Tag: Portfolio
An Ode to My Dark Circles.
by The Cowl Editor on October 21, 2021
Poetry
by Mariela Flores ’23
It’s as if someone cut you out of a magazine
and glued you under my eyes.
You are the accessory that I have been given,
even in my well-rested times.
I’ll always know when I’m tired
but I won’t ever need an eyeshadow base,
and even if I don’t like you that morning,
you’ll always be a part of my face.
You’re the star witness of my best nights writing
your brown-ish purple hue lets others know that I am still fighting.
I keep my darkest secrets in the roundness of your bags
the swollen fragile skin stays soft despite the tags.
They remind me of my father whenever I look in the mirror.
Caffeine courses through our blood and it helps us see much clearer.
I don’t know who I’d be if you weren’t there.
Makeup tried to hide you
but I didn’t like the feeling or the purple-lacking stare.
I see now you are my inheritance
a face I cannot escape,
but I’ll always remember to love
my tired face.
Tiff and Earl
by The Cowl Editor on September 23, 2021
Features
Dear Tiff and Earl,
It’s that time of the year—the squirrels are starting to gain awareness again and have begun pummelling our heads with acorns. How should we wage war against them? I think we might want to get the pigeon involved.
Sincerely,
Fallen Soldier
Dear Fallen Soldier,
You are right to revolt. We must rise up. But don’t be hasty. If the pigeon is of sound moral character, he’ll join us in our fight, and I suspect he may be the key to our victory. But let’s not put all our eggs in one bird nest. First we must establish whether we can trust our beaked brother. He’s not a bird you want to meet in a dark alley. Your first mission is to determine where his loyalty flies. Should he prove trustworthy, your second mission is to enlist him and arm him (wing him?). Three words: Concealed carrier pigeon. Now three more: We will overcome. The squirrels will never know what hit them.
Warmly,
Tiff
Dear Fallen Soldier,
You’re absolutely right: in this years-long, hard-fought, violent battle between the defenseless students of Providence College and the malicious squirrels that seek to threaten our very way of life, the pigeon is our last best hope. Since all pigeons are obviously government drones planted with the intent of spying on the unsuspecting public, we’ll need to hijack the FBI’s database. Let’s just hope we can save some of the computer science majors from the squirrels before it’s too late.
Your comrade-in-arms,
Earl
Golf Party: Civil War
by The Cowl Editor on September 23, 2021
Portfolio
by Aidan Lerner ’22
This past week, the Providence College senior class was torn asunder by a significant conflict centered around the bi-annual event, Golf Party. Sources confirmed that a portion of the class would have preferred to host the Eaton Street bash this past Saturday, while the other group fought to have it held this coming Saturday. The fallout has been devastating for all involved.
One student told me that, “We’ve been through a lot of adversity as a class. There was the time we all found hella snakes in the Ray food, the pandemic that killed millions of people: putting our future as students in doubt, and the time they renamed Suites. In my opinion, this is what finally broke our spirit.”
Another student relayed their harrowing tale teary-eyed: telling me that, “I have been dating my boyfriend since Freshman year. Yesterday, I found out he voted for ‘this Saturday.’ I broke up with him immediately. I could never be with someone who does not stand with the ‘Next Saturday-ers.’”
While the two sides seem unlikely to reach a resolution, they do agree on one issue. Late in the battle, a small group of radicals emerged who demanded that two Golf Parties be held: one on each Saturday. Spokespersons for both mainstream parties stated that this concept was, “sacrilegious and tantamount to nihilistic anarchy.”
I managed to catch up with Mr. S, the leader of this organization of extremists, and I asked him an impartial and not-at-all leading question.
“How do you respond to those that would say that this entire debate is stupid, pointless nonsense?”
Mr. S replied, “I would say come ask me at graduation whether I accomplished anything important. They have no idea what I plan to do next.”
“And what is that?”
Mr. S answered me confidently, “If we can manage to hold two Golf Parties, that is a massive achievement and a revolutionary moment for the student body. After that, I would like to do everything in my earthly power to make a lifelong dream of mine reality: throwing a party where a bunch of people wear cool stickers. Also, I’d like to end racism on campus. We’ll see what I can get done this year. I am sort of busy, and my GPA sucks. I should probably study every now and then.”
Lofty goals, indeed. In this reporter’s opinion, I’m free either Saturday so I’ll probably just head down with some of the boys if I see heads.
Listomania: Strangest sounds I have heard in the first week back on campus
by The Cowl Editor on September 16, 2021
Features
- Wolf howls (in chorus)
- Flood warning notification (why is it so loud?)
- The water dripping from the leak in my ceiling
- The toilet in my apartment randomly flushing in the middle of the night
- My freezer deciding it’s broken
- Roommates brushing teeth very loudly
- People aggressively slamming their dishes onto the Ray dish return
- Footsteps above me while I’m trying to sleep (especially flip-flops)
- People still trying to do the thing where they lick their finger before turning the page of a book
- Roommates clipping toenails
- Really bad club remixes
- People typing their “notes” in class
- Someone dropping their Hydro Flask
Pigeons and Doves
by The Cowl Editor on September 16, 2021
Creative Non-Fiction
by Sarah McLaughlin ’23
There are countless bird-related trivia facts I like to spout over the dinner table, during walks to class, or in the delirium of three a.m. roommate conversations, but my favorite might be the fact that there is no scientific difference between pigeons and doves.
Did you know that the sooty-looking birds pecking at moldy hot dog buns between parked cars on the streets of New York are also known as city doves? Or that the one sent by Noah from his arc that returned with an olive branch (or sent by Utnapishtim in The Epic of Gilgamesh; yes, I paid attention in Civ) could also be called a white pigeon?
The reason I clarify that there is no scientific difference is because there is, of course, a difference in our minds. Sure, in the olden days one’s mind might conjure the image of a carrier pigeon, but in the twenty-first century we have much more efficient messaging technology, so the word “pigeon” in our brains remains generally confined to the realm of smoggy, overcrowded urban areas, perhaps with half-empty Dunkin’ bags littering the sidewalks. Doves remind us of quite the opposite scene—rainbows and receding flood waters, the hand of Aphrodite, an open window at a wedding or the Vatican, maybe a gentle, kind person. But in reality, doves are white pigeons, and pigeons are gray doves.
I write about this fact not to educate the public on avian taxonomy, or to explore the etymologies of these two words, or to make some grand allegorical statement about setting aside our differences and accepting every individual as an equal member of the human race—although these are all great things. Rather, I write simply to ponder the fact that culture is a strange thing, because most of us do not think about doves or pigeons on a daily basis and yet we immediately have all these preconceived ideas. However, if I were to ask one of my classmates to mentally divide ninety-six by twelve, an action consciously practiced, it would take longer for their mind to arrive at the answer than it would take for New York City hot dog bun-eating street pest to come when beckoned with the word pigeon.
I could argue that everything would be different if we only went back in time a few thousand years and asked Utnapishtim to send off a gray dove, but even if the legend is true, that’s not what I’m here for. To be honest, I’m not quite sure what my reason is. I guess I just felt like writing about pigeons and giving them a bit of the positive press they deserve. They were pretty useful before email, after all. But now, I just think they’re pretty, period. And you can feel free to disagree; maybe it’s the orange eyes or strangely fluorescent scaly feet that rub you the wrong way. Take a look at their feathers under direct sunlight, though, and watch how iridescent they are, shifting between hues of jade and amethyst.
Another fun fact—many birds have plumage that reflects ultraviolet light, and because their eyes are so sensitive to it, they use it to recognize one another. So, maybe, pigeons are even more beautiful to other pigeons than they can be to us. Each individual bird’s UV markings are unique, like fingerprints, so even if we see a flock of pigeons as a monotone mass, they are far from identical.
You might be wondering what inspired me to go off on this peculiar tirade. The reason is because there’s been a pigeon wandering around Slavin lawn for the past couple of days. Ever since I moved in, I’ve seen him strutting around each time I pass, bobbing his little head and probably looking for abandoned Dunkin’ bags. I wonder if he has a flock or has claimed the whole campus to himself. Either way, he doesn’t seem too upset to see us all back here. He stayed right beside me on the path for a few moments the other day and I slowed down my stride just so he could keep pace. People probably looked at me like I was nuts, but it was an unexpected peaceful moment in an otherwise rushed and stressful day. So if you happen to see the Slavin pigeon—Slavin dove, if you prefer—maybe you’ll stop for a few seconds to think about taxonomy or language or culture. Maybe tell him I said hi.
The Writer
by The Cowl Editor on September 3, 2021
Poetry
When I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some weathered notebook tucked away
Behind the dusty novels. My childhood reads
These words—these words my childhood shapes
From airy nothing into lines and scenes.
With ballpoint tip to page, with blue ink running dry,
I scratch and dot my i’s and cross my t’s,
Letters becoming words, words brought to life.
And think, these stories, inscribed on every page—
Reflections of my mind, blurred photographs—
Implore to be preserved eternally.
So let my work’s life last beyond my age,
Let it be more than just my epitaph—
My fount of youth, my immortality.
The Voice
by The Cowl Editor on September 3, 2021
Poetry
Can’t See the flow of the colors
Stopped Feeling the breath of the wind
Hollowness calling your name
Do you fall back in?
Come to me
Looking around no one’s there
So back to the grind instead
Put pencil to paper and write beautiful words
But the creative voice can’t be heard
He’s not here
You hear it again, but no one’s around
So put on some music to drown it out
And maybe in the songs
There’s some inspiration to be found
Not so fast
Sweating profusely, droplets falling on loose leaf
Hearing voices when you’re home alone
Thinking about picking up the phone
But you don’t, at the risk of sounding crazy
Good Idea, they won’t believe you
The voice has started booming
The walls beginning to close in
Drowning you in insecurities
Thinking, “Am I really such a bad human?”
Yes, you are
Crying uncontrollably
Wondering how he got a hold of you
This feeling, who let him through
Thought he only belonged to the old you
Nah, me and you, we’re forever
Armenians and Bad Questions I Sing
by The Cowl Editor on September 3, 2021
Creative Non-Fiction
A guest may often ask his or her host this question: “Do you have a bathroom?” Some people call this an inane or insane question. I, however, think it’s both perfectly ane and sane. I am suspicious by nature and can sympathize with someone afflicted with reasonable doubt as to whether his host possesses a bathroom. Some people might suggest that the question “Where’s your bathroom?” is more suitable, but those people are naïve, because the question “Where’s your bathroom?” assumes two facts not in evidence: one, that the host actually has a bathroom, and two, that the host is willing to share that information. Like I said, I’m suspicious. I can all too easily imagine a host being gripped by the sadistic impulse to withhold the answer to that question. I’ve certainly had that impulse towards certain people in my house. I can also imagine a scenario where the host has no bathroom. That is a terrible thought but I find comfort in the notion that that depraved person will someday encounter a just God.
I like the question “Do you have a bathroom?” just fine. But it is precisely this sort of pleasant question on which I can only reflect nostalgically, because at every semester’s beginning I encounter more questions that I don’t like than questions that I do like. One of these is “Where are you from?” I have found that I am unable to answer this question without hesitating, no matter how often I am asked it. So, mental mouth agape in confusion, I hesitate. Probably, since it’s a pretty easy question, I look like a ditz—or like someone with something to hide. The truth is nearer the latter.
The safe, half-truth answer is that I’m from Massachusetts. Insofar as my family lives in Massachusetts, this is true, but prior to that, I have lived in Ohio, Michigan, Mississippi, Michigan again, Washington, and Connecticut. That’s a can of worms that I seldom open, but if I should do so, the follow-up questions are predictable. No, neither of my parents was in the military. Were we in the Witness Protection Program, ha-ha?
Well, funny guy, I answer, you’re not so far off.
Since 1986, my family has been on the run from the Los Angeles Armenians.
It all began at my sister’s third birthday party in the mid-1980s, in Glendale, California. The birthday party was supposed to take place at a local park, and so early that morning my dad and my two grandfathers ventured there to stake their territory and escape the party preparations. After an hour or two, a large contingent of the local Armenian population came upon them. (How my forefathers determined that they were part of the Armenian population has escaped my memory—maybe they were waving flags.) The Armenians claimed the territory as theirs for a family reunion. My Irish forefathers claimed it as theirs for a family birthday party. The Armenians made a case for theirs being the greater need. The Irish cited the policy of first-come, first-serve. The Armenians said something to the effect of, those who serve last serve best, and muttering darkly (or so I imagine), retreated, but set up camp within spitting distance of the Irish. Every time my parents glanced in that direction, they were met with Armenian glares, and when they left, the Armenian glares followed them. The Armenian glares have followed us from California to Washington to Ohio to Michigan to Mississippi to Michigan to Washington to Connecticut to Massachusetts. My parents are even now plotting their next move.
Do you really think that a gang of California Armenians are out to get you, after thirty-five years, over a measly park table, you ask? No. I don’t think they’re out to get us over the table. I think they’re out to get us with the table. A sturdy park table is a great battering ram, and he who finds one finds a treasure. I think I’ll know when my time is running out. I think I’ll wake up some morning and find a park table out in the yard. Then the next day I’ll wake up and find a little toy park table on my pillow, and that will be the last thing I ever see.
L.A. Armenians, if you’re reading this, let my people go. Let the park table stand between us no more.
And as this semester begins, and I arm myself with the required biographical facts, I still don’t have a satisfactory answer to the question “Where are you from?” Satisfactory for me, anyway. I can tell you where I’m not from, though, and I am definitely not from Massachusetts. On no planet, am I from Massachusetts. At the risk of offending the Massachusetts people as well as the Armenians, maybe that’s a good answer to give.
When Your Body Was a Token
by The Cowl Editor on September 3, 2021
Poetry
I was fifteen years old when I decided I could handle the weight of being “sexy” for their love.
I could put on the right clothes, give the right looks, say just the right things–––
until they couldn’t get enough of me, trapping them in my prose.
I was fifteen years old when I convinced myself I was ready to bare it all for their love.
They looked at me like I was pure Mayan gold, shiny new treasure they could break in, they could treat me like I deserved because I did not know the value of my body.
I was fifteen years old when they reached inside and took all that I had to offer them,
their hands were tainted red, blood trickling the sheets, blood trickling our time,
I tried to keep the noises down, the moaning––the pain, this was love, love, love.
I was fifteen years old when there was nothing left to keep us tethered.
There was something wrong––the only place they still told me they loved me was when we were entangled in red sheets and I was in the act of proving that this was love, love, love.
I can still feel the bruises on me.
The pain of fingers gripping onto flesh,
scraping walls, tearing walls, wounding walls.
But that was love, love, love.
I’m twenty now and I don’t know how to be “sexy” for any love.
I don’t know how to move my body––oh, how I hate to hate my body!
There are no right clothes, no right looks, no more sticky prose.
When your body was a token––a ticket to someone’s love,
it’s hard to remember how to be anything else.
It’s been so long.
I wish I could remember.
A Short Composition About the Sun
by The Cowl Editor on September 3, 2021
Creative Non-Fiction
Like my tiny, overgrown succulents and plants, I naturally lean towards the sun. Sun for me is like water for fish, its harsh rays embracing me in the same way the ocean delicately wraps herself around a fish’s entire being. The sun and her beautiful rays call out to me daily, begging for me to leave the comfort of my bed, to stroll outside and just live. As her loyal servant, I obey her orders, letting the sun’s stubborn heat darken my skin and lighten my hair. I allow her to peek through my curtains curiously, guiding me through my days, reminding me that yes, everything will be okay.
Naturally, I find myself wanting to be around the sun constantly, as her blinding light is one that never fails to enchant me. Sometimes, I am able to find this light in the best of people, whose aura is somehow able to match the starking clarity of the sun and her light. These people have rays instead of hair, their constantly bright personalities forever bringing me up. Their luscious laughs make even Scrooge-enthusiasts grin, cracking Medusa’s stone-cold statues with their striking smiles. Sun for these people is their oxygen, serving as the sole reason they are able to lazily walk down the same path as I do. These people are ones who give my simple life meaning, their pure, unfiltered beauty one I refuse to shy away from.
While my body strains towards the sun, the sun turns her back on me, acting as a mother who has decided to abandon her child. Like her child, I fail to receive a hint of warmth from the sun’s rays anymore, despite her whispered promise that she would embrace me forever. Traces of the sun clumsily stick around me, only reminding me that she decided to escape from me, ditching me and my failures behind. For her, harsh colors were the only way to see the true me, the one hidden underneath staged Instagram posts and silly fake “chaotic moments” shared with acquaintances that are as shallow as the delicate waves that crash on the sand by my home. I can’t help but stare at the sun angrily, wondering why? Was my personality so terrible, that not even I deserve a little bit of sun? What did I do for her to turn her stunning rays away from me?
The more I focus on the sun and her cruel game, the less I notice yet another being fondly looking at me. This creature stares at me, their head perched on their neck, watching me proudly. Their stone gray eyes happily stare, eyeing me with an expression I am not used to. While this being is far from perfect, it is still beautiful—their tiny light creeping into my room at night, when the sun decides to take her daily rest. The first time they keep me awake, I find myself still crying over the sun’s harsh abandonment, my salty tears staining my face and tainting my typically flawless skin. The moonlight’s soft glow pityingly reflected these miniature signs of despair, sighing as I drew in yet another shaky breath.
One night turned into many, and I found a new comfort: the moon. Instead of wrapping myself up in my blankets and falling to sleep, I would stay wide awake, engaging in strong discourse with a celestial being that successfully distracts me from my worries. Tears no longer weighed down my face, and my once empty skin now had its own personal craters, one that matched my new influencer’s. Happily, the moon introduced me to their family, their inviting glow, one that was not harsh like the sun’s, but comforting like a shower after a long, tiring day. These new friends immediately accepted me, loving me despite my flaws and reassuring me that perfection doesn’t necessarily equal happiness.
Two prominent bags permanently relax under my eyes, yet these small marks are ones I would not give up. Instead of searching for that superficial sun, I find myself gravitating towards people who remind me of my speckled friend in the sky, as their acceptance of me is far superior to the falseness of my sun-filled acquaintances. The moon and her precious light remind me that as humans, we are all flawed, not a single one of us truly possessing that blinding vision of perfection the sun attempts to force upon us. Their guidance has allowed me to give up this toxic view, and the stars have encouraged me to do what the sun has done to me in the past: turn my back on her. While I can no longer aim for the perfection of the sun, I now find comfort in knowing that the moon and their stars will accept me no matter how damaged I am, and I find that affirmation far more beautiful than anything else.