“Annie! What do you want me to do with these?”
My mother was kneeling by a set of dust-covered boxes. Some of them were labeled with things like “Winter Clothes” and “Annie’s Shoes.” Others didn’t say anything on them. Over the past two years we had stuffed too many of these boxes in the attic, planning to go up and search through them for stuff we needed, but a lot of it I had forgotten about. I was almost thirty, and I had too much of my old crap. I needed to get rid of these boxes and move on. Mom had ripped one of the unlabeled ones open, revealing some of his old shirts that he had put in the attic late last year.
I waved my hand nonchalantly. “Throw them away. What am I going to do with a bunch of men’s shirts?” I asked. Moving some boxes over, I leaned against the wall of the attic and wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My curly hair was sticking to my face and I could feel it. Mom shrugged, grabbed an unopened box simply labeled “Sweaters” that we had already sorted and headed backwards down the ladder that led to the foyer of the house.
As soon as the top of Mom’s head disappeared from view, I scrambled over to the box she had left open, bent down and grabbed a handful of material. Holding it up to my face I breathed in, trying to find his scent among the musty smell of the attic. I closed my eyes.
And there he was. Clean, pine needles, the light scent of cologne and his soap and whatever it was he smelled like. He wrapped his arms around me, my face in the crook of his neck. I just breathed him in. I could smell him and feel him.
It was like Chris was there.
Loud creaking on the ladder that led up to the attic. Mom was coming back. I stuffed the shirt back in the box, flipped the cover of the lid and had already picked it up when she appeared.
“Hey, would you mind grabbing some of those?” I indicated a different box-filled corner of the attic that we hadn’t gone through yet with my chin.
“Sure, honey.” She passed by me, took a deep breath and then paused. “Annie,” she said, then furrowed her brow and put her tongue between her teeth. “Can we talk?”
I sighed, knowing what was coming. She was about to give the speech again, asking if I wanted to move back home, telling me I couldn’t live in a house that big all by myself, that it wasn’t healthy and it wasn’t right, that she was worried about me. I knew she would ask the question that people had been asking me for the past few months: “Are you okay?”
I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want them to ask if I was okay, I didn’t want to have to ask it myself. I just wanted to be okay. I wanted to be able to snap my fingers and have him back here, his arms around me, not imagining it happening but it actually happening. I wanted him back. But I knew it wasn’t going to happen.
Mom sat down on top of one of the larger boxes, and I placed the one in my hands filled with his shirts down on the dusty attic floor and sat down, humoring her. She took my hand. Hers was cool and soft, just like a mother’s hands should be.
“Talk to me.” She looked into my face, making me immediately uncomfortable, making me feel like she could see right through me. My mom had that sort of effect— she made even strangers feel like she already knew them, knew their faults and the thoughts running through their minds. Sometimes it was reassuring, knowing that someone understood without having to try to explain. But this time I didn’t want her to know what I was really feeling. I just wanted to crawl into a ball until everything wrong and everything right went away, and until I went away too.
“I just want to know how you’re doing,” she said.
I sighed again. “I’m really fine, Mom, honestly. You’ve gotta stop worrying about me, you and everyone else.” Forcing a grin, I stood up again, grabbed the box filled with Chris’ shirts, and shuffled backwards down the attic ladder, avoiding eye contact with her.
*
It was a Saturday and Chris really needed a haircut. I mean, really needed one. His shaggy brown hair lolled down over his eyes, making it impossible for him to see. All he would do was argue with me about getting one. He’d never had long hair before, he said. He wanted to try it out, he said. He wanted to grow it long enough to get a ponytail, he said.
“Chris, how am I supposed to kiss you if I can’t even see you? What are people going to say about you at work?” I complained, pushing the hair back from his forehead and putting two of my fingers underneath his chin, tilting his face up so I could look him in the eyes. His boyish features and big eyes stared back at me. He was sitting on the bench on our porch, reading.
He pulled me onto his lap. I giggled in a way that happy girls did, that would normally make me hate myself. But I didn’t hate myself when I was with him. And that made all the difference.
“The only reason I would get one is so I can see your beautiful face better,” he teased, and his lips met mine. I felt my cheeks get hot, and knew my face was red as a tomato, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was that he was kissing me, making me feel needed, making every part of me melt and disappear, making me feel like we were the only two people who were important in the whole world. I wanted him, and the best part was that he wanted me too. But he was distracting me from my main goal— I managed to pull away. “Let’s go now then,” I begged. “I’ll pay, we’ll just do it now.”
He rolled his eyes at me and kissed me once on my cheek. I imagine my face was still red from our last kiss, but now my cheek burned from that one little peck.
“Okay. Let’s go, curly girl.”
*
I balanced the box against my hip and kicked open the front door. It was warm, and I could hear kids playing down the street, their yells and squeals echoing off the sidewalk. There were already a bunch of boxes labeled with his things on the porch. I dropped the one with his shirts onto the bench and wiped at my sweaty forehead again, looking out over the cul de sac. This physical labor seemed like a lot to get rid of a memory.
Kathleen would be here with the truck soon, and she and mom would help me load all of these boxes in and take them to the Salvation Army. And then he would be gone, and all of his stuff would be gone and I wouldn’t have anything to hold on to.
I was getting rid of everything. Not that I needed to—mom thought it was healthier for me to jump into a new life without him or anything solid that reminded me of him. He had left most of his stuff when he moved out, which is why we had to do this now. I had put it off for long enough, and I suppose she was right. Why hold on to anything that didn’t matter anymore?
*
I remembered.
I remembered what it was like to kiss you.
Your hands on my waist,
Your hands in my hair.
I remembered.
Your lips soft against mine,
Closed eyes, fumbling fingers.
You wanted me, then. It was easy then, too.
I remembered.
Frozen feet, running through the streets,
The grass glistening with snow,
We ran. Our breath clouding in front of us,
Laughing until we couldn’t.
"Keep going! Keep moving!"
Breathless and numb, we ran.
I remembered.
Standing half-naked in the freezing water,
You said you wanted me, too.
You held me and I was all right.
It was all right again.
I remembered, don’t you remember?
*
The barber had done an excellent job. Chris’ hair was trimmed, and the barber had even gone so far to shave his face and neck. He looked so handsome. All I wanted to do was kiss him, go back to our house where we lived in our small suburban neighborhood and kiss him.
But first I wanted to show him off.
I took him to see my mom (“Oh, what a handsome fella!” she exclaimed, and she was right as usual), and then I thought it might be a good idea to see his parents, even though it was quite a drive to Long Island, almost six hours, but it was a weekend and we had time on our hands. I thought it was a great idea, because we hadn’t gone to visit in so long.
Chris had always been the type of person who tried to get along with everyone. He tried to keep everyone happy, especially me. It wasn’t always easy, but I think that it gratified him to do it. If I wanted to drive six hours to see his parents and show him off, even if it was just because he got a haircut, he would do it. Because I was his curly girl and he was my Chris.
The drive over was nice. Even though Chris hadn’t really wanted a haircut in the first place, you could tell that he liked how it looked and how it felt, and that he liked how I liked it too. He kept one hand on the steering wheel of our Honda Civic, the other on my knee. It was so natural, the way we were.
I rolled the windows down to feel the warm summer breeze and my fingers danced out the window, my curls blowing across my face. Perfect.
Chris was easy to be with, and that was the best thing about him. I had never been uncomfortable around him, and he knew me like no one else did— he had been there when my mom got sick, when my dad left, when I fought with Kathleen. He’d been there and he’d loved me when I needed him and when I didn’t, when things were good and when things were bad. He read the same books I read, didn’t mind if we had movie nights rather than go out to the bars. He made me feel like myself, and he made me like myself. He was someone who cared so much that when I hurt, he hurt. He valued his family just as much as I valued my mom and Kathleen, who I’d only ever known as family. And I loved him and he loved me too, and everything was okay.
Driving up the long driveway to his parent’s house in Long Island, I knew that something was wrong almost right away. Chris didn’t say anything about it, and he wouldn’t, because he didn’t want to worry me, but I knew he knew too. Chris’ brother Walker’s car was parked in the driveway. Walker lived all the way out in Ridgewood, and usually visited when we did since it was such a long drive and effort to get everyone together. Why was Walker here without telling us?
Chris parked the car and we walked up to the house together, holding hands. His hand was clammier than usual, and holding mine almost too tightly. From the corner of my eye I could see his clean-shaven face, his jaw clenched. I could tell he was grinding his teeth, because he always did that when he was nervous. He didn’t talk, and I was scared to provoke him. Not because he would lash out at me, which he would never do and had never done in the five years I had known him, but because he didn’t want to be upset in front of me. He’d always held himself together so well.
We could hear the wailing before we walked into the house. It was obvious that it was Chris’ mother making the sound. I felt her pain—I didn’t know what was wrong or what had happened, but tears welled up in my eyes. She sounded like she was dying, she sounded like she had lost a part of herself, she sounded so miserable I didn’t even know what to do or say. I wanted to say something to Chris, but I couldn’t. He was silent.
Chris let go of me and opened the front door, which was unlocked. Walker and his mother were sitting on the stairs in the foyer—Walker’s face was red and puffy, and his mother had her face in her hands, draped over her son and emitting that horrible, painful wail. She didn’t look up when we walked in. Chris rushed over and took his mother’s hand, which she gripped until his turned red.
Walker didn’t look surprised to see Chris and I. “Did mom call you?” he asked. “Did she tell you? Do you know?” Chris’ face turned white.
“No,” he said through gritted teeth, as if he didn’t want to know but already knew. I stood awkwardly in front of them, unsure of how to act in front of Chris for the first time. Should I comfort him, even though I don’t know what’s wrong? Should I go make tea? Should I leave? I felt as if I was intruding on a private moment. Was it their father?
Walker glanced at me and then back at Chris, their mother still sobbing between them.
“Dad’s dead.”
*
The car ride back was silent. Six hours of silence in the dark night on the highway.
It was long and awful.
I was afraid to talk. I was afraid of him. I had never seen him cry, in all the years I had known him. It completely changed how I saw him. He was no longer the strong, lighthearted, caring person that I loved. He was brokenhearted, confused, and sad. I loved him. I still love him. But I didn’t understand what he wanted or what was going to happen, and I was too afraid to ask.
He didn’t hold my hand in the car. He didn’t drape his hand on my knee. He didn’t open the windows. It was dark outside, but darker inside.
When we got home, at around two o’clock in the morning, he sat me down on the bench on the front porch. It was still warm.
“Annie,” he said, his teeth gritted, his face still pale, his eyes puffy from crying.
I sat on the bench on the porch for a while, letting the summer heat wash over me, surrounded by boxes of everything that he was.
He had taken most of the important things when he had gone to go live with his mother. Clothes he needed, his books, the comfy chair in the living room he liked to read in when it was too cold or too hot to do it outside, the desktop computer he bought when we moved in, CDs I’d given him. He’d left everything else, telling me to “do whatever I wanted” with it, and then he was gone, off to Long Island with his mother and his brother.
I brought my knees up to my chest and leaned against the house. I remembered that Saturday just a few months ago. I remembered how Chris had cried too, and I’d never seen him cry before. It was scary. It was like I was seeing someone I’d never met. Not emasculating, just strange. I remembered not knowing what to do with myself, and not knowing how to help him.
Chris and Walker had always been close to their father, I knew that. Chris chose to write letters rather than call, so he didn’t hear from his father all that often but knew he would be there if he needed him. I had met the man a few times, and he was a lovely person. But I didn’t know that anything that happened after his death would happen. Chris decided to stay and move into the house with his mother after that day, as did Walker. He decided and he didn’t even make me a part of the decision, he just left because his mother and Walker’s needs were bigger than my own.
He never asked me if I was okay, with his father’s death or with him leaving, which I wasn’t. He didn’t make me a part of his decision at all. And even though that hurt, what was more painful was his absence. He didn’t call me, he didn’t write. He just disappeared. It was like I didn’t exist to him, like he forgot me, like I didn’t matter. He may have lost someone, but so did I.
Closing my eyes, surrounded by what was left of Chris, I breathed in the summer day and tried hard to forget, too.
Amanda is currently a student at Ithaca College majoring in Writing. She has previously held internships at Random House, the Hudson Valley Writers' Center and Westchester Magazine and will be joining Writopia as a Teaching/Editorial Intern this summer. Amanda is the Managing Editor of and contributing writer to The MissInformation, a copy editor for The Ithacan, a contributing writer to Buzzsaw Magazine, and a 2013 recipient of the New York Women in Communications scholarship. She previously ran her own newsletter and created an English language arts tutorial program for middle school students.
My mother was kneeling by a set of dust-covered boxes. Some of them were labeled with things like “Winter Clothes” and “Annie’s Shoes.” Others didn’t say anything on them. Over the past two years we had stuffed too many of these boxes in the attic, planning to go up and search through them for stuff we needed, but a lot of it I had forgotten about. I was almost thirty, and I had too much of my old crap. I needed to get rid of these boxes and move on. Mom had ripped one of the unlabeled ones open, revealing some of his old shirts that he had put in the attic late last year.
I waved my hand nonchalantly. “Throw them away. What am I going to do with a bunch of men’s shirts?” I asked. Moving some boxes over, I leaned against the wall of the attic and wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My curly hair was sticking to my face and I could feel it. Mom shrugged, grabbed an unopened box simply labeled “Sweaters” that we had already sorted and headed backwards down the ladder that led to the foyer of the house.
As soon as the top of Mom’s head disappeared from view, I scrambled over to the box she had left open, bent down and grabbed a handful of material. Holding it up to my face I breathed in, trying to find his scent among the musty smell of the attic. I closed my eyes.
And there he was. Clean, pine needles, the light scent of cologne and his soap and whatever it was he smelled like. He wrapped his arms around me, my face in the crook of his neck. I just breathed him in. I could smell him and feel him.
It was like Chris was there.
Loud creaking on the ladder that led up to the attic. Mom was coming back. I stuffed the shirt back in the box, flipped the cover of the lid and had already picked it up when she appeared.
“Hey, would you mind grabbing some of those?” I indicated a different box-filled corner of the attic that we hadn’t gone through yet with my chin.
“Sure, honey.” She passed by me, took a deep breath and then paused. “Annie,” she said, then furrowed her brow and put her tongue between her teeth. “Can we talk?”
I sighed, knowing what was coming. She was about to give the speech again, asking if I wanted to move back home, telling me I couldn’t live in a house that big all by myself, that it wasn’t healthy and it wasn’t right, that she was worried about me. I knew she would ask the question that people had been asking me for the past few months: “Are you okay?”
I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want them to ask if I was okay, I didn’t want to have to ask it myself. I just wanted to be okay. I wanted to be able to snap my fingers and have him back here, his arms around me, not imagining it happening but it actually happening. I wanted him back. But I knew it wasn’t going to happen.
Mom sat down on top of one of the larger boxes, and I placed the one in my hands filled with his shirts down on the dusty attic floor and sat down, humoring her. She took my hand. Hers was cool and soft, just like a mother’s hands should be.
“Talk to me.” She looked into my face, making me immediately uncomfortable, making me feel like she could see right through me. My mom had that sort of effect— she made even strangers feel like she already knew them, knew their faults and the thoughts running through their minds. Sometimes it was reassuring, knowing that someone understood without having to try to explain. But this time I didn’t want her to know what I was really feeling. I just wanted to crawl into a ball until everything wrong and everything right went away, and until I went away too.
“I just want to know how you’re doing,” she said.
I sighed again. “I’m really fine, Mom, honestly. You’ve gotta stop worrying about me, you and everyone else.” Forcing a grin, I stood up again, grabbed the box filled with Chris’ shirts, and shuffled backwards down the attic ladder, avoiding eye contact with her.
*
It was a Saturday and Chris really needed a haircut. I mean, really needed one. His shaggy brown hair lolled down over his eyes, making it impossible for him to see. All he would do was argue with me about getting one. He’d never had long hair before, he said. He wanted to try it out, he said. He wanted to grow it long enough to get a ponytail, he said.
“Chris, how am I supposed to kiss you if I can’t even see you? What are people going to say about you at work?” I complained, pushing the hair back from his forehead and putting two of my fingers underneath his chin, tilting his face up so I could look him in the eyes. His boyish features and big eyes stared back at me. He was sitting on the bench on our porch, reading.
He pulled me onto his lap. I giggled in a way that happy girls did, that would normally make me hate myself. But I didn’t hate myself when I was with him. And that made all the difference.
“The only reason I would get one is so I can see your beautiful face better,” he teased, and his lips met mine. I felt my cheeks get hot, and knew my face was red as a tomato, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was that he was kissing me, making me feel needed, making every part of me melt and disappear, making me feel like we were the only two people who were important in the whole world. I wanted him, and the best part was that he wanted me too. But he was distracting me from my main goal— I managed to pull away. “Let’s go now then,” I begged. “I’ll pay, we’ll just do it now.”
He rolled his eyes at me and kissed me once on my cheek. I imagine my face was still red from our last kiss, but now my cheek burned from that one little peck.
“Okay. Let’s go, curly girl.”
*
I balanced the box against my hip and kicked open the front door. It was warm, and I could hear kids playing down the street, their yells and squeals echoing off the sidewalk. There were already a bunch of boxes labeled with his things on the porch. I dropped the one with his shirts onto the bench and wiped at my sweaty forehead again, looking out over the cul de sac. This physical labor seemed like a lot to get rid of a memory.
Kathleen would be here with the truck soon, and she and mom would help me load all of these boxes in and take them to the Salvation Army. And then he would be gone, and all of his stuff would be gone and I wouldn’t have anything to hold on to.
I was getting rid of everything. Not that I needed to—mom thought it was healthier for me to jump into a new life without him or anything solid that reminded me of him. He had left most of his stuff when he moved out, which is why we had to do this now. I had put it off for long enough, and I suppose she was right. Why hold on to anything that didn’t matter anymore?
*
I remembered.
I remembered what it was like to kiss you.
Your hands on my waist,
Your hands in my hair.
I remembered.
Your lips soft against mine,
Closed eyes, fumbling fingers.
You wanted me, then. It was easy then, too.
I remembered.
Frozen feet, running through the streets,
The grass glistening with snow,
We ran. Our breath clouding in front of us,
Laughing until we couldn’t.
"Keep going! Keep moving!"
Breathless and numb, we ran.
I remembered.
Standing half-naked in the freezing water,
You said you wanted me, too.
You held me and I was all right.
It was all right again.
I remembered, don’t you remember?
*
The barber had done an excellent job. Chris’ hair was trimmed, and the barber had even gone so far to shave his face and neck. He looked so handsome. All I wanted to do was kiss him, go back to our house where we lived in our small suburban neighborhood and kiss him.
But first I wanted to show him off.
I took him to see my mom (“Oh, what a handsome fella!” she exclaimed, and she was right as usual), and then I thought it might be a good idea to see his parents, even though it was quite a drive to Long Island, almost six hours, but it was a weekend and we had time on our hands. I thought it was a great idea, because we hadn’t gone to visit in so long.
Chris had always been the type of person who tried to get along with everyone. He tried to keep everyone happy, especially me. It wasn’t always easy, but I think that it gratified him to do it. If I wanted to drive six hours to see his parents and show him off, even if it was just because he got a haircut, he would do it. Because I was his curly girl and he was my Chris.
The drive over was nice. Even though Chris hadn’t really wanted a haircut in the first place, you could tell that he liked how it looked and how it felt, and that he liked how I liked it too. He kept one hand on the steering wheel of our Honda Civic, the other on my knee. It was so natural, the way we were.
I rolled the windows down to feel the warm summer breeze and my fingers danced out the window, my curls blowing across my face. Perfect.
Chris was easy to be with, and that was the best thing about him. I had never been uncomfortable around him, and he knew me like no one else did— he had been there when my mom got sick, when my dad left, when I fought with Kathleen. He’d been there and he’d loved me when I needed him and when I didn’t, when things were good and when things were bad. He read the same books I read, didn’t mind if we had movie nights rather than go out to the bars. He made me feel like myself, and he made me like myself. He was someone who cared so much that when I hurt, he hurt. He valued his family just as much as I valued my mom and Kathleen, who I’d only ever known as family. And I loved him and he loved me too, and everything was okay.
Driving up the long driveway to his parent’s house in Long Island, I knew that something was wrong almost right away. Chris didn’t say anything about it, and he wouldn’t, because he didn’t want to worry me, but I knew he knew too. Chris’ brother Walker’s car was parked in the driveway. Walker lived all the way out in Ridgewood, and usually visited when we did since it was such a long drive and effort to get everyone together. Why was Walker here without telling us?
Chris parked the car and we walked up to the house together, holding hands. His hand was clammier than usual, and holding mine almost too tightly. From the corner of my eye I could see his clean-shaven face, his jaw clenched. I could tell he was grinding his teeth, because he always did that when he was nervous. He didn’t talk, and I was scared to provoke him. Not because he would lash out at me, which he would never do and had never done in the five years I had known him, but because he didn’t want to be upset in front of me. He’d always held himself together so well.
We could hear the wailing before we walked into the house. It was obvious that it was Chris’ mother making the sound. I felt her pain—I didn’t know what was wrong or what had happened, but tears welled up in my eyes. She sounded like she was dying, she sounded like she had lost a part of herself, she sounded so miserable I didn’t even know what to do or say. I wanted to say something to Chris, but I couldn’t. He was silent.
Chris let go of me and opened the front door, which was unlocked. Walker and his mother were sitting on the stairs in the foyer—Walker’s face was red and puffy, and his mother had her face in her hands, draped over her son and emitting that horrible, painful wail. She didn’t look up when we walked in. Chris rushed over and took his mother’s hand, which she gripped until his turned red.
Walker didn’t look surprised to see Chris and I. “Did mom call you?” he asked. “Did she tell you? Do you know?” Chris’ face turned white.
“No,” he said through gritted teeth, as if he didn’t want to know but already knew. I stood awkwardly in front of them, unsure of how to act in front of Chris for the first time. Should I comfort him, even though I don’t know what’s wrong? Should I go make tea? Should I leave? I felt as if I was intruding on a private moment. Was it their father?
Walker glanced at me and then back at Chris, their mother still sobbing between them.
“Dad’s dead.”
*
The car ride back was silent. Six hours of silence in the dark night on the highway.
It was long and awful.
I was afraid to talk. I was afraid of him. I had never seen him cry, in all the years I had known him. It completely changed how I saw him. He was no longer the strong, lighthearted, caring person that I loved. He was brokenhearted, confused, and sad. I loved him. I still love him. But I didn’t understand what he wanted or what was going to happen, and I was too afraid to ask.
He didn’t hold my hand in the car. He didn’t drape his hand on my knee. He didn’t open the windows. It was dark outside, but darker inside.
When we got home, at around two o’clock in the morning, he sat me down on the bench on the front porch. It was still warm.
“Annie,” he said, his teeth gritted, his face still pale, his eyes puffy from crying.
I sat on the bench on the porch for a while, letting the summer heat wash over me, surrounded by boxes of everything that he was.
He had taken most of the important things when he had gone to go live with his mother. Clothes he needed, his books, the comfy chair in the living room he liked to read in when it was too cold or too hot to do it outside, the desktop computer he bought when we moved in, CDs I’d given him. He’d left everything else, telling me to “do whatever I wanted” with it, and then he was gone, off to Long Island with his mother and his brother.
I brought my knees up to my chest and leaned against the house. I remembered that Saturday just a few months ago. I remembered how Chris had cried too, and I’d never seen him cry before. It was scary. It was like I was seeing someone I’d never met. Not emasculating, just strange. I remembered not knowing what to do with myself, and not knowing how to help him.
Chris and Walker had always been close to their father, I knew that. Chris chose to write letters rather than call, so he didn’t hear from his father all that often but knew he would be there if he needed him. I had met the man a few times, and he was a lovely person. But I didn’t know that anything that happened after his death would happen. Chris decided to stay and move into the house with his mother after that day, as did Walker. He decided and he didn’t even make me a part of the decision, he just left because his mother and Walker’s needs were bigger than my own.
He never asked me if I was okay, with his father’s death or with him leaving, which I wasn’t. He didn’t make me a part of his decision at all. And even though that hurt, what was more painful was his absence. He didn’t call me, he didn’t write. He just disappeared. It was like I didn’t exist to him, like he forgot me, like I didn’t matter. He may have lost someone, but so did I.
Closing my eyes, surrounded by what was left of Chris, I breathed in the summer day and tried hard to forget, too.
Amanda is currently a student at Ithaca College majoring in Writing. She has previously held internships at Random House, the Hudson Valley Writers' Center and Westchester Magazine and will be joining Writopia as a Teaching/Editorial Intern this summer. Amanda is the Managing Editor of and contributing writer to The MissInformation, a copy editor for The Ithacan, a contributing writer to Buzzsaw Magazine, and a 2013 recipient of the New York Women in Communications scholarship. She previously ran her own newsletter and created an English language arts tutorial program for middle school students.