I wouldn’t have to experi-ence the myötähäpeä when her speech was littered with malapropisms. One time we ran into a family friend who had his mother with him. My mother asked if the woman was his father. She had switched the meaning of “mother” and “father,” and even though she apologized for her reasonable mistake, I was embarrassed for her. I wanted everything about me to be American, including my mother. This obsession with being American came out even more when my father decided to move us to South Korea the summer after I fin-ished third grade. He accepted a job there, and within two months we had packed up the whole house into thirteen boxes ready to be shipped overseas. Two days before we left, I marched around my empty West Virginia ranch-style home waving an American flag, repeating my vehe-ment refusals to live in another country. At nine-years-old I finally felt like I belonged. I had made a ton of friends with whom I could do “American things,” such as watch Spongebob together or play with the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Barbie dolls. We lived the American dream in a big house with two cars and a white picket fence surrounding our five acres. My English had even improved so much that I was placed in the “advanced” reading group

11

in class, not to mention I had won the “best cursive handwriting” title out of the entire third grade. So, it’s not surprising that I was not one bit thrilled about leaving America to adopt a whole new country and, worst of all, a whole new language. My parents enrolled me in a private Korean school. The only adults who spoke English there were the English teacher and the nurse. The headmaster, my tutor, and my parents all figured I would pick the lan-guage up fairly quickly. I lasted two months at Kyungbok Elementary School before I told my parents I didn’t want to go there anymore. I had been coming home crying everyday, but they were always at work so they never realized what was going on. They did know, however, that I was visiting the nurse everyday, complaining about earaches. There were about sixty students per class at the Korean school, which was typ-ical for most schools in Seoul. The amount of noise that these sixty stu-dents made everyday during lunch, recess, and activities was deafening. My father spoke with the headmaster and nurse on several occasions, but they both told my father that I was sure to adapt sooner or later. After I begged my parents to let me quit Korean school, I transferred to a private American school. My parents had put me in the Korean school because they wanted me to learn the language. So, once I transferred to the American school, they insisted that I learn Korean from a tutor. I had five different Korean tutors over the course of the two years in which we lived in Seoul. Each one was the same drill; I would ride the crowded subway to get to whichever district the tutor lived in, find their apartment building through the maze of concrete skyscrapers rising out of filthy, narrow streets, and take the elevator up to the 50th or 60th floor to spend an hour learning nothing. None of them were successful in teaching me the language. In the beginning, a lot of it was my fault. I would purposely not do the homework that the tutor assigned me. I felt like the less immersed I was in this new culture, the more I could hold onto my old, American roots. I would just sit in the tutor’s living room and give her a confused look when she held up a card with a picture of a mountain on it.

12

I always shook my head “no” for these stupid cards, and she would flip the card over, revealing the character “산” and the English pronunciation “san” under it. Even after I started doing the homework assigned to me (I had come around by the third or fourth tutor), I still was very slow at picking up the language. I was trying to learn it to make my parents hap-py, but I was just not interested in accepting another new language. We moved back to the States after two years, and it was a bit of a cul-ture shock coming back to America. It didn’t feel as if we were an Amer-ican family moving back to our home country, rather it felt as if I was once again a foreigner in an alien world. In her zeal to become fluent in Korean, my mother had forgotten some of her English. My Japanese was down to the bare minimum, I barely learned any Korean, and my English wasn’t up to par with the New York standard because of my shifting edu-cation. I eventually got on track with my English, taking all the AP and honors English courses my high school offered. I even decided to ma-jor in it once I got to college. I don’t regret the effort I put into gaining as much English knowledge as I could. However, now that I look back, I do regret letting go of my Japanese. I still can’t read or write in the language, but I am what is called “heritage fluent” — I can’t have a political dis-cussion in Japanese or understand abstract concepts, but I can certainly converse with my mother about dinner plans or what she did during the day. A few times I tried to relearn the characters I had once been able to make out, but I would end up with the old feeling of losing my “Ameri-canness.” I would get frustrated because my mother wouldn’t be able toexplain the Japanese linguistic structures in English, and I would feel both embarrassed and sad for her when she gave up because we couldn’t communicate efficiently. Maybe if I had been able to embrace my Japanese roots by becoming fluent in that language, I may have felt less of a need to hold onto being “American” because there might have been a stronger sense of belonging to my own mixed-ethnic background. By losing my first language in or-der to gain the one I deemed more “appropriate” for my environment, I lost the opportunity to fully find where I belong.

13

People ask me if I speak Japanese, and I always hesitate before ex-plaining the extent of my language proficiency. Although I still commu-nicate with my mother in Japanese, I don’t feel like I can connect to her culture because knowing the language is such a big part of being Japa-nese. Everyone who is Japanese or has grown up in Japan speaks Japa-nese. On the other hand, I’ve realized that speaking English fluently does not make one completely American. Not only is America home to many who don’t speak English, it is also home to many cultures and races that are seen as typically “un-American”— Asians can be “Asian-American,” but never just “American.” My experience with languages as I grew up has contributed to making me stuck in a limbo of not being totally Amer-ican nor totally Japanese.

14“Mid

nigh

t Bo

om”

by L

izzi

e W

hita

ker

15

run

I didn’t really know what to tell them when they asked me how to fix the mess. I mostly just told them to clean it up as they had tried to do before. Keep cleaning keep cleaning keep your keepsakes under your shirt so they don’t get all wet because it’s about to rain. (We’ve known it was coming for sometime now and now it’s here.) The mess is harder to see now but you have to keep cleaning. Keep cleaning keep cleaning keep cleaning.

By Carrie Carter

16

Johnny Damon’s Menstruation

Kate tugged at her wool beard. “Halloween is as good a day to die as any...” She thought. Her brother’s baseball pants sagged around her knees, forcing her to waddle around the cramped bathroom. “Shit.” She hissed as droplets of blood splattered the floor with each of her penguin steps. Each nautical tile became a red and white two-tone Jackson Pollock painting. With two hands on her ten-year-old hips, Kate took a deep breath and considered her short life. She contemplated, since she was most certainly dying, what she’d leave behind and to whom. “Well... now I have all this candy...” She thought, “I guess I will give some to Derek, since I ruined his pants and all.” They were ruined. No amount of tide-to-go could undo the tsunami of crimson that was now infused in the fibers of the heather cloth. “Sam can have all my Barbie dolls. Elise can have my books...” She pushed the bunched legs of her pants over her red con-verse sneakers. Kate kneeled and tried to clean up the floor, but only smeared the blood into the pale tile grout and created an even big-ger mess. “My mom is going to kill me.” She thought. Just then Kate heard someone coming. Frantic, panicked, and half-naked, Kate flushed wads of blood stained tissue paper down the toilet. She threw her brother’s pants into the tub. With it she tossed her underpants, the ones with the puppy print; her favorite despite the way the blue elastic band dug into her thickening hips and left a ring she just now noticed. The toilet choked and refused to swallow the swampy mess of blood and tissue, which swam like the lost souls of beta fish Kate used to know.“Hey Johnny Damon, you got any almond joy in that pillow case for dear old mom?” Kate’s mom asked through the bathroom door. Kate stood in front of the mirror looking into her own startled eyes. She put two fingers to each side of her temples and began tapping her

By Mia Mazzaferro

17

her foot nervously before responding. “Yeah mom, sure, just... just a second.” Kate could hear her mother lean against the door. “Honey is every-thing ok? Are you sick?” Was she sick? Kate had no idea how to tell her mom she was bleeding out and would likely be dead in moments. “Yeah mom... I’m fine...” Kate grabbed the Clorox bathroom cleaner and un-screwed the squirt bottle top. She poured the entirety of the bottle’s con-tents onto the bloodstained clothes in the bathtub. Leaning over them to move the shower curtain, she became entan-gled in it and fell into the tub. “Kate?! I’m coming in!” Her mother’s voice sounded clear through the thick mahogany door. “No, mom, I’m fi-“ but it was too late. Her mom opened the door and gasped, taking in every aspect of her destroyed bathroom. The toilet was clogged, the shower curtain was ripped, there was blood smeared and splattered all over the floor. The room looked like it had been victim to some angst-inspired teenage prank, not un-like those associated with Halloween. Kate climbed out of the tub and her mother looked bewildered. Kate began to cry, standing there in just her Johnny Damon number 18 Red Sox baseball jersey, fake beard, and sneakers. Her knees knocked and her thighs were streaked with blood. “Mom, I’m dying.” Kate spoke. Her mom began to cry, smiling. Handing Kate a Playtex tampon she said, “Johnny Damon just became a woman.”

18

98 Pounds of a whole lot of nothing

the date is 21st of may,and I am doing nothing at 10:55

at night. I keep dreaming of no obligations andalcohol,

and an air conditioned apartmentall to myself. I want a scape of iron monsters

pieced about this location-less oasis, which I can peek at through

curtains andthrough the frames of

small windows. “The world is your oyster,” my mother said to me

today. She does not understand that I am already sipping on oyster juice,

savoring before I swallow the whole thing. “This is fine,” said the mole;

well I say “this is delectable”. For I amlaughing with my cake in hand, but rather than stomach’s bottom

the floor it will hit instead.This is how my world began,and this is how it all will end.

I am still a worthless sack of 98 pounds of notgood enough, and my emptiness could swallow

more than 9 million oysters.

By W.

19

“Han

d D

raw

ing”

by

Ione

lee

Brog

na

20

Soy

Spanish:

No soy luz, soy sol. No soy noche, soy luna. No soy abajo, soy el sur.No soy semilla, soy cosecha. No soy miseria, soy prosperidad. No soy sin historia, soy cultura.No soy agua, soy océanos, mares y ríos.No soy humedad, soy trópicos. No soy palabra, soy muchas lenguas. No soy color, soy muchas razas. No soy religion, soy lo que creo.No soy mujer, soy amazona. No soy ruinas antiguas, soy civilización. No soy conquista. Soy LATINOAMÉRICA.

By Maria Jose Correa

English:

I am not light, I am sun. I am not night, I am moon.I am not down there, I am south.I am not seed, I am harvest.I am not misery, I am prosperity.I am not ¨without history¨, I am culture.I am not water, I m oceans, seas, and rivers.I am not humidity, I am tropics.I am not word, I am many languages.I am not color, I am many races.I am not religion, I am what I believe.I am not woman, I am an amazon.I am not ancient ruins, I am civilization.I am not conquest, I am Latin America.

21

22

Dan

ce S

erie

s III

by J

ulis

a C

ampb

ell

23

Haunt

You could roam all the earth and never findanything that feels as good, as the act of coming home.I rose with tired feet for this occasion,and now I alone rebel against it.A skinny dog strains to chokeon a feather or a bone.The streets are swept until they moan.Bare branches mope under weight of heavy snow,this is the barren terrain from which I’ve grown.There’s no place that feels as strange, as a home you used to know.

By Mia Mazzaferro

24

The Real Ocean

Icomefromaplacewherepeopleflockinthesummertobaskinthesunandfrolicforaweekortwo—amonthifthey’relucky—onlytoleaveagainbySeptember1st.Theycomeandoverwhelmusall,shockuswiththeirconcentrationonlytodepartindroves,satisfiedwiththeoceanandfeelingcontentwiththemselvesforex-posingtheirchildrentosomethingotherthanconcreteandschoolbooks. Whilemostwouldcallthistheidealtimetoenjoythebeach,reallyIpreferitinthedeadofJanuary,whenthebeachisasbarrenandcoldasthebaldfaceofthefullmoon,theonethatrisesoutofthestonegreyocean,ominous.Whileinthesticky-sweetmonthsofJulyandAugustthewaterrisestoaboutsixty-fourdegreesandbe-comesjustbearableenoughtowadeintoandwaituntilyourbodygoesnumb,thewinterseahasanallurethatseemstodisappearunderthehotglareofthesun.Onlyunderthewatchfuleyeofthestormcloudsdoestheoceanseemlikemagic. WhenIwaslittle,themagicwasinthetidalflats.Thewatersuckedback,andlikealadyliftingupherskirt,awholesetofwon-derswerewaitingforthosewhoknewwhattheywerelookingfor. Scallopshellsweretheeasiest,butalwaysacrowdfavoritecon-sideringtheirmanycolorconfigurations.Oystershellsweremoreofatreasure,especiallythosethatcamewiththeircounterpartsstillattached.Hermitcrabs,fiddlercrabs,razorclams.Moonsnailswiththeirfleshybodiesthatbloomedoutinthepalmofyourhandifyouheldthemjustright.And,oh,themermaidpurses,littleblackbagsfilledwithmermaidsecretstothoseofuswithimaginations.Onecouldwalkformilesontheseflatsandneverfeelaloneordistant,asthecomfortingarmoftheshorewasneveroutofsight,gentlycup-pingthebay. IstillrememberthefirstdayIswamintherealocean,though,theplacewiththemagic.Thevisitorstomyhometowndon’tknow

By Savannah Marciezyk

knowwhatthismeans,“therealocean,”theyask—isn’titalltheocean?Theanswerisyesandno,becausetoanywhoknows,theAtlanticisaragingwallofpowerandbeautyunmatchedbythegentlyflowingwatersofthebayandassuch,isdeservingofanamelike“therealocean.” Igotacallearlyonemorningfromafriendwholivedinthenextneighborhoodoverandwasinvitedforadayatthebeach.Mymoth-erpackedmeapeanutbutterandjellysandwichwhileIchangedintomybathingsuitandbraidedupmylong,sandy-coloredhair,sothatthewindwouldn’tknotitforme.Iwaswarnedaboutsunblockandpushedoutthedoor. WhatIremembermostvividlyaboutthatdayisthesteephilldowntothebeach.Wherethebayiseasytoaccess,therealoceanrequiresaflightofwoodenstairsthatareregularlysweptawayinthewinter:Rick-ety,withholesbetweentheboardsandnobacks,Ihatedthatkindofstaircase.Thesmell,ofcoldnessandwhatIcouldonlycallwhales,waspungent. Iremembertherushingexhilaration,andalsotheterror,ofbeingsweptupintothechurningoftheswellanddumpedunceremonious-lyontotheshore.Theseahadnouseforme;Iwasinconsequential,Ilearned,inthefaceofthereal,roaringocean.

25

26

[Soliliqualms]

Grass grows at an obscenely fast pace compared to

the blooming of roses in our garden. Often you

ponder and wander around the garden, following trimmed

leaves, smelling tulips and later with me taking

hibiscus tea and oreos on the landing. It is summer, and then it

is winter, but you are always walking illuminated in circles

towards the middle of this garden. But somehow I always call you

back from an end you notice but for which you

never realize you’ve been committing

the means. You come back mumbling about how

the roses aren’t blooming because you don’t see (and

I don’t tell) that they open up behind you/so that after tea

you go off thinking again about everything and nothing/

walking where the grass is hard which once you pass is then

soft/talking and frowning over the flowers like God/ circling

still as a side-note to the ticking of a greater means to an end,

as if it even matters.

By W.

27

Sunday Drive

the mountains (and thelack thereof ) made us feel all sappy, but fear pushed us through, page by page.

By Carrie Carter

28

“Unt

itled

” by

Reag

an B

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Contributor’s notes: Anna Berlin ’15: She is an Art Studio major and English minor. She has a ridic-ulously awesome dog named Bailey and is from the Garden State.Deirdre Brazenall ’16: She is an English major. She lived in Edinburgh, Scotland until the age of 12 when she moved to Northampton, MA with my mother and sisters. She have loved to read and write poetry since she was a child. Brazenall am a Francis Perkins Scholar and a graduate of Holyoke Commu-nity College.Reagan Brown ’17: She is pursuing an Art History major and a minor in Art Studio. She is from New York City and is somewhat named after President Ronald Reagan, which is funny since my sister’s name is Hillary.Julisa Campbell ’15: She is a Studio Art major and Film Studies minor. Her work primarily focuses on capturing the innate energy, power and physicality of women dancers. In her free time, she enjoys watching foreign films and creating mixed media art.Carrie Carter ’16: She is an English major/Educational Studies minor. She en-joys writing poems about food, swimming in lakes, and advocating for the oxford comma.Enryka Christopher ’15: She is a double major in English and Psychology. I spent time living in South Korea, Japan, Scotland, and several states in the US. My passions include traveling, reading, staying active, and learning about new and interesting topics. There’s so many excellent writers that I can’t pick a favorite, but some of my favorite books include Chaucer’s The Can-terbury Tales, Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Grey, and Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment.Maria Jose Correa ’17: She is pursuing a Spanish with Education major, a Latin American studies minor, and a Five College Certificate in Latin American Studies. Hailing from Argentina, where she was a Lieutenant in the Argen-tinean Coast Guard where she graduated in the first female class ever in the history. Correa is in love with Brazilian Portuguese as a Language, even in her first semester, she find this language more fascinating than Spanish.Savannah Marciezyk ’16: She is an English major with a concentration in Cre-ative Writing. She wrote my first poem when she was eight years old about her cat. In the Spring, she will studying at the University of Kent in Canter-bury, England.

Editorial Board: Emma Ginader ’15: She is an English and Politics double major. She has late-ly been enjoying the poetry of Tracey Smith and Alison Hawthorne Dem-ing. Her poetry has appeared in Verbosity and The Louisville Review and her non-fiction in The Columbus Dispatch and The Scranton Times-Tribune.

Hattie McLean ’16: She is an English major. Currently, her favorite writer is Jeffrey Eugenides. She also loves the poets Seamus Heaney and Kay Ryan,

and the art critic Peter Schjeldahl. She is also Vice President of the org.

Sarah Burgert ’15: Their favorite artist is Georgia O’Keeffe.

Mia Mazzaferro ’16: Mia is a double English and Gender Studies major at Mount Holyoke. She is currently rereading The Complete Love Poems of May Swenson. She is sometimes late because she stops to pet dogs she meets.

Next semester, she will be an Assistant Fiction Editor.

Becca Frank ’16: She was the Assistant Fiction Editor last semester and will return next semester after studying in France for a semester. She is pursu-ing English major with a minor in Psychology. She joined Mohoetry to be-come a part of a creative network of people.