fabiochiu/medium-articles huggingface dataset:
battle for existence.
By: The Lemon Diaries
Tags: Personal Growth, Mental Health, Personal Essay, Depression

There are some days when waking up is a declaration of war against your soul. Leaving the warmth of a bed is a radical act, knowing your soul will stay behind, tucked away in defiance. You don’t know how, but your body calls upon an inner reserve of strength, to will it to move and go through the motions of living. It isn’t the strength of a warrior in the midst of a gruelling battle, but rather like the quiet strength of the pacifist — watching, never engaging. What is a body without a soul but an empty vessel?

You shout.

You cry.

You laugh.

and you sigh.

You do reckless things and fling damaging words. You read heart-wrenching books and watch infuriating movies. To feel something. Anything. Going through the motions is difficult without the calming hand of your soul. But on this day, like many others, your soul decided the outside world was too much. In cowardice, it left your body to venture out alone and try to get through the day, undetected. To get through the day without others realising that they were in the presence of a soulless you. So maybe your body overcompensates. Your laughter an octave too high, your voice a touch too shrill, your alert eyes a little menacing. You draw attention to the surface of yourself, so nobody tries to look beneath it.

If you’re not careful, your body will forget that it is a physical being that can’t transcend the laws of existence. The recklessness, the feeling of chasing a high are all the more dangerous without your soul’s careful limits. When your body and soul unite once again, the awaiting mass of emotion will unleash all at once, consuming you whole. There’s the feeling you wanted.

How is it that your body reminds you constantly that you are alive and present, when you’re convinced of the opposite? That the world moves on, people laughing and living, wholly unaware of you sputtering and drowning. On a good day, you understand that it is your carefully constructed wall that is serving the exact purpose you erected it for. On a bad day, you are filled with anger that those around you cannot see that every last breath is an upwards battle. That the real you is hidden behind this façade, silently screaming for acknowledgment. For validation. For help.

Every day is just another day in the ongoing Battle for Existence.

And you’re still on the losing side.
no. 25 — Everybody Works by Jay Som
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Personal Essay, Album Review, Jay Som, Music, New Zealand

I’m kind of skipping ahead here, but I haven’t really had much to say about the bands I planned to write about these past two days. That, and I was too tired[1] to write, so I gave myself a little break. However, it’s a beautiful, warm, sunny day, and I’m sitting in my sun-filled living room with my sleepy cat, and I think today’s album is a perfect match to my afternoon.

When I listen to this album, I think of my time in New Zealand. I was there for five months, and it was the first time I went into a new environment using they/them pronouns. I decided to be as unflinching as I could be in defending myself and correcting people when they misgendered me. It felt like a practice run; a long-term experiment that I would get to back out of at the end of the semester. A test, to see if I could live as myself in a new environment with my support system on the other side of the world and in a completely opposite time zone. It was hard, and most of the time I was deeply depressed, but as always, I look back on that time now with romanticized nostalgia.

I lived in Palmerston North, in the dorms at Massey University. Every week or so, I would hop on a bus that took me from the campus into town. I’d pack my bags full of groceries and drive through the suburban houses nestled in lush mountains back to my tiny dorm room. Often, I would make the trip with friends, but on the occasions I went alone, I always played this album. “The Bus Song” is, of course, the anthem for my time on the bus back and forth from campus to the city center. Jay Som has the ability to make such dreamy music. It feels like I’m always put in a trance of some kind when I listen, even if it’s a faster-paced song.

While I was in New Zealand, I was also falling in love. James and I were writing letters and sending care packages to each other between New Zealand and Baltimore. Despite being as far away as I could possibly be, my feelings for him were getting stronger. This album feels like the soundtrack to that tentative, giddy, growth of the time.

The next few albums I write about will be based on my time in New Zealand. All of it feels marked by the beautiful landscape, the strange adventures, and the people I met. Each album corresponds to a snapshot of a place I have in my brain, whether it’s the bus, the tunnel below the overpass that led to my dorm, or the walking trails around the campus. My time there was lonely and difficult, but it also had a massive impact on who I am and how I stick up for myself. I learned how to advocate for myself while living there, so even if I cried at least every week[2], it was worth it.

Listen to Jay Som. And while you do, think about the ways you can stand up for yourself. Think of the ways you transition, whether it’s on a bus from campus to town, or within your body from one gender to another.

[1] Friday night I was too tired. Saturday night I was unexpectedly very drunk and busy playing Harry Potter-themed Clue. Fuck JK Rowling tho.

[2] I did cry at least every week.
About getting lost
Tags: Personal Growth, Personal Essay, Reflections, Life Lessons, Life

We all have dealt with loss. It is something that happens whether we like it or not. But getting lost requires a certain amount of willingness to flirt with the uncertainty.

Whenever I am in a new place where I dont have any clue about the geography, I always take a long walk. I would have a vague idea about the place I stay. Other than that I am completely clueless. I take some random road, may be the one that promises a scenic route and start walking. Sometimes I get lost in my thoughts, sometimes I get lost in the surroundings. But I get lost anyway.

Finding the way back is the difficult part. It always takes extra miles of walking and countless detours to get back to the source. But I believe we can always find the way back if we trust ourselves in getting lost. I always have. And I always get clarity and reassurance about the person I am after every small stretch of getting lost.
no. 24 — All at Once by Screaming Females
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Baltimore, Personal Essay, Album Review, Screaming Females, Music

Screaming Females snuck up on me. I didn’t think I’d like them because their earlier albums were a little too jam-band meets heavy punk for me. But then I saw them live. They played the first U+N Fest I went to, a festival I consider Baltimore tradition even though its only existed since 2012. It takes place in my favorite Baltimore venue, the Ottobar. This was the 5th ever U+N Fest, and Screaming Females was one of the headliners. I had never heard of them aside from the quick listen when I bought the tickets, but everything about their performance completely exceeded my expectations.

First off, when the band takes the stage and starts playing, it’s hard to reconcile what you’re hearing with what you’re seeing. It’s just three people, the frontwoman, Marissa Paternoster, is small in stature and speaks softly, but sings in this deep, massive boom of a voice. Her fingers absolutely fucking fly over the frets of her guitar. She has so much power behind her, not just with her clearly insane set of lungs, but with the massive level of skill she possesses as a musician. Paternoster was named the 77th greatest guitarist of all time in 2012, which to me, someone who cannot play more than two chords, is really fucking cool.

So they get up on stage. It’s been a long day of being in a crowd, of being surrounded by strangers, of existing in a loud space. I was tired, pretty ready to go home. It was late and I wanted to sleep. But Screaming Females instantly brought energy back into me. I didn’t know any of their songs, but the way the audience reacted it was clear that they were a Big Fucking Deal. And as soon as their first song was over, I realized why. They are so GOOD at what they do. While they don’t play many of their slower songs during their sets, especially not at a punk festival like this one, their ability to switch between hard punk tracks to songs like “Hopeless” on Rose Mountain and “Deeply” on All at Once just make each song feel more special. They’ve been making consistently amazing albums for more than 14 years. That’s an absolute feat.

While Rose Mountain was the album that came out when I first started getting into them, their most recent album, All at Once, is my favorite. While I didn’t like the jam-band riffs they got into at first, I love this album for that exact ability. It’s like they get a melody or a chord progression stuck in their brains, and create an entire album out of it. Each song is unique, but they all tie back to the same core. All at Once feels like the best representation of that. Their ability to snare you into a song is absolutely hypnotic.

I really suggest watching the music video for “I’ll Make You Sorry[1].” There’s one shot in that video of Paternoster playing, and I swear her fingers blur with speed. Listen to All at Once or Rose Mountain, too. Their music is bound to seduce you the way it did me.
My schoolfriends called the hospital from the 6th-form common room.
By: Em Unravelling
Tags: Personal Essay, Birth, Memories, Birthday, Short Form

My schoolfriends called the hospital from the 6th-form common room. That’s what I remember about the first time I gave birth. I wasn’t writhing in agony or anything — I had had an epidural. I was just waiting.

The midwife brought the phone through on a trolley with a long cable trailing behind it. (It was 1998). Familiar voices said “Have you had the baby yet?” and in the background, I could hear all the usual school sounds. It all felt so far away.

“The baby” was born five hours later. Yesterday she turned 22 years old and we walked together along a river with mini bottles of prosecco and a little picnic.

I kept thinking about that phone call, on that day exactly 22 years ago and my main thought was this: imagine if mobile phones had been a thing then? That memory would never have existed, would it?
Best of the Best: Poems, Short Stories, and Personal Essays
By: Steve B Howard
Tags: Personal Essay, Poetry, Short Story, The Partnered Pen, Best Of

My Top Ten on Medium (so far)

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

These are the ten best poems, short stories, and personal essays I’ve written and published on Medium and elsewhere (so far). Eleven are from 2020 and the rest are old favorites. Enjoy.

Poems

Short Stories

Personal Essays

Steve Howard currently teaches English in Japan and is a semi-professional stand up comedian. Subscribe to his blog and find his books here.
Meeting My Teenager Self
Tags: Books And Authors, Personal Essay, Reflections, Personal, Poetry Writing

Some days I start my day with a poem. There are poems that make me look forward to the day with a longing that I can no longer associate with my middle aged mind and body. Then there are poems that make me look back to the past and see it through a different perspective. Today's poem belongs to the latter category. It is Teenager by Wislawa Szymborska.

Me - a teenager? If she suddenly stood, here, now, before me, Would I need to treat her as near and dear, Although she is strange to me, and distant?

A few days ago I shared a photo of my teenager self with a friend. Her immediate response was how frightened I looked in that photo. That got me thinking about the journey from thirteen to thirty three. Thirteen year old self is not completely strange to me, not yet anyway. I recognize the fear, insecurity, self doubt and the feeling of being lost. Yet, in some strange ways she has been sure of so many things. Without her resolutions and stubbornness, I wouldn’t have made this far. May be 13 year old self was carving a path of her own, without much help or guidance, trusting her instincts, taking one step at a time and trusting the journey.

On her pathetic watch Time is still cheap and unsteady. On mine it's far more precious and precise.

I am learning to value time more. But I believe my teenage self was more aware of the value of time than my present self. It is only because she was willing to do all the hard work that I am having at least some peace of mind while navigating through this difficult world now. There are days when I wish I had normal teenage years without worrying about what is in store for me. But I managed to postpone my teenage years to my 20s and I don't regret it either. I am grateful for everything, the anxiety driven years and the fun filled years.

Do you remember your teenage self? How would you treat your teenage self if you meet them today? I just want to hug and tell her that everything is going to be alright!
Along the coast of adulthood, I discovered a raging waters
By: Yodefia Rahmad
Tags: Adulthood, Coming Of Age, Personal Essay, Mothers And Daughters

I set sail nonetheless with trembling, cold feet towards the uncharted in pursuit of a serene sea of womanhood. It is unlike one of those trips you and I used to take every other weekend to the hills I would have reached blindfolded. I am lost and I am not. I know not of the cruise ahead but of the fear of having to return for the shore I have only lived through in delusion.

I remember spending our evenings in a confined reality, swimming in the nostalgic romance of our hometown. My guileless notion of an idyllic normalcy kept our heads afloat, oblivious of what was awaiting beyond the marker buoys. From Honours degree to an honourable job with an honoured man in hand, inundated me as I question my devotion to your applause. Yet I was left with desolation in proclaiming liberty, in fleeting adrift between your embrace and your exile.

On a train ride overlooking the West Coast peaks covered in filmy January snow, I rested my head on your shoulder once more, silently wishing for a rising sight of those familiar hills. With every passing station the fog grew denser, eventually covering our final stop in absolute greyness. Glasgow, a mirage of nothingness, her haze hiding treasure chests of a promised tomorrow.

But this never came as a surprise to you, my Morpheus disguised so beautifully, tracing my dream out of a city embellished with pearls for the woman we are destined to be. In the early mornings you prayed upon me for this blessing in the coming days. This faith was yours long before it is mine, but the rest have always been solely yours and not for me to abide.

I have figured the price of every silver platter engraved with my initials in giving up my entitlement of a choice. You would not want me chained by the beach but you would convict me once I weighed my anchor. Many times I have witnessed your helplessness in discerning me as an entity of my own and not of your own, for I owe you nothing but everything. I owe you this life and the next, but it would be too sore of me to ask for the day I wished for either.

It is almost as if we were back on those hills, as you hiked ahead and turned to find me carefully trailing your footsteps. You could have sworn a cliff plunging into the Atlantic was hanging by my right, while all i see was your left. But perhaps every once in a while, the right turn we encountered in life is not in place of a wrongful verdict, but simply of a left one. And on my left today, I could have sworn a stair was hanging by the wall of the very cliff, heading down to the sands where the berth is.

By the harbour you bid me a cheerless farewell as you dread for my sinking ship. But you were resilient, and in the backbone of my galleon your vein runs inherently. In their tales they know no ocean too violent for your gentleness, as every coming wave bowed on the face of your gracious hull. Now find it where my voyage will take you, stranded somewhere across the Pacific, an Elysian isle where bliss no longer knows ignorance.
It’s Christmas Already
By: Anastassia Doubova
Tags: Family, Christmas, Personal Essay

I’ve hated Christmas since my Grandpa died nine years ago. The shiny green and red colours don’t bring happiness anymore, nor does the expensive presents.

17 days before Christmas, my dad invited me to sit in front of the fireplace and eat chicken — He’s a lonely man with a lonely soul. The evening was dull; a book in hands, I ignored his comments about my blue hair, ignored his live football game, and ignored the loud Beatles CD, which prevented me from concentrating on my gory true crime book.

Eleven years ago, Christmas was the best holiday I had never experience. My mother’s side of the family lived in Normandie and one of her sisters had a huge house, where each of my fifteen cousins could enjoy a meal in the same room.

The evenings would start with a little apéro — I was too young for cherry wine, but I munched on all the greasy food I could see. I was the youngest of the cousins, so I played on Mario on my DS and tugged on my Godfather’s shirt, Cedric, whenever I needed help.

Dinner were prepared by my mother’s sister; She had golden hair, covering up her old age, but we all new she was going deaf in a couple of years. We had salad, oysters with a shallot sauce, stuffed meat, salmon, and frozen dessert — This was my French Thanksgiving.

Whenever it was time to receive gifts, I would cry harder each time I opened a gift, and hugged my mother until I calmed down — I was needy then. I would receive makeup, barbie toys, and pink clothes. Which now, thinking back, makes me hate myself for letting them buy me all that shit.

Christmas now are a pain: Half of the family is away in Barcelona or the Bahamas, and the others are spending Christmas with their friends and now new families. Everyone pretends to have a great time, but they all wish they weren’t talking about their past jobs and their past girlfriends.

At twenty, years old, I can finally have my own family — no I’m not pregnant — : my partner. I can choose if I spent Christmas with them or with friends, and I can finally get the presents I’ve always wanted: creepy crime books and overprices headphones.
I never intended to tell my first lie but I have never forgotten it.
By: Em Unravelling
Tags: Personal Essay, Memories, Childhood, Homeschooling, Short Form

I never intended to tell my first lie but I have never forgotten it. It started with children spilling out of an unfamiliar car parked at the house next door. I was 9 years old and home-schooled. I never normally saw other children at all; this was a momentous day.

I stood right next to the fence between the houses and hoped they’d notice me. And they did! They trooped across the muddy field to talk to me. Two girls about my age and a younger boy.

“Hi!” said the taller girl. “What’s your name? We’ve got a teacher training day at school so we’re visiting our uncle. Why are you at home?”

That was when I lied. I wanted them to think I was normal, a kid like them who went to school and had friends. “I’m Em,” I said. “My school’s got a teacher training day too!”
The Idea of Home
Tags: Personal Growth, Personal Essay, Personal Story, Life Lessons, Life

If you have known me for a while, you would know how I could go on and on about home and belonging. It is one topic that never tires me and I always find some invaluable insights about myself while digging deeper into the idea of home.

I have lived in rented houses in my entire life. This includes hostels, independent houses, flats, villas and what not. As I write this, we shifted to a new place again and this is the fifth time I am shifting in an year. One year ago, when I shifted to a new city, all I wanted was to build a nest of my own. A small space in the new city with the things I love - a couple of books, a comfy bed, tea to soothe myself and good company in the form of plants. Little did I know that we will be facing a full blown pandemic and have to rewire ourself about the new way of life. I had to leave my nest and move in back with my parents after almost a decade of living independently, without any form of parental interfeference.

I didn't expect to slide back into this way of life easily. Like any Indian family, we have our own differences. I remember leaving home a decade ago, thinking that I would never stay with them for more than a week at a time. Fortunately, after so many years of conflict, my parents have reconciled to the idea that I am never going to be their dutiful daughter. I have also learned to be at peace with myself and not trying to make up for the son my parents never had. We actually had some calmness, after so many years of storm.

It is almost six months since I moved back. I learned that I can go on and wait for the old way of life to come back, claim a space of my own and build a fortress of solitude. Or I can build that space that I crave so much in the here and now. I chose the latter. May be home is wherever you are. It doesn't have to be a glorified tale of love and belonging. It is just where a sense of calm is present even in the midst of conflicts. And I am beginning to embrace that.
Thanks, Kim.
By: Ash Jurberg
Tags: Writing, Personal Essay, Health, Covid 19, Mental Health

Way to go Melbourne! And beautifully told, Ash.

5 1
Difficult Conversations
Tags: Personal Essay, Reflections, Life Lessons, Personal, Life

Today I read a friend's post about her journey through human rights research. I have great admiration for people who pursue research in all fields. It is a difficult life. But I found one qualm in her post. She started off with saying how she is the kind of person who never followed the conventional career of a doctor or an engineer. I agree that her profession is not the conventional one and of course it is an extremely difficult one. But my problem lies in her not acknowledging the privilege she had to pursur such a profession. There are people who cannot wait till 30s to become financially independent. I have met a lot of people in my life, who would have pursued things that they were passionate about, instead of pursuing a professional degree if it has offered some sort of income in the early 20s. The point here is, acknowledging privilege is a big issue even for the "woke" ones among us.

Sometime back a friend mentioned about how students from poor families are applying for education loans, which they will never be able to repay. She was concerned because they didn't even have high marks in the relevant subjects. She, as someone who grew up in a well to do family, will never know that this education is the only ticket for those students to escape their poverty. What right do we have to judge someone for their choice of education especially when they are poor? We need better systems to uplift those in need. Instead we judge them and tell that they will never be able to repay the loan is the cruelest way. I have been at the receiving end of such a sermon when I applied for an education loan for my graduation because both of my parents are not educated and didn't have a steady job. So it is easier for me to empathize, but those who haven't gone through that stage will never know the pain.

Another important aspect is caste. I heard a friend dissing someone because he got the civil service selection because of the reservation and other deserving candidates with higher marks were not able to make it. Other candidates are supposed to be more "intelligent" than the lower caste one. I don't know when these people will understand equality vs equity.

One male friend recently asked me why women are still asking for equality. In his view, everything is equal now because you know women have the right to education, earning handsome salaries and even the marriages are "equal" now. How would I tell him that we got these basic rights just because somebody fought for us and when we know that we are nowhere near in eradicating the discrimination, why should we stop now?

I haven't yet found an efficient way to have such difficult conversations. Sometimes I feel how we will convince such people about the state of the world if they are not even ready to open their eyes and see everything with a fresh eye.
Why I Write
Tags: Writing, Personal Essay, Poetry

Poetry gives me a voice when my heart has no words.

Poetry forges connections between people, many of whom will never meet in real life. Poetry is an expression of our unique human nature, told through the words of an individual in a single moment. Just like an artist might use watercolor to capture the view outside their window, I use poetry to express my relationship with the world around me and the people in it, one moment at a time.

Sometimes the darkest parts of ourselves make the most beautiful poetry.

It’s impossible to lie to yourself when you write poetry. Writing poetry is the art of dissecting the soul. We poke and prod and pull back all the little flaps of tissue trying to figure out how it all works. What makes it tick? What give it life? As a poet, our understanding of the soul is revealed as we put words to the blank page. This cannot be done if we do not embrace our darkness.

Embracing our darkness, accepting it as an essential part of what it means to be human, and then using it as a tool for growth is at the heart of being a poet.

My words are my truth.

The words I write are my own personal truth. They are meant to be a bridge between the writer and the reader who comes to the realization that we all have shared experiences, maybe thousands of miles and many years apart, but we are able to share in that “ah ha” moment and know that we are not alone.
Merry F**king Christmas
By: Aspen Blue
Tags: Personal Essay, Relationships, Family, Christmas, Heartbreak

Personal Essay

Merry F**king Christmas

Photo by Anthony Tran on Unsplash

Christmas, that most wonderful f**king time of the year. It didn’t always cut so deeply. There was a time when Christmas was merry and bright, swaddled in quivering pine-scented anticipation, basking in the comforting glow of family and food. But years of careless callousness ripped the wrapping of this presence, leaving a stinging trail of paper cuts on a shrinking heart.

After years of slowly edging away from the formidable emotional baggage piled higher each holiday season, the coffin lid firmly slammed in the face of festivities when my father refused to see me on Christmas. The sentence was delivered unexpectedly and without preamble on a card taped to the outside of a package, his mind made up for him by the Wicked Witch of the East. I was bereft and holly jolly Christmases were dead.

Image by Paul Gruber from Pixabay

Each year thereafter, I would quietly cloister my Grinchyness away into a cold cave in the mountains of my heart, shrinking my sphere of cynicism back from others’ joy. But ridicule found me just the same; admonishments delivered with each greeting card. The dread creeping in with the first tinny chord of carols in the air and locking around my larynx until the last crispy tree festered on the kerb.

It was bad enough enduring such censure where it felt like Christmas, when treetops glistened and the weather outside was frightful, but my brain rejected the celebration in summer outright. Beach barbeques and surfin’ Santas supplanted the last vestiges of what I could continue to cherish: still, silent nights and Jack Frost’s nip on my nose. It became an annual battle against the urge to flee.
Happy In My Head
Tags: Personalessay, Personal, Life Lessons, Life

There used to be a time in my life when I simply switched off the conversation mode and kept silence for days. People who had a taste of this medicine referred it as Eternal Silence. It was actually a survival mode for me. I withdrew to my shell whenever life didn't make sense to me and I needed time to recharge my batteries.

As I grow older, I have learnt to handle it better. Otherwise it was making me a huge pain in the ass for people who love me. Some people interpret the silence as coldness or numbness. But it is just a coping mechanism for people like us. Even though this is more of a depression phase, I like to refer it as "happy in my head". It gives me a lot of time to reflect on my decisions and I always come back to life with a lot of vigor.

I remember a conversation with a friend sometime back. He asked me what I did during weekend. I told him that I didn't step out of the house and spent two days doing nothing and keeping silence around me. As a fellow introvert, he just nodded and said "That's an ideal weekend! ". We both smiled while his wife complained about how difficult such people are.
no. 16 — Tough Love by Forth Wanderers
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Indie Music, Personal Essay, New Jersey, Album Review, Music

Forth Wanderers is high key one of my favorite bands of all time. My friend Ryan introduced me to them. I think they had made some offhand comment about how I might like them, and that they knew of the band because they were from Ryan’s home state. This was during a time when I was begging my friends to make mixed CDs for me because I wanted to expand my music library. Coming to college will do that to you- all of a sudden you realize that your world is much smaller than you thought it was.

This band started when half the members were in high school and the other half were scattered at different colleges. Despite the physical distance, they made multiple albums and EP’s by passing tracks back and forth through various stages of development. Honestly, I cannot believe that one of my all-time favorite albums was made in such a disjointed way, especially because it feels so cohesive and smooth. The lyricism is perfectly matched by the rhythmic guitar. For a group of people who didn’t sit together to make this, but instead collaborated in separate bedrooms in separate states, this is a masterpiece.

Of course, it’s more than just the distance that makes this album extraordinary. Having seen them live a few times, I’m also deeply impressed by how tight their performances are. Ava, the frontwoman, published a personal essay on Vice about her experiences touring and performing with panic disorder. In the essay, she describes playing a show and having to leave in the middle of the set because a panic attack set in. I was at that show, and though I had no idea what was going on at the time, reading about it later just racketed up my respect for her. I’ve had panic attacks too, but none of them have been public in that way, where I am literally on a stage, breaking down in front of people[1]. I commend her ability to be honest about what happened, and it adds a new layer of understanding while I listen to their songs.

The first time I saw Forth Wanderers live was in a creaky basement in Hadley, MA. The last time I saw them was the show described in Ava’s essay. All the times in between have been outstanding, solidifying my love for this band and this album. My favorite song is the title track to the album, Tough Love. I remember when my partner and I were wooing each other, we’d make mix CD’s for each other, mailing letters back and forth on what we thought of the songs. The first mix I made him, I put this song on it. Since then we’ve seen them live together, and I’m proud to be accredited with bringing Forth Wanderers new fans.

I don’t know if they’ll tour again. I don’t know if any band will ever tour again with COVID having wreaked such havoc on the music industry. Regardless, wherever the Forth Wanderers end up, I will happily follow their journey.

Listen to Tough Love here.
Digital Detox Diary
By: Marie Jones
Tags: Personal Essay, Digital Detox, Diary, Love, Mutability

I dream. I’m in my childhood home — what people in Appalachia call “the homeplace” — a multi-generational piece of property that my great-grandfather built and five generations lived in. Dating from the late 1800s, it was three houses, with two or three apartments each. Urban decay and deferred maintenance took a toll over the years. The sixth generation will never live there; the houses were condemned and torn down after we sold them, years ago.

But in my dream, the apartment I lived in until I was five years old is renovated and crisp. At one point, the dream-world flattens decades of decorating into a single space in time — 1970s patriotic wallpaper on kitchen walls, an eighties hunter green wall in what was once the parlor, my mother’s pantry of cans and paper goods fully stocked. Then the dreamscape folds in labyrinthine hallways and stairways. I wander these new paths, find my brother, who lives upstairs, and he picks me up and races down to my childhood bedroom, tickling me as he did when I was three and he was 19.

Then I am on the front porch, alone. I wave to the neighbor family sitting Simpson’s-like on a couch in the middle of a broad green lawn. A red passenger train clanks past, and the conductor hangs off the back of the caboose, waving. Another couch appears on our front porch. I wonder what will happen to the upholstery when it rains.

Day 4

The cabin is cleaner, but I’m not entirely happy with the work they did. It was too much for one couple to detail clean in a single day. The anger is still a knot in my chest, released in snippy comments as I notice a shelf they didn’t dust.

I sit down to write in my journal, to try to step away and figure out why I am so pissed off now, even though it’s cleaner.
On growing old
Tags: Personal Essay, Reflections, Life Lessons, Personal, Life

We all have that one dear friend who always forgets our birthdays. Sometimes it is even fun to pretend that we are hurt by their lack of interest in our lives. I do it all the time. Playing with their guilty feeling is amusing. But as I write this down I have a feeling that it just makes me a horrible person. Nowadays if somebody forgets my birthday and calls me after a few weeks, I tell them that there is nothing fun about growing old.

Do you remember that time when you were young and stupid and all you wanted to do was to grow up and have a life of your own without any parental dictatorship? I do. So when I finally landed in 20s and became financially independent, there was a euphoric feeling. Unfortunately that feeling does not last long. It gets eclipsed by a list of societal expectations and adult responsibilities. I never gave a damn about societal expectations and to this day I live life in my own terms. 20s was in fact the best years. So naturally it made me worry that life is going to be entirely different if I turn 30.

30s is the time when we realize that we are not young anymore and honestly I feel that we are not that old also. It took me a couple of years to figure out that life is not going to change overnight after crossing 30. I had this belief that there won't be any new friendships in life after a certain age. I couldn't have been more wrong. I met the most amazing people in my late 20s and early 30s. They have enriched my life in more ways than I can count.

The only real concern about growing old is learning to accept how differently our bodies behave from the hyper active 20s. It takes time and patience. But after a certain period, i understood that the only thing we can do for our body is to nourish it with good food, exercise and rest. We simply cannot override aging even though the numerous beauty commercials say otherwise.

For now, I look forward to growing old. Some days I have this vision of a small statured old lady with a head full of grey hairs looking back and smiling at me whenever I look in the mirror. I always smile back at her.
Changing Weathers
By: Niketa Reed
Tags: Personal Essay, University Of Arkansas, Blackatuark, Culture Shock

A personal essay by Brandi Taylor

Photo provided by Brandi Taylor

It’s easy to get caught up in life.

There’s school, job-hunting, social life and other things that can get you bogged down and distracted. I sometimes forget how crazy this year has been. The unexpected pandemic, the deaths of Black and brown people on tv, protests and the divisive political climate.

This isolation has given some people the closeness to pull through and others the fuel and granted permission to spread hate. It’s heavy. I reach for my mask before stepping out of my car and head inside the store. Met with a few familiar stares I ignore, but this particular day I pay attention.

Was it my blackness?

Was it my plain black mask that seems to challenge the belief of someone in a red hat? Or was it just my being there that sought some recognition. Meaningless stares were easier to justify before this year, but I’ve had to be even more vigilant.

About 7 years ago, my family and I moved to Northwest Arkansas from Miami, Florida, and it was a definite culture shock. The population of Black people at that time was less than 2% and it showed. There were those that were kind, some curious and others just disrespectful.

I remember my mom pulling up to my high school and seeing people triumphantly waving a flag representing the right to enslave people not that many decades ago. Ironic. Snide remarks or microaggressions that were met with my quick wit helped me cope and I adapted.

Looking back, the Black and minority population has grown and there has been some change. There is that small-town friendliness here but depending on the person, it’s friendliness at an arm’s length.

It’s a statement of “Don’t get too close, but I’ll smile in your face.”

This year has been a lesson for those who thought the struggles of Black and brown people were issues of the past. Some people have educated themselves and have been challenged on their formerly unopposed views. I’ve seen changes within this city that have shown some progression of thinking.

Sometimes people think addressing a matter that is a major problem is a direct attack on them when it is only a learning opportunity to look inside yourself for empathy. We are moving forward and there are bits of hope in the people I interact with and the diversity of thought coming to the lead.

I know it’s not a possibility to change everyone, but this is a time that awareness is being spread. Once there is an understanding that equity and equality are not interchangeable and a call for more active listening, then there will be a true measure of our state, a country moving forward.

We will get through this, and I have hope we can do better.
HOME
By: Elvy Rolle
Tags: Nostalgia, Prose Poem, Home, Personal Essay, Life

Home can be near, yet miles apart

I’ve made home another place

each place seems a world away

Distance, an uncrossable chasm — a deep abyss

distance becomes my enemy

thwarting my plans to go home

At my present home,

I yearn to smell the aromas

hear the sounds

taste the foods

and relive the memories of my childhood home

The calls of home are heard in the distance

and grow louder with time, with each thought

Where shall home be?

Shall I settle for occasional visits?

that spread farther and farther apart

phone calls and emails, no substitute for being there

Distance must be conquered

home lives in my heart and is close

home merges, but remains distinct

HOME, Heart of My Ecstasy is wherever I choose to be!
no. 10 — Live the Dream by Ramshackle Glory
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Personal Essay, Album Review, Ramshackle Glory, Folk Punk, Music

I’m not going to lie, I’m kinda embarrassed to write this one. But this album was a major influence on my life for a solid year or two, and it would be dishonest not to include it. Is folk punk dead? Am I right to be embarrassed by this? It just kind of feels like privileged white people deciding to glorify poverty and justifying it by calling it anti-capitalism. I think there are some nuggets of truth in that for sure, but it feels very performative to me now. Also, this is just me speaking for myself and the way I saw the DIY scene of towns like Portland, Maine and Amherst, MA. Very white! Pretty rich! And most of the bands I went to go see where all white.

Maybe I did it wrong- having never gotten into bands like Against Me! or Pleasure Venom. Ramshackle Glory was The Band when I first started getting into punk. Back then I was driving 6+ hours in a day just to see a show. Travelling from Amherst to Portland and back in one night, smoking copious amounts of weed and carting around a rotating cast of punks. I’m honestly surprised I didn’t get in a car crash during any of those trips. A lot of the shows in Maine took place at this one farm in the middle of nowhere. It was a crust punk’s dream. I remember the last show I went to there; they had several TV’s burning in empty garbage cans and would throw in cans of spray paint just to watch them explode. Throughout the night you would hear loud pops and booms from whatever was in the flames. Everyone was drunk, half of the people in attendance had climbed up a tree. Someone definitely fell at least ten feet out of that tree, but I think they were alright. Random pigs and goats and chickens wandered around while the bands played. There was a toddler running around, but no one knew who she belonged to. Someone was selling hot dogs for a dollar.

Ramshackle Glory never played at that farm, but that place really exemplifies the ways I felt when listening to this album. I remember making one of my coworkers stay in the car with me as we listened to “From Here to Utopia”. I was trying to explain to him why I felt so angry all the time, why the lyrics of this song resonated so much with me. He hated all six minutes and forty seconds of it. I still know all the words, and I don’t begrudge myself the angst and pain I felt at that time, nor the deep driving urge to try and fit in. I know those were the main reasons I made those dangerous drives to places that made me uncomfortable. I know I didn’t have the framework to understand why my misguided privilege led this to be a failed experiment. At the very least, Ramshackle Glory taught me that All Cops Are Bastards, and I stand by that lesson.

You can listen to this album here
Maybe It’s Time To Be Done With Thanksgiving Altogether.
By: Caitlin Vestal
Tags: Fall, Personal Essay, Thanksgiving, Self, Holidays

Maybe It’s Time To Be Done With Thanksgiving Altogether.

Photo by Ashim D’Silva on Unsplash

Until a few years ago, Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday.

As a kid, I spent the weeks of November getting excited for the pumpkin pie my mom would make when the day finally came. Her pie always had a premade Pillsbury crust, and the recipe came from the back of the Libby pumpkin can. I used to eat each piece methodically, slicing into the pumpkin filling with the side of my fork and scraping it off the crust, which I’d leave to eat until the end. Even better was breakfast on Friday morning, when I’d eat a cold piece or two with my hands, just like a slice of pizza.

But that was a long time ago, back when I still thought the Pilgrims and the Indians (because we certainly didn’t call them Indigenous people) sat down together in harmony and broke bread and ate turkey and everything was grand.

As I started to peek out from the bubble of middle class whiteness I was raised (and, let’s face, still live) in, I became more and more uncomfortable with the idea of Thanksgiving. How do you learn about the realities of what actually happened when the European settlers arrived on these shores and then keep pretending that wearing Pilgrim and Indian hats is cute?

It’s hard to let Thanksgiving be about cornbread stuffing and pumpkin pie when you’re willing to recognize that it’s actually about genocide.

I didn’t plan to write this essay, because I worried it might cement my reputation as a US-bashing (see here) proponent of cancel culture (see here). But then I thought — if I’m sitting here worrying about it, someone else is too.
I’ve Always Had My Words
By: Edward Riley
Tags: Writing, Words, Personal Essay, Short Story, The Junction

My parents read to me early and often, I’ve been told. Clearly, I soaked it up because I started reading simple sentences at the age of three. I distinctly remember that I had this book about lizards that I absolutely loved. I don’t know why that book specifically was my favorite. But I do remember wanting to read it to my grandma.

My dad’s mom was always a hardened lady. She had ten children in a very northern and remote part of my country, and her husband died when most of them were still growing up and living at home. Understandably, she had a no-nonsense demeanor and a harsh tone. She was not the warm fuzzy grandma, that was for sure.

Still, my little 3, almost 4-year-old self wanted to impress her by reading my lizard book. So, I did. What I remember is what happened after I was done reading a few pages to her. She claimed that, surely, I had just memorized the words and wasn’t actually reading. Which, I mean, even if that were the case, it would still be fairly impressive for a 3-year-old to memorize an entire book and recite it back accurately based on context clues.

What ensued was an argument between my dad and his mom, my grandma. My dad stood up for me, telling her that, indeed, I had started to read simple sentences at a young age. As they were disagreeing, my mom scooped me up and took me into my room, continuing to read with me.
Why the most introverted of us feel safe in the virtual world?
Tags: Personal Growth, Personal Essay, Reflections, Personal Development, Introvert

Quiet by Susan Cain is the holy grail book of introverts. Over the years I have heard people raving and criticising it in equal measures. I was a bit hesitant to pick this up as I didn't want any false idealism with respect to my own nature. My communication style has been kind of moody always and I am finding it extremely difficult to navigate in the corporate world as I strive for the leadership positions. So I thought it would be best to give this book a chance. I am yet to finish the book. So this is more of an introspective post to better understand some of the key points mentioned by Susan Cain.

Most of us have been working from home for almost 9 months. Even though some of my friends crave the social connection office is offering, I found myself loving the remote work option. I have always been a socially anxious person and the pressure of making conversations takes away a lot of energy which I would rather use it for my productivity. This is one of the biggest point for me.

It has always taken me years to forge meaningful relationships in real life. It is not easy for me to initiate a conversation in real life. I would prefer sitting alone with a book than to go and have a conversation with someone. So when I started using social media, it felt like a sanctuary. In social media platforms, we connect and have a conversation with someone because we already have some sort of idea about the person based on their interests. It doesnt mean that initiating the conversation is easy. It still takes an insane amount of courage. But still a bit better than the real world scenarios. I remember the first time I connected with someone over Twitter. I was jobless and most of my friends were busy with the beginning of their career. Twitter offered a wide range of friends with similar interests and principles. It is more than a decade now and I have to say I have got some amazing people in my life just because of that platform. Even though the Twitter has lost its charm over the years, we remain friends in real life. I usually think that if we ever met in real life before the Twitter conversation, we would have just ignored each other. Conversations wouldn't have been this spontaneous and interesting in real life at least for the introverts like us. In a way virtual world has saved us. Many of the friends that I made in real life are always envious of my pool of friends. They are mostly comfortable in real life conversations and never made any effort into exploring the social media platforms.

However it is also true that I was very young at that stage and was experimenting with the options available. As I grow older, I am a bit hesitant to make new connections over the virtual world. It might be because maintaining relationships also takes some amount of effort. I feel when we are really happy with the people in our lives, we rarely reach out to make new connections unless it is absolutely necessary.