THESUBWAYRIDE

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is an all-inclusive publication that recognizes the humanity of the artistic and literary process, prioritizes celebration over criticism, and provides a common

space in which individuals with different backgrounds and identities can contribute to a welcoming artistic space.

When we ride the subway, it’s hard not to notice the other people around us. We form an unknowing community, comprised of individuals who might have never met outside of the subway car. Everybody has a different reason for being on it, and different directions when they leave. But onboard, we stand, sit, and lean against each other, sharing the same space and air in a brief moment of unity. This magazine is an attempt to recreate that community through print, giving all individuals, regardless of prior experience with publishing or art, an equal

opportunity to get on the subway with us.

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“Terminal”The Terminal

Grand CentralSt. Vincent de Paul Soup Kitchen’s relay writing

Welcome to the End of the DreamscapeNorth to Valhalla

Poems

Shawn J. Grabert Albert Knous Various authorsSonya Sternlieb Cheryl Anne HaleTony Gaetand

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A place that hundreds of millions have passed through People live and die it never closes Every kind of per-sons you can ever imagine has been there Businessmen, Athletes, Movie Stars, the mentally challenged College students, Children, Adults, the Home-less, the disabled Prostitutes, Panhan-dlers, Hustlers, Criminals If I could have a dime for every soul that has been in that building The noise is nonstop There are Ghosts and Spirits there They can’t haunt because there’s not enough privacy to do so It’s all in the image of NYC itself Life that continues on and on nonstop at perhaps the fastest pace in the World It’s all about the business of Basic Survival whether it’s someone in a three-piece suit or someone try-ing to get 50 cents from you it’s all the same I once was in Grand Central all alone and it was quiet it was hauntingly beautiful.

Grand CentralAlbert Knous

Life is a journey, not a destination. Just a series of trains to get you from your place of embarkation to the end of the line. As with every long trip, you may find yourself changing trains occasionally. That’s where I find myself now, walking in a small town dept, looking for my next connection. Behind me, my last connection waits, ready to take me if I decide to go that way again. The train is made of steel bars and goes back to where I don’t want to go. Ooh, look! My baggage is being unloaded. Isn’t it funny how I always seem to have more baggage with every change I make? As I look around, I notice that the ride to work hasn’t arrived yet. There are other trains I could take. I could hop a train with the cute guy I met at this stop, and see how far I can take that one. There’s a train coming into the station. It’s full of party people, smoking, drinking and having a great time. It looks great in the short run, but I’ve a feeling that it’ll lead back to the train I first got off at.

The Terminal Shawn J. Grabert

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St. Vincent de Paul Soup Kitchen’s Relay WritingBy Haenah, Karla, Yael, Jacqueline, Althea, Lydia, Al, Shawn, and Ali

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The Subway was crowded with many different people. There was a girl lying on her papa’s lap. / She was no more than six years old and a pretty little thing. Long black hair, and big doe-like brown eyes, She was bound to break a heart or two. / Her papa stroked her hair. He was the kind of man who had his heart broken one or two times. Her mother broke it the worst. She died when the girl was two. / Next to them was an older woman with ten plastic bags. She had orthopedic shoes and looked tired. She quietly glanced at the little girl. A sense of longing and nostalgia in her eyes. / She thought back to when she was six years old growing up in a country. Her family’s land was full of life; cows, horses, goats. They grew vegetables for the local town people. Everything was great then, until the men came that night… / And brought the plague. / The first cough came from the house next to ours. The newest baby in that family became wracked with fever, then open sores, then a glassy-eyed emptiness before it died. How, a week later, the entire village was infected. Water supplies became contaminated and the road was blocked off by national public health / people and the police. They were dressed in what looked like radio active gear and they looked like they meant business. Zombies? / Now it’s a party. I reach in my carry-all sack and pull out the only weapon I can defend us with: a tennis racket. Alert to all horrors, I hit two little old ladies before I figured out they weren’t undead. / I threw a tennis ball up in the air, a spin and height brought by years of practice. This ball was no ordinary ball, but instead was stuffed with chemicals – the only chemicals that could kill zombies. *Smack* and the ball sailed hard at my opponent – or what I thought was my opponent. An explosion – smoke – debris – blood? The dust settled and my wife was dead by my own racket. At the same time her life ended, my heart broke. And I moved to the city.

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The stairwell is closed off because of zombies, corrupted bodies trapped behind corrupted wood. They are forever statues. Trapped, they will keep stuttering in place for eternity, constantly bumping off the walls as they try to amble forward. They do not decay or age but they are not very fast and not very strong. You point out to the family that the door has been opened. Like automated vacuum cleaners of yore, the zombies’ endless bumping into obstacles will eventually lead them out of their so-called storage closet. You spot the one that has emerged, doll-faced and doll heighted. It wears a child’s lace frock and face and blond curls. In a realistic approximation of childhood, the dress is covered in bloodstains, which the zombie child does not care about. It moves slowly towards you, a wooden baseball bat gripped firmly in its tiny hands. You are armed with an extendable fork. Your mother insists that you be the one to take care of it. It’s your fault the door was opened after all, she says. It wasn’t your fault, but you don’t correct her. You swipe at the small zombie with your extendable fork, but it is not extendable enough, and is somewhat flimsy. Panicked, you grab the zombie’s wooden bat and firmly bludgeon its head. It falls to the floor. You tap its forehead until the eye comes out, (there is only one now),

large as your fist but smaller than a dinner plate or a breadbox. Once this is done, the body, limp on the floor, must be burned. You have all learned this the hard way. You are in the basement of the house. The rest of the floor is a small department store. The racks are hung with cute jeans, which you would like to take. Your favorite pair is adorned with two disjointed light blue gradient rectangles down the front. There are many with tribal prints. There are some that are more appropriate for post-apocalyptic badassery, and you think you should probably get those instead. You go to look for your size, which is a three unless it’s a six. You cannot find your size. Some things never change. Your father yells that we really need to be going, as we are underground and this is the Lempagic Zone, and that our presence here is calling more of them. You grab some pants and hope they fit. The zombies in the stairwell clatter slightly faster. Perhaps they sense their brethren. Perhaps they are bored. You think maybe you should take care of them. They are not strong. You could start the clean-up crew, reclaim the world one walking, eating, tearing corpse at a time. You do not. You leave the doll-like eyeless body on the floor without burning it. You leave the house.

Welcome to the End of the DreamscapeSonya Sternlieb

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Maurice Lee Shin Wakabayashi Caren Ye

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Taiga Araki: “Terminal” is an opportunity to change in a continuous way.

Gabriella Montinola

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**2/3/15- A Metro North train collided with a Mercedes SUV driven by a woman who was stopped on the tracks. She and 5 men on the train met their fiery deaths 20 miles north of New York City, a tragedy which unfolded like a tragic Norse myth in a place called… Valhalla. It made headlines for two days, then got buried by other news.-------

That fateful February 3rdseven hundred souls were luredaboard 3,000 tons of steel, withtriple track beneath its wheel.Expecting naught but status quo, theyheaded North through bitter snow,past two Ravens in a treewhose names mean Thought and Memory.Their beady eyes reflect the glintas steel meets steel, like fiery flint.Across the track, Germanic beast,stopped while crossing west to east...

one Valkyrie sings in Valhallaselects the Dead in Valhalla,

Collects the Dead for Odin’s Hall,five men were dead by Evenfall.She sang to them a fiery blast, thisjourney North would be their last.

In terror the survivors fled O’ersnowbanks stained with black and red,through billowing smoke and arctic cold,their tale already being told.The Ravens sat and watched them fleeno strangers, they, to misery,the Einherjar all fought and bled, andValkyries chose among those Dead.

One Valkyrie sings in Valhalla,for her beast, slain in Valhalla.

For two days strangers mourned and criedfor those who lived and those who died,but three days hence they all forgot, andnewer stories sold and bought.The Ravens flexed their mighty wingswhile mortals thought of other things,back to the Great Hall, Ravens flewtelling Odin all they knew.No swan disguise for the Viking Maid,her indiscretion’s price she’s paid.Her swan-song caused this steely clash,the fireball and the fatal crash,

She burned with them in Valhalla.She’ll serve no more in Valhalla.

North to ValhallaCheryl Anne Hale

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Lisa Sy

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freestyleThe Repair Shop

Get to know them: Kevin and Bryan The Poems of

Eat Your SidewalkSpoiled

Alison LamTai Taliaoa Jr.Mary Ellen MininbergSPURSE*Anonymous

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*This diagram was provided by SPURSE, a collective of ecosystem artists and designers that work with those who are meeting complex environmental and social challenges.

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The Repair ShopAlison Lam

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Get to Know Them: Kevin and Bryan Giles, Founders of Of Shadow and Earth

(OSAE)Tai Taliaoa Jr.

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Hello everyone! This section of the magazine is meant to highlight influential people or places in Connecticut. We plan to have an interview or written report each issue, so please take some time to learn more about the cool people and places that are around Wesleyan!

Kevin “Oni” Giles and Bryan “Lingba Flare” Giles are twin brothers from Middletown, CT who are well known in the Middletown community as the founders of their B-boy crew Of Shadow and Earth (OSAE). OSAE main headquarters are located in Middletown, but the group has branched out to include chapters in Uptown New York, Florida, and Thailand. I had the opportunity to

talk with the brothers at Vinnies, a dance studio on Main Street where the brothers teach beginning and intermediate breakdance classes to kids. As I talked with them, I learned a lot about the history of their B-boy crew, their influence on the Middletown community and Connecticut dance scene, and their past involvement with Wesleyan. Before OSAE was founded, Kevin and Bryan were formerly a part of a B-boy crew called Fall Out Squad, a well-known Middletown breakdance crew in the 90’s. The brothers became full-time members of Fall Out Squad after proving their breakdance skills to the leaders. For a decade, their crew established a reputation as one of the powerhouse breakdance crews in the Connecticut dance community,

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having a strong presence at clubs and cyphers. By the late 90’s, the twin brothers decided that they wanted to start their own breakdance crew. Bryan and Kevin acknowledge that the experiences gained during the time spent with their previous breakdance crew were valuable in helping them to establish OSAE in 2001.

Since its establishment, OSAE has had an incredible impact on the Connecticut dance community; for twelve years, they were the only breakdance crew to host jams , which included activities such as DJing, housing, and of course breakdancing. Furthermore, their jams provided an opportunity for breakdance crews and other artists in the area to gather together and share their art with one another. Thanks to Bryan and Kevin’s efforts, the Connecticut dance scene and the Middletown community have flourished—other breakdance crews have developed and grown to host their own jams and practice sessions, and the Middletown community receives a fair amount of business and profit from the people that come to Middletown from around the world to participate in OSAE events. Although the twin brothers do not host jams or battle as frequently as they used to, one can still find them dancing at Vinnies, teaching and practicing. If you happen to participate in a Wesbreaker’s (Wesleyan’s breakdance crew) session,

there is a high chance that you can also find them there. In addition to breakdancing and hosting jams, OSAE is also known for youth outreach and food drive events. Over the years OSAE has mentored kids by helping them build confidence and character through breakdancing. The food they have donated to local food pantries has also helped several homeless and low-income families fight starvation.

Make sure to talk to these guys the next time you see them on campus! Aside from breakdancing, the twin brothers have a variety of skills in other areas. Bryan works as a barista, produces music, and is a student of traditional Asian medicine, and Kevin was a former piercer and DJ and currently works as a croupier. Two interesting things you should also know about the brothers are that they are former members of Eclectic (they became members in 1999, and Bryan even lived at the Eclectic House when he was in high school), and they both worked at the MoCon, Wesleyan’s former dining hall. You should definitely talk to them more about their past affiliation with Wesleyan! Most importantly, these two serve as examples that Wesleyan is a part of the Middletown community, and Wesleyan students and Middletown residents should strive to interact with one another more in order to create a more positive and friendly atmosphere for everyone.

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Ann Sbalcio Charlene DeschaineAlice Le Ted Milardo

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Anna Sheehan (upleft) is active in the baking group, bingo, poetry and art. Yvonne Kenny (upright) has only been OMP a short time, but has already begun exploring her creative side, trying her hand at both painting and poetry. Phyllis Rau (below left) is 100 years young and will tell you she is no artist. Felicia Roth (below middle) was born in Poland, but has lived all over the world. She has traveled extensively and loves nature and the natural world. Her unique style of artwork definitely reflects that love. Marie Fitzner (below right) is originally for Germany. Since she had six children, she probably never had time to try her hand at painting before.

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Philosophy

Diving into the ocean!Lunging into the living seaRejoice and accept and adapt!

Independence

I do what I doFor the joy,For the welfare of the peopleAnd for JOY.

“Dominican Sisters”

For me the last day of summerWas one of sadness: No more diving into the roaring waters of the Sound,No more freedom to race down the curving regions of the beach.Then I passed two Dominican Sisters, garbed in their white habits,Living their lives in the Great Sea of God.

The Poems of Mary Ellen Mininberg

Six Kicks

Six kicks to everytwo strokes-Exhilarated I swamOut to the center of the seaAnd joyfully kicked back to Earth.

“Exuberance”

I dive into the salt waterAnd kick my way out.I’m happy to have leftThe shore behind.I am surrounded by the sea.I have left the earth behind… I am renewed!

Mary Ellen Mininberg is proud to be an Irish lass from New Haven and a former English teacher. She has lived at One MacDonough Place since 2009, and has been involved with both art and poetry.

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I think I have a relatively decent family. I think I had a lovely childhood. I was loved by every member of my family, and I think I was spoiled by everyone, especially my parents since I was the first child. I remember me, a three-year-old child, seeing dazzling sunlight coming from the huge window back of the couch and sitting my grandpa’s knee all day long. I remember the comfort of being in my dad’s arms and pushing my head into his chest, listening to his constant heartbeat whenever I got tired of walking. I remember my mom’s restful smile toward me when I finished a

sports competition in kindergarten. Somehow, as I grew up, they stopped expressing their love toward me through obvious body language, and I stopped asking them to give me their care and love at some point. I think I was still loved by my dad and my mom. But my mom had stopped hugging me. My dad had stopped petting my head. Instead, they gave me most things I wanted. Clothes, shoes, bags, pens, books, perfumes…I had everything. I was glad to receive gifts from my parents, but I was just accepting them, rather than wanting them.

SpoiledAnonymous

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When I was in second grade of elementary school, my mom started working outside our home again. As a woman with a career outside the home, she spent most of her time in her office, not at home, and sometimes prioritized her work over family-bonding. She eventually came to skip some school events, and I had to spend the time by myself while hearing laugher and joyful chatting from my friend and her mom. I was not that sad, surprisingly, although I do remember it. I was not furious at my mom either…yes maybe, I might have been a grumpy kid who just wanted her to be there. But I was just being an immature kid who wanted to catch her attention, while at the same time I also tried to make myself believe that my parents loved me like other kids’ parents did – it was just a matter of how they were showing the affection. My mom had a great sense of responsibility in her job and role both as a mother and as a worker. Looking back to those days, I think she was struggling between wanting to pursue her career and having to be my mother. She had to spend time with me, participate in school events, and do housework to be a mother in the Japanese social sense of “mother.” But she had no time to sacrifice – in other words, she wanted to use her time to seek enjoyment as a part of society as a working woman. So giving gifts to me was the most convenient and easiest alternative way to do her “job” as my mom.

They kept buying a lot of stuff for me. My mom especially sometimes gave me small things when she came back home from work. I secretly waited for them, and simply enjoyed them. Rather that seeing them as my mom showing her love and care toward me, I saw them as a kind of indulgence for being ignorant of her own child. Still, after I came to see my mom in that way, I still loved her, and enjoyed her small little gifts. I think I also gave up being a lonely kid asking my parents to show they cared just as my mom gave up being a “mother.” Those gifts, however also made me blind to her small and tiny love toward me every day. Giving me gifts, she loves me. If she does not buy anything for me, that shows my mom unable to do her work as a mother. I could not see her caring in herself -- I was the one who was stuck with the image of the classic and fixed ideal mother – who waits for you at home, cooks a delicious dinner for you, and gives up her own dreams for you. My mom did none of that, but I still tried forcibly to put that image on to my mom. You know what, my mom was not that kind of person, but she was still my mother. I was the one who made my mom be unable to be my mom. I was too late realizing how selfish I was – I never delivered my apologies to her for failing to understand and accept her way of expressing her love. Pleasing gifts from her around me, yet I have nothing.

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A stranger from Terp who let me step on her feet as they cleaned broken glass on the floor

The person in front of me at the Bank of America ATM sending money to Grandma05@______.com

Shout out toThe person in the Exley loading dock who immediately ran to help when a Pepsi truck knocked over the power line pole by Exley a few weeks ago.

German House HM, for collecting a list of food he will bake for his residents during stressful times

Alison Lam Caren Ye

Chong Gu Gabriella Montinola

Haenah Kwon Shoko Yamada Siri McGuire Tai Taliaoa

Toys Koomplee

Any fancy theme for next issue? Help us out by email to thesubwayride@gmail.com!