Vessel

A personal essay by Emery Warr

We build vessels to protect ourselves. But time turns ships into shells and shields into masks that only serve to distort our own reflections.

Last week, in the early evening, I invited several friends to join me as I made my way to the fluttering banks of the Provo River. We built a ship out of aluminum foil, folded silver sheets and crumpled them together to create sails, masts, bow, stern, deck, and hull. Some pieces tore in the process, but we crinkled them so no one could tell, and really, no one could. Then we sent our ship down the river.

When I was young, before I wrapped myself in a shiny coat that reflected expectations, Mother and I would sing by the ocean. We sang about barges and pirates, harmonizing with the churning of the waves as they thundered beneath, between, within us. I let my melodies go without fear, all power and peace.

Being a Voice for the Voiceless

A personal essay by Talley Timms

“The human voice is the most perfect instrument of all” –Arvo Pärt

Last year, in preparation for an internship, I read a victim’s statement given by a ten-year-old girl who witnessed an argument between her father and stepmom escalate to the point of violence, ending in her father headbutting her stepmom and breaking her nose. What surprised me first about this victim’s statement was how careful the child was to protect her father, making excuses and minimizing the trauma, even though he clearly put her in a high-risk situation. What surprised me more was the obvious shame this child felt for events over which she had no control. But what surprised me most was how little I remembered of this witness statement considering that I was that ten-year-old girl.

The Colors of My Room

A personal essay by Matt Easton

Painting my childhood room rainbow said a lot more about me than I knew at the time.

I still remember dad’s face when I told him the color I chose for my room. Are you sure you don’t want a bright blue, or a dark red? he responded, trying to lead me in another direction. No, I answered firmly. I knew what I wanted.

I was only eight years old when I got my first room, too young to know what implications came with wanting to paint my walls rainbow. After all, dad told me I could choose my favorite color, and my favorite was all the colors. Each one spoke to me in a special way; it was like asking me to pick my favorite stuffed animal or put on my favorite Disney movie.

Uncomfortable

A Personal Essay by Hailey Kate Chatlin

“When Citizens prefer comfort to principles, much that ought to be valued is not.” -Joel M. Allred

Zoey Davis sits alone at the lunch table reading a book. She wears a green short-sleeved shirt with a tiny pink bow sewed onto the chest. Her plastic cheetah print headband has shifted to the back of her head allowing strands of curly brown hair to cascade around her face.. I should sit next to her. She’s only reading to fill the silence, I should sit down… but my friends are waiting for me upstairs. What would we talk about? I brush past the table giving Zoey a small smile and wave.