Open Access Journals at IU Indianapolis

Lambert Hillman, Regina

Boosted by Bostock: LGBTQ Title IX Protections

Bayh, Birch

Alegacy of Excellence: A Tribute to Judge Jane E. Magnus-Stinson

Weaver, Gabriella

12
     I had never wanted to be a mother. I don’t particularly remember the exact 
reason that I had made such a decision, but I know that I had done so at a rela-
tively young age. Perhaps it was that I considered myself to have this big plan for 
my life and I thought a child would ruin that. Perhaps I was just a bit too selfish.
     I wasn’t very old when Mom sat me down and told me that I would soon be 
a big sister. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t actually remember having 
that conversation with Mom. I mean I’m sure I did because when you’re a parent 
having a second kid you kind of have to make the first kid aware of such a situa-
tion. What I do remember is me starting to help Mom more, especially once she 
became mostly confined to her bed. I also remember that on the night that Mom 
finally went into labor, after I had grabbed the hospital bag that we had packed 
for this moment, I laced up my brand-new pair of light-up pink and blue sneak-
ers. I was so excited to show them to my little brother. I was determined to be an 
amazing big sister.
     Though I think that type of big sister would have remembered more than I 
do. I thought that I could remember more. I wanted to remember more. I know 
that there was a time before it all got bad, but I’m sorry I just can’t think of what 
that was like. Maybe it’s easier to remember the hard times, but the more likely 
option is that I don’t want to hope that those good times can return when it now 
feels like they never will.
     Mom would be gone for hours on end. You and I would get off the school bus, 
run inside, grab a Pop-Tart or Go-Gurt, both off brands of course, and then retreat 
to our separate rooms in hopes that she would be home to make dinner. Howev-
er, time went on and I eventually started thinking that I should just be the one to 
make dinner if Mom wasn’t going to be around to do so. Once I started making 
dinner, I thought I might as well do the dishes, perhaps the laundry, and maybe I 
could ask you to take out the trash since you were getting old enough.
     “You’re not Mom. Why should I do what you say?” You asked.
     “Because I’m here and doing everything else. I’m just asking you to do one 
thing.”
     I don’t know what I did, but I did something by saying that. I still wonder 
what it would be like if I could go back and undo it. All of sudden you were 
screaming and throwing whatever was within reach at me. I ducked for a while, 
Gabriella Weaver
Fighting Your Memory
13
but at one point I definitely threw something back at you. I don’t know if it 
was me retaliating or what, but you just got angrier. Those things in your reach 
suddenly weren’t enough and you started throwing your fists at me instead. This 
went on for likely half an hour before we both retreated to our respective rooms.
     After sitting in my bed for a while trying to find an excuse for what just hap-
pened, I decided it would be best to go and check on you. I truly didn’t care about 
the trash anymore, but I cared about my little brother. When I cracked your door 
open slightly that’s exactly what I found. My little brother, you, were lying in 
bed, shaking, crying, looking more scared than I had ever seen anyone. I started 
walking towards you when you jumped up and hugged me.
     “I’m sorry,” you choked out.
     “It’s okay. Are you okay?” I asked.
     “I don’t know what that was. I don’t know who that was. It wasn’t me. I’m so 
sorry.”
     “It’s okay. I think you’re just upset and angry.”
     “I shouldn’t be angry at you.”
     “It’s okay. We’ll be okay,” I said as I held you until you cried yourself to 
sleep.
     That’s how the next four years went. It was me and you without Mom. When 
you first started having your episodes they only happened probably once a month, 
but it progressed. At one point it was every other week, then every week, and 
eventually it felt like it was every day. Nothing I said helped anymore. I can’t 
deny that at one point I got angry too. My manner of dealing with our situation 
was accepting it and improving myself where I could, namely school. Howev-
er, you refused to do such a thing, and I hated that you wouldn’t just do what I 
asked. Over time, our mutual resentment only made your episodes worse until 
eventually I no longer saw the point to check on you afterwards.
     Once I graduated from high school, I chose to go away to college. I left you 
with Mom. Admittedly, I think it was good for both of you. There was no one left 
to take care of the house or to serve as an intermediary to your growing issues. 
She was forced to be a mom again.
     The thing about being in a new place is that it makes you long for those places 
that are familiar to you, even if those places weren’t the greatest. At least that was 
the case for my nineteenth birthday when I had no friends at school to celebrate 
14
with and all I wanted was to go home and celebrate with family. I worried as I 
hadn’t really talked to you since I had started classes. Mom had started therapy 
and was working to rebuild our relationship via constant messaging and a couple 
of calls here and there. I figured that for the party Mom would gather grandpar-
ents and decorate the house in a theme she thought I would like while also fixing 
a meal that she claimed to be my favorite. She would be wrong about the theme 
and the food, but she would appear as the pinnacle of motherhood and hosting, 
and I knew that’s what she really wanted so I didn’t say anything. While I knew 
what Mom would do during the celebration, I had no clue about you.
     On the day of the party, in walked our grandma who passed her mothering 
skills, or I suppose the more appropriate understanding would be her lack of 
mothering skills, onto our mother. I was in the kitchen, so can’t say that I saw 
what happened to start the chaos, but I can remember what was said.
     “What the fuck are you doing here,” you yelled.
     “That isn’t how you should talk to your family,” Grandma replied.
     “Please not today,” Mom begged.
     “No cause why is she here? She’s a terrible fucking mom with a fucking 
disgusting taste in men. Mom, you know that better than anyone. She needs to 
fucking leave.”
     At this point, I was slowly beginning to step towards the living room. Every-
one that was at the party had obviously heard the conversation and I was start-
ing to get embarrassed as well as mad. I had to say something. I knew that me 
stepping into the situation would only make it worse, because it only ever made it 
worse, but I couldn’t stay quiet.
     “Can I not have just one day? One day where you aren’t the center of atten-
tion. Today is my birthday and I thought maybe you could just be normal, but I 
guess I was wrong,” I said.
     “Like you aren’t the center of attention all the time. Sister graduated top of her 
class. Sister went to college. Sister is so amazing,” you said mockingly. “Just shut 
your mouth cause you’re no better than anyone else here.”
     “No, you shut your mouth. Don’t ever act like I didn’t work to get where I am. 
You have no clue what it’s like to work for yourself and not have everyone cover 
for you.”
     “Whatever. If she’s not leaving, then I am.”
15
Title of piece
     With that, you turned and ran out the door. Everyone turned to look at me and 
I fought back any tears that seemed like they might fall. I wasn’t going to cry 
over you. When I looked at Mom though she was crying, and also contemplating 
whether or not to follow you out the door. Eventually, everyone went to either 
help look for you or just went home. I stayed and waited.
     Later when you finally walked back through the door you were bloody, 
bruised, and tear stained, but I couldn’t look at you for more than a few seconds. 
I wanted to see my baby brother. I wanted to see someone that in twenty minutes 
I could go check on and comfort, while also being comforted by, because I knew 
I wasn’t alone in all of it. Yet, on that day, when I looked at you, I couldn’t see 
my baby brother at all, no matter how hard I tried.
     No longer did I have someone by my side. I was alone. You were alone.
     I never wanted to be your mother. I’ll admit that I tried to be. However, I 
know now that I never could have been that for you. I’m just your big sister and I 
wish that could’ve been enough.


English

Fighting Your Memory

Snelwar, Valerie

16
18” x 24” Ballpoint Pen
Valerie Snelwar
Dilapidated Mountaineer’s Cabinet


Dilapidated Mountaineer’s Cabinet

Kile, Kim

17
What part of me
will be born in you?
My father’s nose
sculpted like the statue
of Jupiter?
Or will your hummingbird flutters,
summon a tornado of arms and legs,
flipping like the gymnast I was?
Will my hazel eyes win out over
your father’s brilliant blue?
You rest, head down, tiny feet pressed
in my ribs,
the roo to my kanga,
stealing my breath
before you even arrive.
A mother and daughter,
tethered like hot air balloons
by the strongest of cords,
soon to be connected by only
the genes we share.
Kim Kile
Genetics


Genetics

Neier, Xavier

40
WANTED: Biological Mother 
(Full-time position only)* 
Single, mid-twenties man seeks biological mother. Must be short, less than 5 foot 
4 inches. Looking for matching thin strands of raven hair. Education: bachelor’s 
degree or above, but all levels of education may apply. Preferably an educated 
artist with vibrant mural art in the Tijuana Cultural Center. Live in the Playas out 
west on the coast, far from rusted gates. Will take either a Christian or Catholic, 
not necessarily asking for a saint. Not interested in additional siblings, need full 
one-on-one attention. Husband is acceptable but will never be addressed as papá. 
English preferred for casual conversations. 
(Mi lengua materna no está bien, pero puedo aprender algunas palabras en 
español.) 
Not a dealbreaker. Needs to coparent with another man known as “dad.” Expect 
territorial adoptive mother. May need to contribute to therapy fund. Must provide 
a minimum $50,000 income. If your name is La Llorona or if you are vaguely 
vengeful towards your own children after a messy divorce, please skip ad. 
*Importante: si se encuentra a la madre biológica, por favor contacte por teléfo-
no. No se necesitan planes de viaje adicionales. Hasta pronto. 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED: Romantic Partner 
(Serious relationship only)* 
Single, mid-twenties man seeks serious relationship. Must be slightly taller than 5 
foot 4 inches. Bachelor’s degree or above preferred. Fashion style: dark academia 
aesthetic. Noir-colored jackets, plaid, high-waisted pants, and wire-framed glass-
es. Your significant other will match the style as well. Open to wearing cross-
shaped jewelry, as well as tattooed verses. Contact with new in-laws (certainly) 
optional. May encounter biological Spanish mother living in home. No additional 
language experience required. Courtship is three weeks trial-run before partner is 
expected to commit. Active listening required for trauma-dumping sessions when 
therapy is not available. Consistent reassurance mandatory.  
Xavier Neier
WANTED ADS
41
Additional requirements include: 
• Texting and Calling 24/7 (Prepare for 2:00AM Panic Attacks) 
• Spiraling Conversations on Zillow Apartments 
• Exploration for the Best Indianapolis Restaurants for Dates ($20 per Meal 
Limit) 
• Building Pillow Forts with Emotional Security Blankets 
• Broken Cars that I Can Fix (Wheels Only) 
Modest physical contact (handholding, resting on each other, prolonged eye-con-
tact) is considered long-term commitment. If unsure of commitment levels, 
please skip ad. 
*Important: if the partner leaves after the 3-week mark, they are expected to 
cover the costs of the other’s therapy sessions. 1 week of dating = 1 hour therapy 
session. 


WANTED ADS

Bertram, Ashley Noelle

66
Or swear or spit. 
I guess I’m not a pretty lady  
because tears pour heavy in the darkness, 
where no one can see to say such stupid things to me; 
where I swear to the gods and the seas 
that I’m over their shit, but I still love 
everything they have blessed me with  
just to spite them. 
So, what does it really mean, not wanting pretty girls to cry? 
You think such delicate works of art shouldn’t depict the realities of humanity— 
that all things in this life don’t, in fact, suffer beautifully? 
Go fucking figure. 
Tell the men, I want my crystals and porcelain to be cracked and crumbling, 
like they’ve lived a life beyond dusted shelves and tea parties 
because that’s what proves resilience is a force to be reckoned with. 
Let the children smash them against the cold floor, loving them anyway. 
Piece by piece they can be reassembled, and come morning  
they’ll be twinkling in the midsummer sun. 
Ashley Noelle Bertram
Pretty Ladies Shouldn’t Cry


Pretty Ladies Shouldn’t Cry

Smith, Robert

185
18” x 24” Graphite Pencil
Robert Smith
Annie


Annie

Allee, Evan

190
a wild dog’s devotion 
you domesticate, 
and do not reciprocate. 
          i.   
          gifting a carcass; 
          a hound’s loudest love language 
          shamed, diminutive  
          ii. 
          whining for hours, 
          your dead silence. it’s deadly; 
          the love you bury 
          iii.  
          waiting by the door 
          hoping for one scratch between 
          these perked ears. please. touch. 
          iv. 
          your fierce protector. 
          they tell you, “call off your dog.” 
          you say, “sit. stay. bad.” 
          v.  
          desperate for your time 
          pawing, whining, crying, bite— 
          flinch. cower. shake. sleep. 
neglection is watery 
devotion is thick 
i dredge through the mud of it. 
Evan Allee
love languages


love languages

Cremeans, Emma

195
Digital Painting
Emma Cremeans
Gossip


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