The first pond I ever saw freeze over was in the woods behind my house. It was small — ten feet at the most, but to my child eyes it seemed to stretch through the maze of trees. My dad used to take my little sister and me back there in the winter. He would hold our hands on either side of him as we waddled against the puff of our little pink jackets, our boots laced up tight. I remember peering out curiously from underneath a hat my mom had pulled too far down over my head. She would rattle off different warnings of caution while she lovingly strangled me as she wrapped my scarf around my neck. Staring at the white-topped trees, I would catch my dad staring at me. He had the same look of admiration and wonder as I did for the world around me.

As we walked up to the pond, I could feel the overwhelming excitement bubble over inside me. Although I had been skating on this pond for years, my dad always made it feel like the first time. He would drop our hands and run up close to the side of the pond. Throwing his hands up into the air, he would shout in his most sports-announcer voice, “Are you girls ready?” Then, doing a dance move that could only be described as “side- punch finger guns,” he would do a quick running man and reach out for us to grab his hands.

My dad would step onto the ice first, biting his lower lip, eyes darting along the ice as he patted his boot around in a half-moon shape. Then, as he hummed a little tune that I now realize was “Staying Alive” by the Bee Gees, he would put both feet onto the ice and slowly swivel around to face us. He would hold our little hands and pull us along the ice; every now and again he would stop and let us drift forward a little just to hear my sister and me giggle nervously. I was never afraid that I would fall or that the ice would break and I would fall through into the cold water. I felt so safe, almost empowered by being there with my dad, his hand engulfing mine, that I would get this overwhelming feeling of love for him and have absolutely no idea what to do with myself. I would want to scream, laugh, hug him, punch him, or wave my arms around wildly in the air all at the same time.

Now here I sit, older, staring at a pond far away from the one I once knew. The smell of moss fills my nostrils, mosquitos nip at my skin; nature’s symphony fills my ears. A wave of sadness washes over me as I realize this peacefulness is soon to be replaced by a colder kind of peaceful. The grip of winter is already wringing out the last drops of summer; leaves are turning and the air is brisk and dry. So I close my eyes and try to engulf myself in the moment, not letting any second pass by neglected.

I am thinking about the pond from home now, remembering my dad and his “side-punch finger gun” dance move. I smile at the memory of my sister and me waking up on a Saturday morning and running into our parents’ bedroom already babbling about the pond and going skating. I remember helping my sister fix her hat so she could see explaining to her all the safety rules my mom had just said to me, only in my own 4-year-old language. It’s hard to think about the passing of time, because once we acknowledge it that’s when we realize how much has gone by, and how little we have left. The fear is that the people in our memories no longer exist and we have been replaced by older, less-amused adults who close themselves off to the excitement of the unknown.

 

Jessica Goldstein is from Chestnut Ridge, New York. She enjoys swimming and is a player on the Geneseo Women’s Rugby Team. She also writes the advice column for The Lamron. When Jessica is not in school she lives at home with her parents and little sister and works as a lifeguard and swim instructor. To read Jessica’s advice column go to http://thelamron.com/author/jessica-goldstein/

 

 

There’s this place my dad used to “invite” my sisters and me to visit when we were younger: the Sterling Nature Trails. There we were, sleeping soundly in our beds on a Sunday morning, when suddenly, I heard it. The creaking of the screen door at the front of our house opening and the slamming that followed as it whipped shut. I knew this had meant my dad was home from church, and also that I had evidently slept through it… again. My parents had always bragged about how well-behaved I was when I was younger, especially in church. While other four-year-olds squirmed and whined throughout mass, I would sit quietly between my parents, my hands folded nicely in my lap, smiling sweetly at the old ladies who remarked how pretty my Sunday dress was. But that was years ago, and as I grew older, I was beginning to shape my own beliefs about the world around me. Still, guilt managed to creep into my conscience when I pictured my parents at church without me.

Just as I was making a mental note to join them next Sunday, my dad’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

“WAAAAAKE UP EVERYBODY!” his voice echoed through house. In a feeble attempt to ignore him, I put my pillow over my head, and I knew across the hall my younger sister, Natalie, was probably doing the same. It was never to any avail, however, because, as usual, my dad proceeded to travel down the hall, singing whatever closing hymn he had sung in church that morning.

“THIS IS THE DAY THE LORD HAS MADE, LET US REJOICE AND BE GLAD….” With every word he grew closer and closer until–

BANG!

My door flew open, and there he was, standing with his plaid shirt tucked into his jeans.

“What are you doing!?” he demanded. “It’s a beautiful day!” With an expression of disgust, he made his way through my obstacle course of a room and opened my curtains, as if the sunlight that was now blinding me was supposed to motivate me to move. Instead, I cursed him silently and burrowed further into my bed.

“You lazy bums!” he exclaimed, and I heard him repeat this routine in my sister’s room.

“Get up,” he declared. “We’re going on a hike!”

We simultaneously groaned in protest — but secretly we were willing to go. An hour and a half later — because this was how long it took my thirteen-year-old self to put on the perfect hiking outfit — we were ready.

Now, my dad’s idea of the “perfect hiking outfit” was a bit different than mine. I dressed like someone out of a J. Crew catalogue — or at least that’s what I thought I looked like. In reality, I looked like an awkward tween who hadn’t yet grown into herself, my sweater baggy and my skinny jeans loose around my twig-like legs. My dad on the other hand wore a fisherman’s vest atop his plaid shirt. He’s never gone fishing in his life, so why he has a fisherman’s vest, I will never know. The outfit wasn’t complete without his matching bucket hat, and, taking one look at him, I thought only one thing: My dad is a complete and utter dork. Even Natalie, who was so severely lacking in the ability to match her clothing that she still had my mother pick out her outfit at the age of ten, rolled her eyes at his appearance.

Finally, we hoisted ourselves into his green truck — a Dodge Ram 1500 that he washed much too often and was much too proud of. My mom and youngest sister, who was only six and too little and impatient to join us, waved from the door as we prepared ourselves for my dad’s playlist consisting only of songs by Genesis, Paul Simon, and Tom Cochrane. We reluctantly sang along to the lyrics we had grown up hearing, like an anthem to our childhood, the cool wind causing our hair to whip about our faces.

When we actually reached the trails, which took longer than the average person to do, considering my dad’s love for detours on dirt roads that showed off his truck’s four-wheel-drive capabilities, the previous embarrassment of his dorky tendencies faded away. The feeling was instead replaced with a peaceful one. As soon as we walked through the gated entrance, we had a choice to venture either upwards to the bluffs, or downward to the lake. We chose the former, saving the trip to the lake for a warmer day, and set off on the man-made path into the woods.

The quietness around us wasn’t unsettling like it is in scary movies, but comforting. At thirteen, I had just begun middle school. I was used to noise: the slamming of lockers, the excited squeals of girls greeting one another in the morning, as if they hadn’t just seen each other the day before, the various beeps, vibrates and rings of cell phones, indicating your crush may or may not have just texted you. It was new and exciting, but mostly overwhelming. Before we went any further, I stopped to turn off my own cell phone, wanting to enjoy this rare silence without distraction. While I did this, my dad wandered off the path a little ways, seemingly searching for something. My sister and I exchanged quizzical looks, but before we could ask what he could possibly be doing, our question was answered.

“Aha! Here it is!” he proudly held up a large stick and clambered over the various rocks and roots back onto the path.

“The perfect walking stick,” he said, thumping it into the ground, testing its sturdiness under his weight. Satisfied, he led the way up the path.

“Hey Hannah, look over there!” My sister pointed toward a small clearing that we could see through the trees.

“What about it?” I asked, confused as to what was so interesting. She giggled, making her short blonde ponytail bounce.

“It looks like the scene from Twilight where–!” Without thinking, I shot her an annoyed look that cut her off. As with most younger sisters, Natalie was always copying me and it was one of my biggest pet peeves. Naturally, as soon as I showed the slightest interest in anything, in this case the Twilight series, she became obsessed with it and brought it up every chance she got.

“Nevermind,” she mumbled, trudging forward up the slope. I sighed irritably. I hated when she made me feel bad.

“You’re right, it did look like Twilight,” I admitted, and my approval was enough to make her toothy smile appear again.

“What’s this I hear about Twilight?” my dad called from further up the path, squinting back at us, shielding his eyes from what little sunlight was peeking through the treetops. “You’re supposed to be enjoying the great outdoors! C’mon!”

We walked around the winding path, my dad leading the way, but pausing patiently now and then to wait for my sister and me, our shorter legs preventing us from taking the large strides that he could. I breathed in deeply, enjoying the honey-sweet smell of the leaves that rustled and swished around my ankles. When I looked up, I could see the sun through the half-naked tree branches, which were spotted with leaves, some still green, peeking through their older red, yellow and orange cousins.

We travelled for hours, up and up, yet never got lost. When we came out, we suddenly found ourselves at the edge of the bluffs, feeling exhilarated and scared at the same time, as we peered over the rocky ledge at the lake below. Years of erosion from Lake Ontario had made these cliffs, the dirt lining them dried-out and dusty, the water below blue, clear, and welcoming. Unlike most lakes, you couldn’t see to the other side. It was so vast, tourists sometimes mistook it for an ocean. As I stared out at the scene, all I could see was the faint line where the sky met the water, the two blues blending together. It was dizzying. In that fleeting moment, I was terrified, but my dad was always there, and if he was there, I couldn’t fall.

My sister’s shrill laugh pulled me back to reality. I turned to look at her as she ran away from my dad, shrieking as he playfully chased her, attempting to “throw” her over the edge. As I looked, I noticed — not his New Balance sneakers, which were the true markings of a middle-aged dad — but the crinkle in his skin at the corner of his eyes that was more pronounced as he laughed with my sister. I saw the gap between his two front teeth, and felt with my tongue where the same gap was between my own teeth, a space that braces would correct in later years.

I never really understood why I grew to love that place so much or why, no matter how many times my dad brought us there, I never got used to the mesmerizing beauty of it. I could never put my finger on that feeling, and even though I’ve visited the bluffs many times since then with my friends, it’s never felt the same as it did when my dad used to take us.

 

Hannah Griffin is a freshman at SUNY Geneseo majoring in English. Much of the inspiration for her writing comes from her hometown Oswego, NY. Aside from writing, Hannah’s passions include singing, fashion and, of course, her cat Casey.

 

 

 

Since the 1950s
it’s been painted on,
red, blue, white, gold,
holding more colors than the rainbow.
In endless onion-like layers,
it holds all the paint put on it by groups on campus.
Yet still, like the other ones,
it grows as healthy as ever.
Its leaves die when they need to.
In due time, they grow when they need to.
The Greek Tree at SUNY Geneseo.

 

This tree is like the vineyard.
The greatest and largest vine of all.
For over 230 years,
it has lived on the face of the earth and still is.
As if a new-planted vine,
it is active more than ever.
It produces its grapes and leaves,
every
due season.
Makes as many as 2,245 bunches
of grapes.
The Great Vine of Hampton Court Palace Gardens.

 

And so who is to understand,
the mystery behind,
the cause of their growth.
Why they stay strong all these years,
still manifesting,
still producing,
in conditions,
the other ones cannot uphold.
But it’s okay that,
we don’t
know.
That’s the beauty of their
peculiar, intriguing site.
That they alone know,
the power behind their functionality,
and the rest of the world,
is asked to feed off their amazing sight.
So that we are fascinated by
the nature of their growth,
and not the mystery of their growth.

 

Brenda Bota is a student at SUNY Geneseo. She is a Psychology major and an English major. She lives in Bronx, New York. She has a passion for writing and her writing is usually centered around what sparks her interest or a personal life experience.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You should conduct some research about Geneseo; you are spending the next four years there, after all.” My mom had a point. “Start anywhere… Start with the church!”

Although I felt researching facts about Geneseo may be a bit boring, I decided to do some good old twenty-first-century research online to please my mom. My Google search engine evolved quickly from “Geneseo churches” to “Geneseo Presbyterian Church facts” after a couple of clicks. I clicked on the first link available.

This is what I learned:

During May of 1810, American missionary Daniel Oliver began Presbyterian Church history in Geneseo when he organized a group of small Congregationalists as a new church. What started out as a plain, wooden structure on Temple Hill evolved into the church which residents of Geneseo worship in today. Along with the advancement in size of the building, the number of those who attended the church increased as well. Townspeople and migrants predominantly from European nations attended services and town meetings which were coordinated through the church. Today, Geneseo Presbyterian Church stands between Second and Center Street in Geneseo Village.

Built with red bricks, the mass welcomes churchgoers with sturdy, clean, white columns at the end of ten solid cement steps. A clean-cut lawn completes the polished and official establishment, which makes the building fit in amongst its fellow noteworthy local establishments: Wadsworth Library and Christian Community Church. Interrupting the vast greenness of the lawn is a garden with two small bushes covering the stakes, which hold up a newly edited sign every week.

A wave of nostalgia comes over me due to my couple-year absence in church. I flash back to the memory of taking public transit to get from my home in Queens to church in Manhattan as a child with my family. Along the way, I recall homeless people standing out, even amongst all the human traffic. To my young self, I couldn’t imagine anything worse than huddling in the cold cement street, begging strangers for food and money. Or maybe it was the level of discomfort I felt walking past them, knowing my family had money in our pockets soon to end up in the collection box, which made the homeless people so memorable. I also wondered how God was going to retrieve that money from the Heavens above. Usually late to church, my mom led me and my sisters to the first open row towards the back of the church, not wanting to attract attention by walking up front. Every Sunday, I had every intention of listening patiently to the pastor. It took about thirty minutes before my legs felt antsy. Then that restless feeling crept into every part of my body. I looked over to my mom, who was listening intently, as she’d been waiting for this sermon all week. Eventually, frustration kicked in and at every breath and pause the priest took, I hoped it was a nonverbal cue motioning he was done and we could leave. After what felt like eternity to a five year old, the service was over. I jumped up and instantly the frustration was replaced by happiness and excitement at the sight of other children in their Sunday church clothes… but not without the approval of my mom, who nodded her head and smiled. I ran over to the other children, wondering if my angst towards church would ever change. Looking back, I realize that my mom, a resident of America for just ten years, sought solace the way the migrants did years ago in Geneseo. It was then that I realized some things never change.

 

Dowon Hwang is a sophomore at SUNY Geneseo. When she’s not writing, she’s reading the news or running around the town of Geneseo.

 

 

Hop (back in time)

I knelt on our two-step concrete porch, readjusting my velcro sketchers as I did every morning. The velcro was never quite tight enough, and this morning I could not risk a sneaker flying off. I stood up, smoothing out the cotton flower dress that Mama had picked out for me to wear. As I was straightening it, I felt a worm of guilt squirm through my stomach. Mama never liked when I played with the Luna boys. Troublemakers, she called them. Fun, I called them.

“Hey, Maria, are you ready or what?” Max Luna jeered from the bus stop, his cat-like grin taunting me. He stood at the end of the lane by the bus stop with his older brother Josh. The pair stared at me down as I re-braided my hair and adjusted the straps on my ladybug backpack.

At that moment, Dad came out of our front door and whispered in my ear, “You got this, partner.” I grinned, revealing the gap from my missing front tooth.

“Thanks Dad,” I said, slapping his hand. Dad had a different approach to this little game then Mama did. He didn’t mind me playing with Josh and Max, a good dose of tough love, he called them. At the time I had no idea what this meant. The thought that love could ever be tough confused me. But I loved that Dad encouraged the game, the fun. I stepped forward and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet traces of spring that our magnolia tree was offering to the world. With a stiff nod to the Luna brothers, I began the obstacle course.

“Step on a crack, break your mother’s back!” they chanted. My eyebrows furrowed in concentration as I leapt over the plethora of cracks on the cement, my light-up sketchers emitting bursts of pink and blue as I pounded to the ground, leaping from one corner of the sidewalk to the next. My scrawny legs quivered, threatening to give out and teeter onto the nearest crack, but I knew Dad was watching, so I persevered. When I made it through the course, my braids were slightly undone, my dress wrinkled, but my smile was perfectly intact.

Max and Josh both gave me high fives. It was clear that I had earned their approval, at least until tomorrow. As the yellow bus screeched to a stop I turned to look back to see Dad giving me two thumbs up. I gave two back, baring my toothless grin for the world to see. Even though I was a good three inches shorter than Max and at least five inches smaller than Josh, I stood tall next to the Luna brothers. I had won their game. I hopped on Bus 97, slid into my usual seat, and as I looked out the window, I was ready to take on the world.

 

Skip (ahead a decade)

“Now this; this might just be the best view in the entire world,” Arten stated, slightly out of breath from the paper thin air. I looked out from the Swiss Alp, and knew he was right. If there was a sight everyone should see, this was it.

“You do not have to continue the climb if you do not want to,” Arten said, the combination of his breathlessness and Greek accent making him almost impossible to comprehend. I turned and looked at my friends, our eyes all widening in shock. The train, or as I referred to it, the steel miracle, had taken us up to the mountain. I was not mentally prepared to climb, and neither was my footwear. I looked down at my battered Steve Madden combat boots, silently scolding myself. Why the fuck would I choose to wear these shoes to the Swiss Alps? I stared off at the mountain, suddenly transfixed in the bluish-grey rock that composed the landscape. Waves of adrenaline suddenly blazed through my bones and I knew in that moment that I would climb.

“We have to do it,” I said to my two friends, Lauren and Megan. Megan shook her head, her face going, if possible, even paler. But Lauren grinned, her eyes flashing with the challenge.

“Oh, hell yeah. Your shoes up for it Maria?” Lauren laughed — her cackle laugh — and I broke into a smile.

“Didn’t you hear? Old combat boots have the best traction.” My sarcasm got lost in the burst of wind. My hair whipped around my face, but the burn of adrenaline was still firing up my muscles. Arten had already begun climbing with a few other students, but I had stayed behind for a moment, calculating my next move. The only way I was going to be able to do this was to charge forward, get a running head start, and then cling to the rock. So that’s exactly what I did.

“Maria, are you part monkey?” Lauren said, from a few feet behind me, I giggled to myself as I continued to climb, wedging my feet into the landscape in attempt to secure my footing. About halfway up the slope my foot slipped on a crack of rock that was covered in ice, and I slid back. My scream echoed through the wind as my hands flew, grasping for earth to cling to.

I angled my foot sideways to stop myself from falling back any further. I took a deep breath, grateful to have stopped falling. Logically, I knew I wasn’t in too much danger; there was a barrier that would have prevented me from falling off the edge, and that’s why people were allowed to openly climb this part of the Alp. But in that moment…I exhaled, relieved it hadn’t gotten to that point.

I looked back at the crack that caused my downfall, thinking back to the days where I had so carefully avoided them on the cement. I glared at the broken rock and breathed in the mountain air, fueling my muscles. If I could teeter through the cracks once, I could do it again. With that mentality I climbed, and did not stop until I reached the top.

 

Jump (to the present)

I heard a pounding on a glass window before I saw her. I turned my head in the parking lot to see my sister hitting the window with her fists, her face cracking open into a smile so wide, her face threatened to split open. Tears tingled behind my eyelids as I mirrored her face. When I had seen her last the air was warm, flowers had been in full bloom, and I was a year younger.

Now the air was crisp, and clean, and I was bundled up in layers of thick wool socks and cable knit sweaters. But in that moment, the air no longer felt cold. I jumped up and down as car slowed to a stop.  My Dad was honking the car horn to excess, making me laugh and cry all at once. My sister flew out of the door and ran at me, nearly knocking me over as she embraced me.

“Happy birthday, Maria,” Katie said, out of breath from the quick exit. Her smile was still too big, but the crack in her face made me feel complete.

“Hi,” I half laughed, half sobbed. It was then that I truly looked at her. Her laugh lines were more prominent, and her style had evolved. Foreign cottons draped over her body, her fingers were cluttered with rings, but I was most intrigued by her patterned elephant pants which flowed, then cinched at the bottom.

“They’re all the rage in Turkey right now,” Katie said with a shrug, as if it was no big deal that she had spent the last seven months exploring Europe.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said with an eye roll, laughing. Katie squeezed my hand as I scooched into the back seat of the car. Immediately my family started singing happy birthday to me, and to their joy, my pale face transitioned into a deep scarlet.

Dad started driving again, and we were off to celebrate at a restaurant a few towns over. Katie began chatting away about her European adventures, the students she had worked with, the people she had met, the countries she had visited. I stared at her, soaking in her words, slightly distracted as I tried to pinpoint what exactly was bothering me.

It was her smile. I had mentally compared it to a crack in her face. Up until that moment, I had always registered cracks as an example of physical erosion that tied into games and challenges. Yet, when I saw the smile on her face, I realized that all of the tears, all of the cracks, had somehow made me whole.

 

Maria Smith is an English/Communication major at SUNY Geneseo. The inspiration for this piece came from walking around campus and tripping over a crack on the pavement.

 

 

I came to college with the quiet goal of separating myself, from the other people there, and from the violent vivacity that that permeates Long Island. It was easy to think that after driving four hundred miles northwest from the island, I would have escaped the suburban sprawl. Winter at Geneseo made a particularly persuasive argument that life there was not the same, and so, when it snowed, I was compelled to seek places where I could step back from college life and marvel at its movements. One such place was the gazebo, which is perched on a sharp incline overlooking the college union quad. There’s something interesting about this structure, as it sits directly in the heart of the college, yet still provides an undeniable sense of solitude. For me, stepping under it wooden-slat roof was like stepping into a snow globe. But, perhaps it was the farthest thing from one. The roof was supported by powerful wooden posts, painted picnic-table red. It had benches that usually cradled a student, powering through a textbook. Encircling this respite, where snow could only drift in on gusts of wind, was a stone wall, about waist high. I think now, this wall must have added to the illusion of a snow globe.

In my first winter at Geneseo, I stepped out of the snow and let my feet dangle over the edge of the gazebo’s wall. This kept my boots dry and my thoughts crackling with flame. If I observed attentively, I could hear the snowflakes pitter patter onto the gazebo roof and I could see puffs of smoke exhaled from trembling lips. I could smell the refrigerator air and I could feel the flakes peck my cheeks. As I observed all of this from the gazebo, I noticed that there was something that collected all of these little details into a wintry painting. The world was covered in whiteness.

It was an immense whiteness which extended across the valley, swallowing trees whole and freezing the mouths of rivers shut. And yet, the ruddy cheeks of students trundled numbly through it, like little poppies, braving the cold.

And there I was on that stone wall, thinking I was behind the glass, safe in a snow globe, when I looked at myself, and I realized I was covered in snow, with snowflakes on my boots, and ice on my gloves, frozen in white, just like the world around me.

 

David Sabol is an Junior English lit major at SUNY Geneseo and is focused mainly on writing poetry and creative fiction. One of his major influences in his writing has been F. Scott Fitzgerald.

 

https://soundcloud.com/daria-epakchi/final-recording

 

1:48pm, August 6^th, 2008

The village slowly becomes a vacant, lamp-posted space. The fiery Geneseo sun makes its rounds and is now returning to its place in the atmosphere. The never-ending sidewalk is my darkest enemy as I feel a tiny trickle of sweat run down my back — and that is when I see it: the tremendous crescent-shaped window of the Livingston County Jail penetrates into the deepest layer of my eyes. The window’s reflection of the setting sun acts as the window’s weaponry. I am convinced that the sun, like the inmates, should be serving a sentence for the bleached, splotchy eyesight I am experiencing. I look down at my small, white slip-on sneakers as I cross the street and smell smoke coming from a neighboring home. The sound of the brutal wind rustling through the leaves reminds me that the upcoming season will not see the insiders of the prison. These cells hold inmates like an oyster holds a pearl, firmly and protectively.

This half-mooned window brings back a memory of a summer camp punishment. In the camp director’s office, there was a small crescent-shaped window that anyone walking by could see into. If one peeked in, they could see the man in charge, a rolling chair, and which camper was being scolded. I had been one of the fortunate ones who had been spared the penitentiary-like experience, but some of my acquaintances hadn’t been so lucky. One of the boys from the rowdy grade above me was spending time in that swiveling chair like it was his job. I skipped past the clouded window just to see the same face swirling in the center of the white walls. His crimes usually consisted of using vulgar language, or singing M.I.A.’s Paper Planes and pointing his finger guns at people. I held tight onto my brown paper lunch bag thinking, “If I was ever in there, my mom would kill me.” The camper who was being held in the office could smell cotton candy being spun round and round, and although that’s what he was doing in his own little seat, he was off limits to any kind of treat. The Livingston County Jail currently cages 254 inmates, and the camp office only cages one. My 19-year-old self knows that the jail is a much worse place, but my 12-year-old self begs to differ.

 

Daria Epakchi was born in Manhattan, New York and now resides with her family in Long Island. She is a sophomore and a communications major.

 

 

Sitting amongst my friends on Letch Field, vibrant orange and red sunlight warm me to my core. The accompanying clouds muffle the intensity so the colors splashed on the sky don’t blind us. The slight stench of manure and the sharp, clipped commands of Quidditch players fade. Staring past the twelve college kids with PVC pipes between their legs, it’s easy to envision college as a new world. It had more diversity, more opportunity, more growth than I could ever hope to achieve at home. The distance of 300-odd miles help. In this world, a new me can shine through.

It’s amazing what a year can do to someone. My personality has journeyed much since I first stepped foot on campus, like the red and orange wavelengths comprising sunsets travel the farthest. This time last year, my high school self would hold back tears, a frightened glint in her eyes. She’d take everything in, and avoid having the new environment overwhelm her.

Accompanied by this careful optimism, my high school self joined the college’s Quidditch team. After all, joining a sports team is one of the best ways to make friends. It worked in high school. It should work in college—high school with more freedom. Right?

…not always. If anything was harder than all the running drills, it was interaction with her new teammates. She’d spent almost two practices working up the courage to speak to other people. The captains and her roommate were friendly enough. That, and the possibility of other friends, emboldened her. She could do this. And not with “What’s your name”, “Where you from”, and “What’s your major.” No, those wouldn’t suffice. They were just used to fill the silence and awkwardness that meeting new people entailed. She could do better than that.

“Are you related to Tim Robbins?” Was that the best she could come up with as an ice-breaker? …Yes. Did it take that much effort just to look at him? Yes.

The boy preluded his response with an odd look, perhaps thinking this was a trick question. “…No, why?”

“Becauseyoulooklikehim.”

A chuckle escaped his lips. Was it a nervous chuckle? A polite one? Genuine? Why was socializing so hard? She returned the chuckle, then ducked next to her roommate. Two practices later, she was still kicking herself over her awkwardness. Her tied-up tongue, avoidance of eye contact, and meek demeanor further emphasized how awkward she was acting.

The red wavelengths in her, her personable yet unpredictable side, should not seep through. Not until she felt wanted among her teammates. Until then, they would get her green wavelengths. Amiable, timid, and quiet, unless someone spoke to her first.

A year later, no such nervousness cuts through my stomach as I sprint at a girl. She holds fast when I strike the dodgeball nestled in her arm. Damn. We grapple with each other, the girl trying to keep me at bay, me trying to steal the ball. It loosens from her grasp. Almost–

“Abbey! Ab.Bey!” Each repetition of my name becomes more high-pitched. Gobbledygook follows.

A quick glance over my shoulder reveals my fellow beater calling me, his voice rising into a screech.

A year ago, I’d run back to him and hear what he has to say. But I almost have it….

“I’m a little busy!” Was that laughter following my shout? “Be there in a sec!” Yup. Definitely some laughing. Looks like I finally hit my red wavelengths.

The girl’s beater-partner charges at me like a bull. I yank her in front of me to shield myself. No dice.

A year ago, I would’ve scrammed from anyone charging at me during scrimmages. Trip over myself with frantic apologies for pushing. Analyze and reanalyze every move I made, every breath I took, and every word I said.

I mutter a curse, glance at the opposing beaters as if to say, “Good job,” then jog back to my side and tag up at the goal posts.

 

Abbey Baulkwill is sitting on the edge of the gazebo. Photo credit goes to Marley DeRosia.

 

 

2:30 p.m., September 21^st, 2015

Summer is over. Fall leaves — the air crisp and hard to breathe. My lungs in overdrive during the circulation process. Everything being uphill doesn’t help either. As I struggle up Mary Jemison Drive, I see the traffic of those who live in the dorms across the street. I wait at the crosswalk with no chance of breaking through the great wall of students. Moss slowly creeps up the walls of Doty Hall; I wonder if it will eventually consume the whole structure. As the hill levels out, my hike becomes more of a stroll. The trees look so eager to change; the weather is confusing them along with our sinuses. Cars fly around the corner, continuing onto Route 39 or merging onto the Drive. I watch the cars carelessly make the turn, swerving in and out of their lane. If only cars had a track to stay on. My stomach begins to ache, imagining the motion-sick travelers. This fork is my last glimpse of home and a slow speed limit I see on our family trips to Pennsylvania.

As my dad merged onto Route 39, he became one of those crazy drivers, a 30+ year habit he would never break. I had suffered from motion sickness since the day I was born. There were so many medicines and remedies for motion sickness that just couldn’t affect me. The stomach contents were always dead set on leaving my body. I was as hopeless as Columbus and his crew, sailing the angry blue.

I’ve always dreaded these trips, longing for the destination. In Geneseo, I knew five hours of horrible driving and throw-up pit stops were ahead of me. His unintentional speeding and swerving was the core of the problem. The man couldn’t drive in a straight line if his life depended on it. Cars were dangerous enough to begin with and he made the odds so much higher. The car would jerk left and right as he bobbed his head to the radio. His obliviousness to his awful driving made me feel bad when everyone scolded him. His smile would fade as my mom became his drivers’ ed. teacher.

His sputtering stops were nauseating as well; his giant feet would slam on the breaks four or five times before the car would come to a complete stop. Between two and three hours the time came to dispose of my irritated stomach contents, only wishing to settle. “Stop” was all I could get out as he’d swerve urgently onto the shoulder, disregarding cars around him. The car vibrated from the wake-up strips lining the expressway; I knew there was no turning back. As I hunched over, letting the vomit escape my weak stomach, I missed that fork in the road. I would hesitate outside the car, spitting out the remnants while I contemplated letting them go on without me. My mom would rub my back until I was done and all I could think was this adventure hasn’t even started. My dad’s persistent apologies made me feel even worse.

After our weekend with loved ones, it was finally time to go home. The slight presence of a stomachache would linger throughout me, but my lack of energy helped me sleep the whole way home. I would notice the speed limit change and wake up as soon as we hit Geneseo. Once we met that fork in the road, my stomach would completely settle — no signs of past distress. This point was the invisible trigger to my motion sickness, five hours from Grandma’s house and twenty minutes from home.

 

Bianca Nolt is a junior at SUNY Geneseo. A Communications major with a love for creative writing, reading, and donating blood, she wants to be a News Producer after graduating from SUNY Geneseo with her Bachelor’s in Journalism and Media.

 

 

8:08 pm, August 22^nd, 2015

Thump thump thump

           The thin soles of my Nike FlyKnits pounded out a steady rhythm across the first quarter of the track, my toes feeling the crunch of the all-weather synthetic polyurethane and my heels beating the ground. It was too cold to run but I didn’t care –- this was my escape, my solace from the grunt of school life, the constant school work and people. I turned onto the first curve of the track, timing myself mentally at a smooth 40 seconds.

Thump thump thump

           In the distance there was the occasional shout of intramural soccer teams. Team sports had never appealed to me –- it was the competitive nature of playing as a unit against others. When you run for sport, at the end of the race, your biggest rival was yourself. You drove your knees into the ground, kicked out stronger, swung your legs harder to best your own personal record.

Thump thump thump

           Looking around, there was a sort of bare, almost naked feel to the surroundings. The grass was clipped. The hurdles and bars seemed abandoned. The track itself was clear of debris. When you run, there’s a sense of isolation; not literally; the only competition is you. Well, the past you. You two weeks ago, you two years ago and you two seconds ago. When you break down the sport, the only person you try to outrun is yourself, because running at its core is about self-improvement.

Thump thump thump

           I turned onto my second lap, timing myself at 3 minutes. Years of running on the high school team seemed to be catching up with me, with pins and needles running down my shins and knees. Distance runners have an odd mentality of embracing the pain. “No pain, no gain,” my coach used to tell me. I looked out into the distance, holding my hand up to shield my eyes from the glow of the setting sun. The orange orb fused with the edges of the track that I couldn’t see. The fence divided the track from the sun, creating a thin barrier between the track and sun. If it weren’t for the glint of the metallic fence separating the two horizons, I could have sworn the sun and track had merged into one.

Thump thump thump

           My feet beat out a steady rhythm, my knees now unmistakably feeling the strain of four years on the varsity team, running miles every day through concrete and paved dirt through the city. Whereas my joints felt hard, the track was soft, almost inviting. The red polyurethane surface resembled brick — hard, uninviting and unforgiving to the uninitiated, but to a runner’s eyes, there is nothing softer. This track, every track is where I fly, leaping across the finish in a rush of dopamine as I finish a race, collapsing in sweet agony and exhaustion. This is where I escape after a stressful day, relying on the rhythmic pulse of my feet to restore balance to my life.

Thump thump thump

           On the track and in the end, there is only you.

 

DongWon is a Korean-born, internationally raised student who has spent several years (2003-2014) in New Delhi, India. He is an aspiring writer who started writing in the fifth grade. Throughout high school, he ran competitively in track and field and cross country, which is where this piece comes from.