By Serena Grant

Hany greeted me in the back of Pat’s Pizza by vigorously shaking my hand, patting me on the back, and then throwing me into lively dancing.

“Feliz Navidad!” He sang, despite it being September. He grabbed my arm and encouraged me to sing along. “Feliz Navidad!”

The drivers rolled their eyes at this nonsense. One of them joined in the singing, laughing at Hany rather than with him.

Hany Elbanna is shaped like a bronze balloon. His skin is dark, as is his hair, and his stomach is wide and round. He has short stocky legs and big arms, which help him with heavy lifting around the store. Hany has been working as a driver for Pat’s Pizza for about ten years, far longer than most.

But that only encourages their mocking.

“Hany’s a fucking idiot,” said Shane, one of the older drivers at Pat’s, “and slow as shit, too. It takes him thirty minutes to get to the Comfort Inn and back, and that’s when he’s only making one delivery.”

Hany’s fellow drivers sneer at him and call him names. They blame him for many of their problems. Even as they are doing this, they pile more work on his back.

“Who wants to take out the trash?” Bryan asked. Bryan is a manager at Pat’s, but has only been there for a year.

Hany was quickly volunteered. With his usual enthusiasm, he took the trash and barreled out the door. Once he returned, Bryan immediately handed him another task. Steven was texting in the corner, and two others were chatting in the back. The whole day would go like this, and at the end of the day Hany would be there when everyone else was gone.

One morning Hany arrived to work in church attire, with a clean button down shirt, sharp coat and a glittering gold cross around his neck. As soon as he walked in the door Harris, one of the shift managers, began berating him.

“Hurry up Hany, come one come on!” He pushed him impatiently through the bathroom door.

The night before Hany had been celebrating an Egyptian festival at his church. Egypt was his birthplace, and there he attended a military high school. He later joined the Police Academy and served as an officer. Hany was part of a minority in Egypt, in that he was a member of the Coptic Orthodox Church. Only 10% of the population in Egypt belongs to this faith.

“Coptic Orthodox Church,” he explained, “it’s like Catholic. But, festival is for everyone.” He made a wide gesture with his arms to include everyone.

He was excited to show off the pictures he had taken at the festival.

“I am Pharaoh,” he said, showing the pictures to Ashley, a waitress. In the pictures, he was dressed in full costume of a Pharaoh, with a black and gold-striped headdress and matching regalia.

“I like!” she said, imitating his accent.

After work Hany will often go fishing at Sandy Cove Ministries, a resort located at the northernmost point of the Chesapeake Bay. Work for Hany ends anywhere between 10 pm and 12 am, but the late hour and darkness of night does not stop him.

“He’ll take off his shirt and actually jump in the water.” Billy said. Billy, along with a few other cashiers, went on one of Hany’s night-time fishing adventures. The tagalongs were both impressed and entertained by Hany’s adventures, though they admitted he didn’t catch anything with his bare hands like they thought he might.

One thing that both interests and puzzles the cashiers at Pat’s is why Hany even works there: after all, everyone knows that Hany is well-to-do.

“He actually owns like thirty condos,” said Aaron, another manager. “All in Egypt, of course. Anyway, he certainly does not want for money.”

Even so, Hany has no interest in leaving the store. He has been working at Pat’s since he got to America. And despite the constant harassment he receives from coworkers, he doesn’t plan on doing anything differently. Hany will often say of troubling experiences or difficult situations, “What can I do, but smile?”

By Lauren Buzdygon

In his natural habitat, a wild Chad Nicholson flourishes a baton in his natural habitat.
He stands in front of the University of Delaware wind ensemble, his tiny hands clasped with interlocking fingers, his head tilted slightly to the left, his left eyebrow raised.  They are practicing a chorale.
“Focus,” he says, pressing his pointer fingernail into the center of his forehead and forcing eye contact with round owlish eyes.  Raising his baton in his prematurely gnarled hand, he opens his mouth to breathe and dives into the music, bringing the ensemble with him.
The specimen of Chad Nicholson was born 40 years ago on a farm in Oklahoma.  He had been the best trumpet player in his small high school band.  Before he entered college, he quit trumpet, reasoning that the apex of his music career had already passed him by.
While “shredding” his guitar in the den of his dorm room his freshmen year, he had heard the college’s marching band practicing just over the hills.  That’s when Chad Nicholson put down his guitar and prepared his migration back to his natural habitat.  Chad Nicholson changed his major eleven times since that moment and eventually ended up studying trumpet as a music major.

When they are done with the warm-up chorale, Chad moves into tuning.  “Concert A,” he says, a pause after “concert” and a long emphasis on “A”.  The resulting sounds from the ensemble do not wind up in the frequency range he desires.  He frowns.  “A again, woodwinds.”  No one dares put in less effort than before.  Every member of this ensemble is either a music major or an equally dedicated musician from another major and fears disappointing Chad.  Fortunately, the second tuning attempt satisfies his expectations.
Chad Nicholson can be seen, at any point in the day, working in other areas of the Delaware jungle.  From 10:10am-11 every Monday Wednesday and Friday, he teaches a basic conducting class to third-year music majors in the same rehearsal hall the wind ensemble plays in.  From 11:15am-noon on the same days, he teaches a wind ensemble repertoire course to fourth year music majors and graduate students in room 207 of the Amy E. Dupont music building.  Many times a month he visits high schools in the area, where he crouches in wait behind the chimes in the back of the room, observing and reporting on students completing their student teaching obligations.
Following the tuning sequence, Chad Nicholson’s introduces a special guest.

“Hey, you know who’s awesome? Phillip Gentry!”

Phil discusses the composer Charles Ives.

When the lecture is done and Chad Nicholson sets a metronome to 72 beats per minute.  He tilts his head elegantly and conducts with his hands plucking at the ictus point, the consistent place in the plane in front of him that his baton passes through to show each beat.  A few times through the excerpt, he stops.

“Woodwinds with grace notes, get a metronome, and make that part better.  We’re moving on.”  The woodwinds nod, not in shame, but in agreement.
Something drops to the ground and Chad Nicholson, squirrel-like, while talking, twitches his head in the direction of the sound, then twitches it back.
Chad Nicholson dresses every day in a long sleeved, pastel colored dress shirt with a dark blue, black, and green striped tie.  Two days in a row, the dress shirt has been lemon colored.  He wears a coat when he enters a room but removes it before he starts teaching.  His dry voice is always on the verge of a joke or pun or bizarre comment.   When he stands and talks to his classroom, he grabs his right arm, just below the shoulder, with his left hand. The right hand twists across his chest, as if reaching to stroke the beard he does not have.  He seems closely related to an entertaining weasel.
Next up for rehearsal is The Blue Hour, a piece by John Mackey.  It is slow and long and trembles with the underlying frequency of the universe.  Chad Nicholson’s hands guide the ensemble, both hands opening and closing, molding the music along.

The ensemble reaches the end.  Chad Nicholson’s right hand turns into a claw, but this time he stands with his shoulders open, doesn’t clutch at his arms.  There were intonation issues in this rep.   There is also something else he needs to say.

He says, “If you listen to the piece with your heart in your hand, it will help.” His big owl eyes sweep the room as he turns his head side to side to meet everyone’s glance.  “I wouldn’t tell you to do it if it didn’t help.”

By Abby Feiner

If you ask Rachel Taylor’s six-year-old students what their favorite thing about her is, they will tell you she’s pretty, she’s silly, she’s a good drawer, she smells nice, she never yells and she has a funny laugh.

If you ask Rachel Taylor’s neighbors what their favorite thing about her is, they will tell you she always gives them a good deal.

“Careful, don’t ash on that paper, it’s my math lesson for tomorrow,” she says as she sticks three twenty-dollar bills into her pocket. “I spent all day cutting out those nametags for the kids.”

The man she is speaking to turns his body away from the project and nods without saying a word. He passes her the lit joint and says, “Thanks for smoking me up, Rach. I’ll be back next week.” She smiles, showing off perfectly straight, white teeth, her reward from seven years of various orthodontic procedures.

When her next customer, a guy in a backwards Phillies hat, basketball shorts and neon green sneakers, enters the room she hardly looks up.

“It’s on the counter, I threw you a little extra this time,” she says as she carefully cuts the edges of the nametags she’s working on.

“Cool,” he says, leaning against the maroon tapestry that rests on her wall. “You have time to smoke a little with me?” She shakes her head no and points to the growing stack of nametags in front of her,

“Student teaching at 8 am. Next time, though.” He smiles as he takes his bag and walks out the door.

Although it is around 11 pm, Rachel wears floral print Dr. Martens boots, a loose, gray dress, and a pattered headband. This is her casual-wear.

When the final visitor of the night walks in, she stands up quickly.

“I haven’t seen you in so long,” she says, giving the woman a hug. As she stands up, she lets her thick, blonde hair out of its usual place, in a bun on the top of her head. The customer looks tired. Her hands are in the pocket of her gray sweatpants and she removes one of them to tug at the collar of her sweatshirt. Rachel raises one of her penciled in eyebrows at the woman.

“It’s hot in here, Rach.”

Rachel blows out two of the five scented candles that are currently lit around the area that holds both the living room and the kitchen. She turns a fan on and smiles, “how much do you want today?”

“I just came to say hi. I’m running really low on cash, I’m sorry. I’ll start buying again once I get a paycheck.”

Rachel tosses a bag at the woman, “don’t worry about it. Get me back when you can.” The woman thanks Rachel and asks her to get lunch one day next week.

Rachel goes to the mirror and dabs at the excess lipstick on her lower lip. She doesn’t leave the house until she has applied at least one coat of lipstick and five coats of mascara.

As Rachel puts the finishing touches on her nametags, she stops to admire them.

“Being a teacher has always been my dream, it’s just always felt natural to me. I really connect to young kids.”

When she finishes her project, she immediately pulls out a large bag of marijuana and starts weighing portions of it to put into smaller bags.

“I have to do this now because I’m teaching all day tomorrow,” she says. “I don’t want to stress out about it later.”

On the wall above her head is an 8×10 photo of the Manhattan skyline. She was born and raised on the Upper West Side, just a few blocks away from the office of her mother’s law firm.

“I started smoking weed when I was a freshman in high school. We would go to the park every day after school and smoke in Strawberry Fields. I didn’t start dealing until my sophomore year of college.”

At twenty-two, she has been selling marijuana, and marijuana only, to her friends and family for three years now. She says her business has increased rapidly in the past year. She moves from the floor to her couch and adjusts her David Yurman ring, “I should’ve taken this off, there’s glue all over it now.”

Her boyfriend, Timothy, walks in and gives her a kiss on the cheek. He pulls out a rolled joint and lights it before he sits down.

“How was school today?” he asks.

“They were so cute. This one boy, Jonah, would only do his reading if I sat with him. I think he’s my favorite.”

“You have a new favorite every week.”

“They’re all so sweet, how can I choose just one?”

“Babe, you want a hit?” he asks, holding a joint.

“Yeah, let me just finish rolling this,” she says.

She kisses him and asks if he wants anything to eat. When he says yes, she pulls out a recipe book and begins to make chicken cacciatore.

“To be honest, I’m not worried about her dealing,” he says. “First of all, who’s going to ever think a wealthy, five-foot-one blonde girl is running a drug operation? Second of all, she only deals to people she knows. That’s the difference between someone who’s in it for fun and someone who just needs the money.” Rachel turns her head back and nods in agreement.

“I like dealing because I smoke for free and it is fun. I like to do it, but I don’t need to do it.”

By Seth Zulinski

Twenty years ago, at the age of forty three, Dennis Anderson had just settled into his new, two story rowhome in King’s Court, New Castle, Delaware. The white walls had been recently repainted, the beige carpet cleaned, and the white wooden cabinets slowly filled with what was left over from the past ten years of his life. A slightly dusty computer rested beneath a newly pieced together desk in what he loosely dubbed his “computer room,” three gigantic boxes of books took up most of the closet space, and a light blue couch sat across from a medium-sized television set. Compared to his old home, the one he’d shared with his almost-wife Karen Linton, there wasn’t much of a yard. The playset he’d built had been left behind in the other lawn.

There wasn’t much space, the house itself being essentially five sections, with the living room and kitchen separated by only a low counter-top wall, both connected by a short, narrow stairway to the upstairs bedroom and the rowhome’s only bathroom.  There was a television by the stairway. His grandson, or rather, Karen’s daughter’s son, had looked around the new house with excitement.

“Well, kiddo. We’re home. It ain’t where I thought I’d be, but you gotta make the most of it.”

There was a Super Nintendo connected to the television set, and more than a dozen cartridges for the console stored in the stand. Dennis, a former Dungeons and Dragons player, had always enjoyed high fantasy and science fiction (along with Westerns, the three of which made up the entirety of the book boxes), and had gotten into video games as they’d broken out – and had steadily hooked his grandson on them.

That first night they watched the movie “Surf Ninjas” and read half of a “Dinotopia” children’s book. When his grandson had gone to bed, Dennis nestled into the living room couch and tried to get some rest. This was his weekend routine for the next twelve years. He would pick up his grandson on Saturday, and return him on Sunday to his old home in Wilmington, Delaware.

His grandson grew up. When he was 17, Dennis sat patiently on the phone for six hours. The kid, “his” kid, had been rejected by several of his first choice colleges and called in the middle of the night. Dennis listened patiently as the boy’s monologue moved from college rejection, to problems with girls, to a recent small driving accident, to rampant, lifelong insomnia (which Dennis had claimed credit for, as a sufferer of a few sleeping problems himself). The boy came around to his decision to start smoking. Dennis was his go-to for things like that.

“I’ll tell you this now – you’re old enough that you make your own choices when it comes to something like that. It’s terrible for you, though. My heart wouldn’t be in half the bad shape it is if I didn’t smoke so long. Funny part is, I quit because of you. I was on the front porch one day smoking, and you walked up and asked me if you could have one, because you wanted to do what I did. I put that one out, threw the pack away, and never touched another one. It’s your choice. It’s always gonna’ be your choice. But I don’t think it’s a good one.”

By the time he was 57, Dennis had worked for the same company for almost half of his life. Tetra-Tech, an environmental agency which took government and business contracts to decontaminate toxic ground in Delaware and nearby states, had given him work which kept him reasonably fit for his age, though his glasses occasionally slid off.

“Arm of these have been loose forever. Really need to get them fixed.”

His black hair was much thinner, no longer the half-combed mess of his younger days, but more of a dark, wispy halo. He had moved again, to a house in Brookside, located just outside of Newark, Delaware’s Main Street. It was much larger than his old row home despite only being a single story. He was now a home owner.

“Well, the row home jacked up the rent a little too far,” he said. “I figured for what I was paying, I might as well just buy a house anymore. So I went and bought a house.”

The TV set had been replaced, though the same blue couch occupied the opposite wall. The same wooden tables he’d built and used for years at King’s Court stood in his new kitchen, new living room, and new (no longer pretend) computer room. He was still regularly pushing his glasses back into place, adjusting them as the loose arm slowly slid them down his nose. One arm poked out at an odd angle, its hinge almost completely broken.

“Really, really have to get these fixed soon.”

At 61, Dennis had gotten a new roommate – his grandson. A year later, his grandson’s long-time female friend named Jessica, who had recently run into issues finding a living arrangement, also took over a room.

“Can’t ever leave a pretty girl in distress,” he’d said. Dennis and Jessica quickly become friends.

At 63, Dennis developed diabetes. This was some of the “worst news [he’d] ever heard”, as cooking and good food were things he enjoyed more than most. Hot sauce chicken with feta cheese and a bowl of egg noodles with butter and parmesan had been a weekend feature for almost a decade. He’s even developed a (some would say unhealthy) attachment to the Food Network, as it slowly overtook his former favorite The History Channel.

“I love history. I can tell you about the Dark Ages until World War II, but the History Channel doesn’t really show that anymore. Now it’s Reality TV and shows about aliens.” He was not happy about the changes.

On November 1st, 2013, at one in the morning, Dennis was rushed to Christiana Hospital. His grandson had found him after he’d fallen several times one night, and had called paramedics. His skin, the paramedics noted, was a sick yellow. Years of sleep aids and sleeping pills for his insomnia had combined with the recent surge in alcohol consumption – his mother had passed away earlier that year – to bring about “acute renal failure”, said doctors. His liver and kidneys had essentially shut down. Despite the situation, Dennis didn’t falter – during his hospital stay, local nurses commented that all that Food Network constantly made them hungry, that he was a charmer who always told them how pretty they looked. That and –

“He’s a complete smart-ass. All the time.”

In the following months, Dennis spent his time in several hospitals. He was visited mostly by his grandson, as the remainder of his family were located in West Virginia, his home state.  Every time he had a visitor, after the normal “heys” and “how are yous”, he’d ask them to pass him his glasses so they could watch TV together.

“On the bright side, laying down keeps my glasses from falling off, and the food here is sometimes even edible. Not great, not good, but edible.”

For his 65th birthday, he’d said he’d wanted a copy of the recent remake of “Journey to the Center of the Earth”, or, if that couldn’t be found, “one of those cheesy eighties and ninety sci-fi movies. There was one, older, did I ever tell you about it? It was called Day of the Triphids…”

He had, to everyone who’d talked to him. Not because Day of the Triphids was an obsession, but because Dennis had a habit of telling the same story again and again after a time. He was a creature of habit, and he had a habit of story-telling.

On August 25th, 2014, Dennis used a Nurse’s cell-phone to call his grandson from Atlantic Hospital in Maryland. It would be the last time they would ever speak. As his grandson was driving in the middle of “one hell of a thunderstorm” between Maryland and Virginia, Dennis sat up in his hospital bed, and told his grandson of his decision to remove himself from life support. Over the past year, his condition has worsened, and Dennis had either finally realized or finally admitted to himself that there “just wasn’t getting out of this one.”

“I made some bad choices – but I made a good one, too. I’m going to go. I’m not scared anymore. You shouldn’t be either. You tried. Some things you can’t fix.”

On that call they’d both said their “I love yous” for the last time. Dennis told his grandson how much he meant to him – how much he was his world ever since he came into it, and he proud he was. He heard everything he’d meant to that single boy. Heard how despite never marrying or having children of his own, Dennis had been the best grandfather, the best father, and the best man his grandson had ever met. They’d said good night, Dennis hung up his phone, and passed away a few hours later.

He was cremated and his ashes buried in a little cemetary in Ravenswood, just under an hour away from Ripley, West Virginia – mostly for his local family. Dennis himself hated the idea of being buried. Not because of any physical or idealogical reasons, mind you, because, “why would I care about that? I’m dead”, but rather because “cemeteries are a damn waste of perfectly good land.” He was serious, there, as he only cursed when he was irritated at things.

His funeral was attended by local family, though on such short notice many people from his “second life” in Delaware were unable to attend but sent e-mails and letters. Only his grandson spoke.

Just a day ago, in the same house in Brookside he’d lived for over half a decade, his grandson looked up from a dim screen. The house wasn’t in the same shape as it had been, once – dirty, lawn overgrown, and filled with clothing and cookware among a hundred other items no human being would ever use again – but it was getting there, and a far cry from the shape it had been only a few months before that.

His glasses, not quite the right prescription, were delicate things as he took them from the end of his nose and sat them, folded and crooked, on the nearby shelf where he kept them. Awkward and uneven, one arm poked out at an odd angle, its hinge almost completely broken.

“I really should get those fixed.”

By Joe Bucci

Rainbow Records has been a hallmark of Newark’s Main Street since it opened in the late 1970s. The store has changed ownership and location several times since, and it currently resides in a comfortable Victorian style building. Not long ago the store had occupied the entire building, but it was hit hard by the rising popularity of digital music and forced to lease part of its shop to another business. Normally customers would enter Rainbow Records by walking down a colorful alley that was decorated by murals and gig flyers by local artists. Now the entrance is through a backdoor that separates the two stores. The store is humble and earnest.

It long had a reputation as a friendly place where owner, staff, and customers would freely mingle swapping recommendations and telling stories. The owner himself was typically the most hospitable; he was despite the challenges he faced.

Those times are gone. On a recent visit I found its atmosphere stiff. The staff is unenthusiastic. An album titled “The Lonesome Crowded West” is playing in background. It is a depressing album with songs about loss and regret. While critically acclaimed, it does little to make customers feel at home.

My visit was a weekday afternoon. The store was not busy, only three customers over the course of an hour. Two came in to buy records while the third left upon entering.  The first customer was an older man. He ignored any attempt of interaction. I asked him if he had any fond memories of the store. He grunted, then checked out and left. A younger man came in a few minutes later. I was unable to get his name, but he said that he had frequented the store for years. He loved vinyl records for their artwork, but he thought that stores like Rainbow Records would soon be gone.

“The way people make and listen to music has changed so much over the years,” he said. “It’s a blessing places like this still exist.”

He said it was cheaper to buy records from online marketplaces and chain stores, but going to a record store was a unique experience. But if that was true, this one appeared to have lost its charm.

Miranda, the new owner was a woman with short black hair. She came over to sort a crate of records. She was a tall, nearing middle age, and had tattoos on her forearm like a sailor. I asked her if the store had more jazz records.

“I don’t know,” she said sharply. “Check the used records.”

She returned to work.

I asked her how the store was doing. At the counter she paused and squinted a co-worker.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve only been here for a year. I haven’t noticed any particular string of regulars”.

She paused for a minute then said, “That’ll be 26.98”.

I paid.

“I’ve only been here for a year. E has been working here longer than me. He knows more than I do”.

E was sitting beside her. He was a portly student I’ve seen working there before, and he looked up from his cellphone to answer. “I started working here a little after we split the building. There’s been some changes over the past three years. We can’t get rid of a lot of the stuff we couldn’t keep in stock in 2012.”

He explained that vinyl was not a niche market and that the store had nothing to worry about with the change in ownership.

“Really, it’s changed? ” asked Eric outside of the store. He said that he hadn’t been to the store in years because he opted to shop online.

“I like listening to music on vinyl, but it’s a luxury”.

He thought the Internet made stores like Rainbow Records seem foolish.

“Things like file-sharing and streaming exist. So I think I’d rather save my

money. It was never a great store anyway. I remember they tried to rip me off. They kept saying that this album I was going to buy was $25 when it was listed at $15.”

By Claire Groft

            Red-haired and abundantly freckled, Sean Grady towers over just about everyone. He recently graduated from the University of Delaware with a criminal justice degree. His size will be a great advantage to him, if he ever joins the police force, but right now he works as a bookseller for Barnes and Noble. On the days he works he dresses business casual; on his days off, t-shirts and jeans. He prefers his glasses to contact lenses, thank you very much. His occupation? “Student of the world.” He works in retail, as a bookseller for Barnes and Noble.

Sean is a great friend. He listens. He holds the door for others. If he walks you to your car, he makes sure you get safely inside. He is a real gentleman, and he says it was simply how he was raised.

His older sister, Aimee, recalled how Sean picked her up last year at the airport. “I was waiting at baggage claim with my adorable little polka-dot roller bag and leopard print backpack with punk zippers,” she said. “Sean picks up my roller bag handle and asks, ‘Can I take your other bag?’ And off he goes, this 6’5” lumberjack of a man carrying the girliest luggage you could imagine. I just remember thinking, ‘Boy, is some girl gonna be lucky someday.’ You never have to worry with Sean. He is a protector and a caretaker and loyal through and through.”

Sean does not talk about himself too much. “I don’t dislike talking about myself, but I don’t think I’m that interesting,” he said. “I think there are far more interesting people than me.”

Even though he wants to have a career in law enforcement, Barnes and Noble has given him plenty of practice. A few nights ago he received a phone call from a guy looking for a book. “I pick up the phone,” Sean said, “and pretty much immediately the guy starts off with ‘I need a fucking salesperson.’” Hearing customers cuss on the other end of the line is not rare, but this one was particularly nasty.  After more yelling, and another apology, Sean found the book the guy was looking for. “He’s like, ‘Oh yeah, that’s it. You got it, right?’ And I say, ‘No, it’s not released until October.’” After a final round of cussing, the customer abruptly hung up.

He has a strong work ethic, and he knows what he wants. He’s worked a respectable amount of years in the book business, but it’s not something that interests him. Sean’s thoughts about his future career are still evolving.

“It’s changed so much. At this point, I kind of think of my dream job as being some sort of cop or something like that… Working in that environment, and doing everything I can to stop bad things from happening and help people.”

His admiration for law enforcement thrived during high school. He attended the Delaware Military Academy, and his experiences there gave him a very mature view of the world. “I got to meet a whole bunch of different guys in the military who made it their life and talked about why and their experiences, and it was a really cool thing,” he said. “They’re wise older guys who usually have good advice and information for you. I’m glad I got to hear all these different stories. It gave me more of an appreciation for our service members and for what they go through and what they sacrifice for all of us.”

When we saw Lone Survivor together, we stayed to the very end of the credits, at his request, out of respect. I told him how cool that was. “Thank you,” he said. And then he moved on to the next topic.

By Lindsay Saienni

When she was a baby, Taylor Hawk was dropped down the stairs.

Her mother was carrying laundry in one arm, Taylor in the other, when she tripped over the family cat. Her mother says Taylor only cried for a few seconds, but was taken to the hospital with a hairline skull fracture. Child Protective Services questioned her mother for hours.

Her father didn’t talk to her mother for two weeks.

“My brother and sisters always told me I was lucky mom dropped me on my head as a baby, because it made me the smartest kid in the family.”

And the cat?

“He was sent to a farm.”

~

First grade was a defining year for Taylor.

“My life story revolved around me acquiring knowledge from my older siblings to impress my parents,” she says.

When her sisters came back home from their freshman and sophomore years of college, she remembers them talking about how if abortions became illegal, women would have to using coat hangers again.

This was how, at age seven, Taylor Hawk became the youngest liberal in America.

She doesn’t look back on this as a positive thing.

“My political views were shaped from a young age, and while I thought I was a free-thinker, I was mostly being indoctrinated.”

As she got older, Taylor classified her middle-school self as a terrible person.

“I was trying so hard to be cool, while at the same time being a dick to my parents.”

“So was this the beginning of your rebellious phase?”

“No, it was more like the end of my rebellious phase.”

One night, Taylor and her middle school basketball team had a sleepover. The mother of one of the girls the decided to prank phone call a teacher at their school, which then led to some of the girls prank calling other teachers.

This prank-call caper ended when one of Taylor’s best friends was questioned.

“Dimed everyone out,” she says.

While the girls who did the calling were suspended, Taylor and the rest were simply berated.

“They said to us, ‘People who witness murders and don’t do anything are just as responsible.’ They wanted us to write letters apologizing for not stopping the mom from prank calling, but I refused to apologize for something I didn’t do,” she said. “And that’s when I started killing for fun…just kidding.”

When the topic of high school came up, she had a memory that she was reluctant to share. Something that happened years ago remained fresh in her mind.

She had planned to throw a party in her basement while her parents slept soundly upstairs. They snuck boys in, her parents heard the back door shut, and it was downhill from there. Her best friend screwed her over and told her parents that it was completely Taylor’s idea and that all of the alcohol was hers. Taylor was grounded for two months.

Her “best” friend’s standing plummeted.

“In those two months, I learned that the people I thought were cool were selfish pieces of shit, and that I shouldn’t be anything less than wonderful to my parents. It was humbling to learn that for once, I wasn’t the center of the universe.”

At twenty-one years old, Taylor sits on a dilapidated couch in her star-patterned pajama bottoms and nightshirt. Her dark hair is pulled from her face. Her figure is full and plump, but the confident manner in which she speaks makes her weightless. She has recently taken to putting teabags under her eyes to get rid of the bags she believes exist. Her chin juts out farther from her face than it should, but her proud demeanor makes the prominence natural.

She is now a senior in college, where she lives with three other roommates in a dusty Cape Cod. After transferring to University of Delaware her freshman year, she finally thinks she’s gotten it right.

“Everything has fallen in place, and I used to think fate was stupid, but I think everything worked out because I did what felt right.”

Taylor recently had an epiphany about her future goals. Originally planning on going to law school, things have now shifted for her, leaning more towards education policy.

“I realized that if you can change the way a kid gets an education, you can change their life. If a kid leaves school confident they can do anything.”

And how does she feel about herself at the moment?

“I’m still in the process of realizing that it’s not all about me. I’m figuring out what life means, and right now life means making the human experience better for someone else.”

By Chris Conaway

 Jeff Mitchell and I met on September 10^th of 2013.  He was standing proudly just inside the door of his Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu school in Newark, Delaware.  The gym is unique.  Built in a big garage, but clean.  The white and red paint on the walls is crisp, and the red and blue mat looks new.  The smells of sweat and hard work clash with the cleaner that still clings to the mats.  There is a single light that looms overhead in the middle of the celling.  And there is always someone training.  Always.

Jeff was in the middle of the mat, eager to shake my hand.  As my hand gripped his, he smiled and I could see in his eye that he saw potential in me.

“I’m not surprised at your undefeated record and Amateur World Championship, Chris,” He says now.  “I was as excited about you from the beginning.”

He likes to remind me of that.

Jeff stands six feet tall, 180lbs with a slender build.  On the street you would never spot him as a bad ass martial artist.  Every light reflects off of his bald head, he has a permanent five o’clock shadow seems to never leave his face.  He is marked with many tattoos from his days as a Staff Sargent in the United States Army, but you will never see them unless he wants you to.  Across his heart in faded green, reads: “PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES ARMY,” which, is ironic, because he is a free spirit.  The black/gray chains that snake down his arms come to life when he grapples you.  There is no hope for escape.  His wardrobe is not typical for a 41 year old, t-shirts, sweats, hoodies, or gym-shorts, all proudly embroidered with the name of his Jiu-Jitsu school: “Elite.”  He is an unfiltered jokester.

“Look! Someone get a camera, Chris is getting choked out!”

“But that only means he likes you” says Jamie Weaver.  Jamie is a middle school guidance counselor (which is disturbing after the pain I have seen him cause his victims on the mat), who has trained under Jeff for eight years.

“Jeff dominates me on the mat” Jamie admits.  “He beats me down physically and mentally, but I emerge that much stronger.  And if he is consistently beating your ass, it means he cares and he’s working hard for you.”

Jeff is from Strasburg, Pennsylvania.  It is a quiet town in Amish country, lined with quaint little shops and beautiful scenery.  Jeff attended Lampeter High School in Strasburg, where he was a successful wrestler and football player.  He had no idea what he wanted to do next, so he joined the Army, where he remained for the next six years.

“Best years of my life!” he shouts.

And then he will tell you ALL of his Army stories.  The best one tells where he found Jiu-Jitsu.

He began training when he was 24, and still in the Army.

He walked into the martial arts training room at Fort Dix in New Jersey, and a scrawny man asked him to grapple.

“I told him, sure I’ll kick your ass” says Jeff.  “I tackled the little guy no problem.  As soon as we hit the ground he tied me into a fucking pretzel.  From then on I was determined to learn the way this little guy kicked my ass.”

Seventeen years later, Jeff has earned his black belt.  He never misses a day of training.  The only difference, is that he is now the one teaching.  As gym owner, Jeff collects monthly dues from a sizable number of students.  He also gives private lessons at a reasonable price.  Between the two, he makes a comfortable living just outside of the city of Wilmington with his wife and Kara and ten year old son Ryan.

On the mat, Jeff is unbeatable.  No one ever comes close.

“Jiu-Jitsu is my life” he says.  “Might as well be good at it.”

It explains his big membership.  Jeff is relaxed but strictly attentive, and both qualities attract students.  He is described as a fluid and highly technical instructor, and his class is fun.  His gym is an easy place to be.  Jeff’s friendliness sets the tone.  Students line up on the matt as he talks about upcoming fights and tournaments.  The class is taken through a vigorous but effective stretching and calisthenics routine.  He then shows three techniques, just three.  Students never feel overwhelmed.  At the end of the class, it is time to live grapple.  Before a new student is allowed to participate, he has them sign a liability waiver.  “All this basically says is that we can rip your arm off and beat you with it” Jeff tells them.

Most nights he stays up late.  He is better than his son at the Xbox game Call of Duty, and it’s no wonder.  He plays at least two hours every day.  He sleeps in when he is tired, and then drives to Elite to do what he loves.  You will never catch him in a bad mood, because he has no reason to be in one, except maybe the rare occasion when his son beats him on the Xbox.

He gives me hope that being an adult can kick ass.  Jeff Mitchell may be the best Jiu-Jitsu instructor in the gym, but even off the mat I am still his student.

By Nicole Basile

By the Acme supermarket entrance, an eager boy scout was selling popcorn.

“I won’t buy anything from the boy scouts,” Zachery Jackson said. Zack avoided eye contact and maneuvered inside. For a big fellow, he’s light on his feet.

“I did boy scouts for a few years, but then I quit,” he said. “Later, I found out my leader had been collecting child pornography. So, I don’t trust the boy scouts.”

He went directly to the produce section. Zack wanted raspberries. He squinted into each carton, looking for the ones without mold. Zack is, at heart, a performer. His thin hair, soft skin, and short, flesh-toned beard adorned a face adept at playing many roles.

In his office in Smith Hall, Zack explained his life. He is a graduate student in the department of political science and international relations, concentrating in American political behavior. Zack is categorized as an ABD (All But Dissertation) on his way to a PhD. Additionally, he is an adjunct faculty for the department of theater. In two years, he wants to complete his dissertation and take on a professorship. Zack leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach.

“In my wildest dreams, I see myself as a judge in the federal courts.”

Realistically, he’d be content as a professor in a mid-size liberal arts college with a wife and kids. He says the historical events he’d most like to have witnessed are the Nuremberg Trials or the Constitutional Convention. These were events that shaped modern law. He would have loved to hear the Founding Fathers’ arguments for the second amendment or the molding of political theory from Nuremburg’s chief prosecutor.

Zack’s mind jumps from politics to a universal moral code to the unfathomability of the universe. His soul, on the other hand, is ignited by theater.

His eyes glowed as he thought back on his roles. At UD alone, he has performed and assisted in thirty plays and musicals with Harrington Theater Arts Company. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf, Cabaret, and Legally Blonde are just a few shows Zack has done.

“Art and especially theater, even a really sad or tragic play, can cheer you up or make you feel good to the soul,” he said, smiling. The stage has not always produced happy memories. Some of Zack’s most uncomfortable moments happened during his shows. He remembered watching a fellow cast member forget the words to his solo.

“There were no words coming out of his mouth, just sound, and I had to sit [on stage] and just smile.”

He once performed a whole number with his fly open.

“I was in a show once where we were using a lot of panties and lingerie as props. I stole a pair of panties from the set and decided to tack them to the bulletin board of my dorm’s floor. There happen to be a tour going through that day. The tour guide had to make up some kind of story about the panties and I was dying!”

Sitting in Brew-Ha-Ha on a Sunday morning were Zack’s roommate, Ben Schmidt, dressed business casually, and close female friend, Sam Nestory.

“[Last night] we hear this giggling from the bathroom,” Sam said.  “Then he starts outright laughing and he comes out and starts saying something about looking like a prepubescent Mexican boy because he’d shaved everything but his mustache.”

“And his mustache is very blonde,” said Ben.

“Then he went back in. There was more giggling. He came out again with a Hitler mustache,” said Sam.

About their friendship, Ben said:

“It’s a fever dream… a lot of [our dynamic] is just acting different characters out back and forth.”

Ben and Zack then stared into each other’s eyes. They began muttering non-sense in nasally singsong voices. Some “characters” have been given names: “Uncle Whirlly-Dursh and Dr. Slippy Fingers,” villains who knock each other off bicycles. As his roommate, Ben can see Zack’s personality best reflected in his bedroom.

“His room is cluttered with a lot of books: horror, mystery, conspiracy theories, text books. There’s a shrine of pictures of his friends. Usually there are a lot of clothes on the floor, but also different kinds of artwork. He has a poster signed by Angela Lansbury.”

By Jamie Moelis

            It’s like a national holiday every time Ron Schneider gets the chance to come back to the states. And no, it’s not because he often gets mistaken for Jewish rapper Drizzy Drake. It’s because once we graduated from Clarkstown South High School in 2011 in Rockland County, New York… he left us.

Before August 15, 2011 it was so difficult to picture him serving in the Israeli army…for multiple reasons.

Spilling huge Dr. Peppers all over his ex-girlfriend’s car, scribbling down any answers on his homework second before it was due, attempting to use upside down cooking thongs while grilling, and eating 3-4 dinners per night didn’t seem to fit the description of a potential soldier.

First off, he was a total ditz. His ex-girlfriend, Kelly said how this one time he spilt a huge Dr. Pepper all over her car because he had it on his lap, and when she stopped at a red light it went flying everywhere. He could never keep a straight face. He always had this annoying grin that would show his entire upper gum line that reached from ear to ear.

Secondly, he was always hungry and always eating.

“My mom would food shop specifically for him because he always ate over,” said Kelly. “He averaged about 2-3 dinners a night.”

Thirdly, despite the outsized appetite, he’s always been super slim. Not sickly skinny; he’s always been physically fit. He was an all-county cross-country runner, and had state titles in track for the 4×4 relay event. His room was covered from wall to wall with running awards and medals. But he was slender and had chicken legs

Even though Ron was as American as any of us, Israel was his second homeland. His mother served during the Lebanon War in 1982, and Ron lived there until he was about 4 years old and visited every summer.

From the fourth grade until sophomore year he attended Osuri, a reform Jewish summer camp in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. According to his father, Mark, there were groups of Israelis there who served in the military and Ron would always ask them tons and tons of questions.

On the day he left, Anthony, Bobby, Kelly, Matt, and I stood hysterically crying in his driveway on Greenbush Ave. It was a day we had all been dreading for months. He was leaving to join the Israeli Defense Forces.

“Don’t worry guys, it’s only three years,” Ron said.

Israel’s a tough neighborhood. There’s never any guaranteed peace and you really don’t know when the next war will break out.

For three years, Ron was fortunate enough to have avoided war, but just weeks after he completed his service and returned back to the states, Operation Protective Edge began. Israel was preparing to send troops back into Gaza.

On the day he found out his unit was going in, all of us were back together again. He found out on the train into the city. It was a Thursday night, and it was our first trip as officially accredited adults in the big apple. His unit (Elite Maglan) was always the first to be called upon.

That night Ron’s typically annoying smile wasn’t present. If it was, it was fake. His big, brown, eyes were glued to both his iPhone (when he had WIFI) and his Israeli phone. He was flipping back and forth, checking for updates on what was happening and also scared to death for his brothers. While we were all having a good time and reminiscing, Ron sat there quietly and expressionless.

“I woke up to a phone call from my friend telling me that 3 of our guys were killed,” said Ron. “You never expect it. You spend three years with them…it’s like losing a brother.”

Amalia, Mark, and Ron left for Israel that same day. Throughout this whole experience, Mark said that seeing how he dealt with the losses, seeing how he dealt with the victim’s families, and seeing how he interacted with his friends during this time is what he’s most proud of.

“Despite being so wounded, he acted like a man,” said his father. “While he was physically in New York during all this, he was mentally with his brothers.”

“G”, a fellow lone soldier from South Africa, was right next to Ron’s team in Gaza as the explosion went off. He said it’s been one of the most intense personal experiences that he’s gone through, and is something no one should ever have to deal with, especially at 20-21 years old.

“As we stood at the grave of our friend Algray, Ron whispered in my ear “”My team needs me,”” said G. “That is Ron”

Ron decided to re-join the army to be back with his team.

“Ron is mensch,” said G, which is a Yiddish word for a person with honor and integrity.