Tag: Portfolio
Tiff and Earl
by The Cowl Editor on September 29, 2022
Portfolio
Dear Tiff and Earl,
I’ve been training really hard, attempting to beat Dean Sears in the Friar 5K. Any advice to crush the best runner at PC in his own race?
Sincerely,
Future Marathon Runner
Yo Future Marathon Runner,
If you want to beat Dean Sears in the Friar 5K, you have to start adding fingertip pushups to your workout routine (Dean Sears does them often). Since your race is in a few days, I would suggest tapering and loading up on tons of carbs, and you’ll be good to go! With this advice, you’re sure to crush Saturday’s 5K!
Break a Leg!
Earl
Dear FMR,
An astute observer of Dean Sears would know that he runs with a lollipop in his mouth. This trick, my friend, is your golden ticket; researchers say this improves concentration, keeps blood sugar constant, and intimidates opponents. The real challenge is not whether you can beat Dean Sears with this tactic, but whether you can do it without impaling yourself…
Cheers!
Tiff
The Last of It
by Anna Pomeroy '23 on September 26, 2022
Portfolio Staff
Portfolio
My last first day of classes,
My last move-in at PC,
My last summer before college,
Have all come and gone.
They slipped right past my eyes,
As I wiped away the everyday
Wear and tear of my mind’s mirror.
Like stained fingerprints,
Ones that can only be spotted from
the glare of a certain angle.
I can no longer let my memory defeat me.
I must move on, taking in every last bit of this year.
In front of me, a towering stance glares from the end of the road.
My last dance at PC,
My last day of classes,
My last time surrounded by most of these people—
I am fearful of those future endeavors.
Icebreakers
by Fiona Clarke '23 on September 26, 2022
Portfolio Staff
Creative Non-Fiction
“We played icebreakers—yes, hell had frozen over.”
What my sister once brilliantly said in eight words, I am about to say much more clumsily in five hundred. I’ve been around the PC block a few times, three to be exact, and I consider myself an icebreaker survivor. I’ve been on countless “speed dates,” all of which were chaperoned by student leaders sweating buckets over the shoulders of people who didn’t seem to be hitting it off, and none of which were followed by second dates (so sad). I’ve identified myself as every kind of kitchen utensil known to Gordon Ramsay. I’ve invented so many handshakes that as the sign of peace approaches during Mass, I am simply beside myself, terrified that the touch of a hand innocently outstretched in Christian charity will set me off, that while I squeeze with my right, I might slap with my left.
I’ve also had more than enough opportunities to observe that every time an icebreaker shows its ugly face, an almost identical pattern of behavior immediately unfolds. “Icebreakers are the worst!”—the cry goes up from the very agents of angst. “But they’re necessary!”—those same voices argue back, and then cheerfully begin to poke and prod the unfortunate participants into their pairs and lines and circles. It’s cool to hate icebreakers. So cool, in fact, that those who mandate and implement them also hate them, or at least pretend to. It’s cool to hate icebreakers, and yet, especially in college, or at least at Providence College, you’re lucky to go a week without getting tied into a human knot. But the fact that there even exists, outside of horror movies, something called “the human knot” should send a horde of little chills scurrying up, down, and all around the spine of anyone who has two grains of common sense to knock together. I’m not sure exactly what it means for our social clime that our best attempt to connect with other people looks like interlocking the clammy crooks of our elbows into other clammy crooks and making one writhing, giggling bundle of joints, like a living Hieronymous Bosch painting. I do know it means nothing good.
There is, as always, a possibility that I’m violently overreacting. “It’s just a game!” the cry goes up. “Relax! Have fun! Don’t take it so seriously!” But I am more than willing to die a bloody death on this hill. This fall I led a pre-orientation program for the Class of 2026 and witnessed a new generation of young adults getting the ice hacked off of them with the same rusty hatchets that were used on me at the beginning of my freshman year. Han Solo frozen in carbonite is about as cold and miserable as I am during icebreakers, but it’s almost worse to watch other people in the same situation. There has to be a way to get people talking and enjoying each other’s company without making them stand in a circle and yell ZIP ZOOP ZEEP at each other—and it’s not that I enjoy knowing no one to talk to, having nothing to do, nowhere to stand, nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide. But my problem remains: it’s a mystery to me why, as eighteen-, nineteen-, twenty-, twenty-one-, and twenty-two-year-olds we are still engaging in activities with names like “Move Your Butt.” And, worse and worse, it doesn’t seem like it gets better after college. To jog my own memory (read: fish out whatever ghastly icebreaker experiences I have banished to the murky depths of my mind), I did a quick google search of the word “icebreakers” and found that the second result is “50 Icebreaker Games for the Workplace in 2022.” God help us, everyone.
A Quick Note
by Kathryn Libertini '23 on September 26, 2022
Portfolio Staff
Portfolio
Dear First-Year Providence College Student,
If you are receiving this email, it is to inform you of a process you will otherwise be unfamiliar with as a new student. As I am sure you are aware, the dean of Student Affairs, , Dean Sears, is an extremely helpful, enthusiastic, and spirited member of the Providence College community. Perhaps by now, you have received one of his helpful, enthusiastic, and spirited emails which seek to appeal to a sense of school spirit and well-being. However, upon first glance, these emails may be intimidating, bewildering, or otherwise “out of pocket.” This email intends to address any exciting sentiment or confusion experienced.
FAQs:
Do I have to do exactly what Dean Sears instructs in his emails?
No, it is largely meant to be a rhetorical and enthusiastic approach toward the PC community.
Even if it is suggested to “Go forth now: imagine and do!”
Yes, you do not technically have to do that, it is merely a suggestion.
How about “going outside and shouting, ‘I Love God’”?
Seriously, these are just anecdotal recommendations from the school and the dean to encourage a sense of well-being among students.
Will there be an increase in emails around stressful periods in the semester?
Yes, in support of our students!
What should I expect if the basketball team is doing well?
Prepare yourself for the best emails yet.
If you have any other questions/concerns, please (do not) reach out!
Best,
Dean Sears’ (Tired) Email Manager
The Chasm
by Meg Brodeur '24 on September 26, 2022
Portfolio Co-Editor
Portfolio
Trigger Warning: mentions of suicide
An acidic taste stung the sores in my throat.
I squinted at the nickel bolt as it retracted itself into the chipped woodwork. I watched as my mother dragged herself over the threshold to join me in the dismal, musky study. She donned a modest, unembellished frock. It was the colorless shade of a bottomless chasm. I thought she looked horrible. And yet, my mother was so cruelly flawless that she made even misery look tasteful. I shrank, recalling my own homely reflection.
“What’s the matter?” my mother asked, planting herself next to me on the warped hardwood floor.
“Just tired,” I lied, savoring our mutual bitterness as it wafted through the air.
She hummed disapprovingly. Anticipating her callous response, the blood drained from my face. I knew those searing globs had stained my eyes a hideous shade of crimson. Looking away from me, she pointed her glare at the painting above the fireplace. The ostentatious family portrait featured a view of our waterside estate.
“That’s horrible, Lorraine. Lying is such a tacky habit.”
The pressure in the room had shifted again. I was unsure if my brain was swollen, or if my skull had decided to shrink. The pain was excruciating. I was briefly worried that the truth might humiliate my mother. Then I remembered how my parents would shove us out the back door if we had a meltdown. They claimed it nauseated them. “Crying is a selfish habit. It will not be tolerated in this household.” I remember thinking they were merciful because they allowed us back in the morning.
“I want to die.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
I received a haunting premonition of a coffin being lowered into our family burial plot. It was sizable enough to hold two bodies.
She shut her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“I didn’t raise you to be a suicidal wench…”
I stopped listening to her and thought of those full pill bottles, resting upstairs in the right-hand drawer of my bathroom vanity.
7AM
by Toni Rendon '24 on September 26, 2022
Portfolio Staff
Portfolio
It was 7am when I let you in, not expecting it all to end
But it was obvious, like it came in with a marching band
The chorus was filled with words we should’ve never said
The ruckus echoing off the walls in my head
The words hitting me till I bled
“Where have you been?”
“I’m back now, so calm down”
“I know you’re back, I’m not blind”
“What’s with the attitude, just say what’s on your mind”
“There’s been a rumor about you creeping along the vine
They say you’re not mine”
“Are you saying I lied or cheated, we talked about this
It’s a dead horse, why beat it?”
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you still mean it”
“How dare you question me, as if I’d ever leave
How many times do I have to say you’re stuck with me?”
“How many times have you lied and made me cry?”
“Not that many times, but why do you care? Don’t you ‘hate’ me?”
“Bringing up the past isn’t that great”
“You didn’t even want to date me”
“Oh god now I never wanted to date you,
why is it so hard to say the truth?
That’s exactly why I’m falling out of love with you”
“Tell me that’s not the truth”
…
Your silence has been ringing in my mind since
This encounter has left me loveless.
Now at I’m up at 7am,
Forever stuck in this memory
as I embrace the ghost on your side of the bed.
Food doesn’t taste the same, music has no melody
The sky’s forever a dingy shade of gray.
My world’s been thrown out of harmony,
The days seem to blend into weeks,
Weeks into that moment,
And I haven’t slept in peace.
Since you took that part of me
I long for the days when we had never met
So, you’d never be able to pollute my head.
It’s 7am and I’m wondering
Do you miss me yet?
We Are All Little Fleas
by Taylor Maguire '24 on September 26, 2022
Portfolio Staff
Portfolio
We humans are nothing more than little fleas that give Earth an annoying scratch. People have the habit of believing the world revolves around them. Their dramatics are born in their little suburban homes or in their crappy Subaru cars. Most of the time, the emotional disasters that feel like the sky is falling are triggered in the middle of an exchange of passive-aggressive dialogue between friends or lovers. But when the guy on your subway commute makes a remark about how your backpack is in his way, his elbow shove is nothing compared to the wrathful push of a tsunami.
When I was little, I wanted to become one of those veterinarians who live in the jungle and rescue injured wildlife for a living. I imagined living in a giant tree house, sleeping in a king-sized white linen bed, and cuddling recovering tigers and baby monkeys. Each day after school, I would line up my stuffed animals in a row, giving each of them a checkup and then kissing them in between their button eyes before tucking them to sleep. I spent hours reading cartoon books that portrayed elephants wearing blue pajama sets and jaguars in corduroy trousers attending an elementary school that mirrored my own. I wrote stories of bunnies throwing birthday parties in Greece and friendly crocodiles who engaged in water aerobics.
It wasn’t until my mom took me to the theater to watch the Disney documentary African Cats that I was first exposed to the horrors that lurk in the underbelly of nature. I sat in a theater at the age of eight watching the same stuffed animal pairing I slept with close to my heart maul the other to pieces. I remember the false sense of hope I had watching the baby zebras escape the clutch of the hungry cheetah the first time, only to watch the predator sink its teeth deep into black and white stripes a few seconds later. I remember seeing claws puncture hind legs, pinkish red flesh of limbs wedge itself between jagged teeth, pain written across the zebra’s wild eyes, a look of satisfaction painted across the cheetah’s. We left the theater twenty minutes later. My romanticized version of nature continued to fizzle out when I was met by mosquitoes who slurped up my blood and intruding cockroaches who scurried around my kitchen floor. I soon started to hate the very idea of being in nature around the time that I became a “tween,” and my desire to move to Africa and live amongst lions became a complete childhood fantasy.
I still loved animals, of course. I grew up living with two rescued stray cats from the ASPCA. Patches was black and white and had a little blotch in the shape of a heart that nestled right beside her nose. She’d wake me up in the morning licking my face and kneading on my stomach, digging her nails into my arms, pretending I was the mother who abandoned her. My other cat, Smokey, was a fatty with a pair of emerald eyes. His belly grew to be as big as a soccer ball and he had the biggest paws I had ever seen. Every meal he’d treat as his last, inhaling his food so fast he’d make himself sick. They both treated my bed as their own and would sleep in my sheets every night, leaving me sandwiched in between the two of them. I’d watch them as they’d dream on their backs, bellies exposed, snoring and drooling like any other obnoxious family member after a Thanksgiving dinner. And for a while, I viewed them just as any other old estranged relative with little quirks. That was until one morning, when my mom and I discovered an article about an old woman dying alone in her New York City apartment. The clickbait of the article read in big letters, And Her Face Is Missing!
“Well, what happened to it?” I asked. I assumed it was currently being used as a mask by some perv wandering around the Upper East Side. You know, just like any other perpetrator in Law And Order: SVU episodes.
“Her two cats Penelope and Fluffy ate it,” my mom said hesitantly in response.
“Patches and Smokey would never do that to us,” I had said as a statement. But my mom shook her head.
“I don’t know…”
I thought back to the times they’d puff up their tails and curve up their backs in the shape of a crescent moon to make themselves appear bigger than me. To scare me. Or all the times they’d hiss loudly after I attempted to dress them up in American Girl Dolls’ tutus. Their teen mood swings would eventually turn, and the next thing I knew they’d be purring in my lap again, but that eerie feeling of being nothing to them continued to haunt me.
The laws that exist within society don’t apply to the natural world. If I ever chewed off the head of my ex-lover, there would be a movie about it. Newspapers would be filled with details about my crime. Photos of bloodsoaked sheets and pictures of the deceased smiling from an old Christmas card beside the word “victim.” My mugshot under the huge headliner: “The Female Ted Bundy.” Praying mantises, however, don’t sport around in orange jumpsuits after their snippets of intimacy turn south. Rather, the decapitated heads of their mates stand as a trophy of survival, a ticket of approval for their next thriving generation.
My relationship to nature is now limited to my visits to the beach. I swim alone, feeling the waves of the ocean embrace my body in its arms. It’s cold. I am irrelevant. Every time I get pushed by the waves of the ocean into its murky sand, I am reminded of my insignificance. And yet I still run back to its abrasive nature, I run back to being swallowed, chewed, and spit out again. There’s a comfort in knowing that I am just another menace that parades about the earth’s skin. We are all fleas inhabiting a place that has bigger fish to fry than the parasite that clings to its fur.
Listomania
by The Cowl Editor on September 26, 2022
Portfolio
Worst Places To Show Your Parents On Parents Weekend
- Ray
- Guz
- Eaton Street
- Communal bathrooms
- Chad Brown Street
- Where I failed my civ final
- Radcliffe Avenue
- Foxy Lady
- The middle of the flame where the pee sits
- Suites
- Any freshman male’s dorm
photo creds: pixabay
Rocket
by Kate Ward '23 on September 8, 2022
Portfolio Co-Editor
Creative Non-Fiction
Most people would say that there isn’t anything funny about death or losing a loved one however, when my grandfather passed I ended up inheriting what turned out to be something quite funny. My grandfather used to drive a red 2008 Cadillac, it has four seats and it belongs down in Miami with an eighty-year-old behind the wheel headed towards their weekly solitaire game. Or it should have some mid-fifty-year-old man shouting Billy Joel lyrics on the way to a seven a.m. tee time. My family and I call this car the red rocket. Despite being fairly old, this car is (what my Mom would call) zippy.
So, once summer hit I started taking the rocket to work, windows down, music up. The music that flowed from the car was everything but what an eighty-year-old in Miami would listen to. It was an eclectic mix of Bad Bunny, Steely Dan, ABBA, Logic, Kendrick, and the occasional Piece the Veil song. A twenty-year-old driving her grandfather’s car, heading to work at a children’s art camp. It’s ridiculous. My Mom got frequent text messages along the lines of “Saw Kate driving the caddy today!”
To that I would respond, “Okay but did they like the Bad Bunny I was playing?”
Like any teenager or young adult with the ability to drive and a fast car to do so, I started abusing the power gifted to me from my grandfather. I ended up buying an absurd amount of snacks and ice cream which earned a laugh from my Mom as I would pull into the driveway, Efecto by Bad Bunny thrumming out of the window. She thought it was incredibly ridiculous and my Dad thought it was great because he ended up bumming some of my snacks.
Aside from working at the art camp, I also worked as a nanny. The two kids, ages six and two, were immediately obsessed with the car and decorating it. They also wanted to be driven everywhere (that did not happen). The two year old, every day on our walk would see some other red car and immediately shout out “Kate’s car!”
Wrong. If there isn’t a bag of Spicy Doritos (the purple bag, of course) in the passenger seat and a flat Celsius in the cupholder, then that isn’t mine. I remember when I first started driving the rocket around, I desperately wanted to make it my own. After getting a phone holder and Aux cord, I wanted stickers and trinkets to hang off of my rearview mirror. Towards the end of the summer, my StabiliTrak and braking system needed to be serviced. My Dad got in the car and looked around, pointed at the moth sticker on my glovebox, and asked, “What is that?”
“Moth sticker from art camp,” I replied with a smile.
He chuckles a little and shakes his head before pulling away.
I’d like to hope that my grandfather is looking on and laughing from wherever he is and not cursing my name for decorating his beloved sports car and playing music you “can’t sing to,” as my grandmother would say.
Curiosity and The Family Cat
by Fiona Clarke '23 on September 8, 2022
Portfolio Staff
Portfolio
At home you and I make the coffee without caffeine,
For the heart murmurers who gather in another room,
While jostling predispositions in hallways wait their turns to be heard.
We save the coffee grounds and the broken eggshells
For the soil of the vines and bleeding-hearts and thyme
That make clear our hearts and lungs and fill our eyes
With loss-impossible oxygen.
And so, surreal and serious, I smoke no more, and speak much less,
And yet these days, I take comfort
When I hear the rain fall like knuckles cracking,
And I look up to a sky that has grit its teeth,
Prepared to rain its blows upon me,
But cracks a love-worn smile.
And all dear and delirious, we dare to lay it bare:
“O brother, where art thou bleeding from?”
“A horizontal smile and a vertical touch—”
“Son, my children are gathering precious stones and metals,
And getting blood and dirt on their hands—”
“Daughter, I am fool’s proof and wise man’s wonderings—”
Say that the house is half empty—your son has died.
Say that the house is half full—
Christ is going up to heaven.