Family Dinner
Mikayla Rovenolt ('18)
Pizza and soda were not unusual aspects of my first sleepover at a friend’s house. The TV light blasted in our faces as Taylor and I sat on her living room carpet eating. Sitting on the floor to eat dinner was the oddest thing to me, and not because we were on the floor, but because at her house they never ate as a family.
For as long as I can remember, my family has always eaten dinner together. From having two reckless toddlers ruining the table to busy teenagers with sports activities, my parents always made “family dinner” happen, even if it was at a weird time. My parents’ emphasis on spending time together, even for only one meal within our busy schedules, has helped shape me as a person.
As a kid, the highlight of my day was getting to spend time with my family in the evening. We have a way of making any bad day better by joking around together. However, as I got older and my friends wanted to hang out at each other’s houses more, I slowly started to try and wiggle my way out of family time. None of my friends had to spend time with their families when they had friends over, except me. My friends were encouraged to come over for dinner, but to them, that was “so not cool.” They did not want to eat with my little brother and watch him get spaghetti sauce on himself, cry because his food touched; neither did they want to get “interrogated” by my parents, even though they are really nice people who just wanted to know my friends better. Little by little, fewer friends wanted to come over, and they even stopped inviting me to their houses. The only friend who was consistent was Taylor. I realized through her that if my “friends” did not want to be around my family, they were not the kind of friends I would want to have.
However, this past summer I had the opportunity to reconnect with old friends and go on one of the biggest adventures I will ever experience. I was one of few biology students who attended my high school’s first international trip to Costa Rica. The most important knowledge I gained from my time in this Central American was cultural. I was happy to see their emphasis on spending time together as a family. When exploring the small towns, it was interesting to see the way people interacted. Throughout the grocery stores and markets, we saw a lot of moms pushing carts with kids hanging on them and dads trying to make those kids behave. It looked
like my family’s shopping trips. We also saw families at the community parks. Moms sat on benches with their husbands and watched as their toddlers and teenagers ran around on playsets, like my parents used to at our town’s playland. Costa Rica’s culture gave me an epiphany: it is my family who is “weird.”
Many families in Costa Rica place a lot of importance on family time and values. Being immersed in a new culture made me realize there are other families are like mine, but there are also many families who are not. My “friends” did not have dinner as a family, or go on family vacations like mine, and I wondered if they noticed what they were missing. Unfortunately, Taylor did not have the chance to join me on this trip, but she still saw that my family was not like most. She did not have the kind of family environment that I did and wanted to be a part of ours. By being my friend for so long, she made me realize how lucky I am to have a supportive and close family, and she has become a part of it. Even if my family is weird, I would not have it any differently.
Mikayla Rovenolt ('18)
Pizza and soda were not unusual aspects of my first sleepover at a friend’s house. The TV light blasted in our faces as Taylor and I sat on her living room carpet eating. Sitting on the floor to eat dinner was the oddest thing to me, and not because we were on the floor, but because at her house they never ate as a family.
For as long as I can remember, my family has always eaten dinner together. From having two reckless toddlers ruining the table to busy teenagers with sports activities, my parents always made “family dinner” happen, even if it was at a weird time. My parents’ emphasis on spending time together, even for only one meal within our busy schedules, has helped shape me as a person.
As a kid, the highlight of my day was getting to spend time with my family in the evening. We have a way of making any bad day better by joking around together. However, as I got older and my friends wanted to hang out at each other’s houses more, I slowly started to try and wiggle my way out of family time. None of my friends had to spend time with their families when they had friends over, except me. My friends were encouraged to come over for dinner, but to them, that was “so not cool.” They did not want to eat with my little brother and watch him get spaghetti sauce on himself, cry because his food touched; neither did they want to get “interrogated” by my parents, even though they are really nice people who just wanted to know my friends better. Little by little, fewer friends wanted to come over, and they even stopped inviting me to their houses. The only friend who was consistent was Taylor. I realized through her that if my “friends” did not want to be around my family, they were not the kind of friends I would want to have.
However, this past summer I had the opportunity to reconnect with old friends and go on one of the biggest adventures I will ever experience. I was one of few biology students who attended my high school’s first international trip to Costa Rica. The most important knowledge I gained from my time in this Central American was cultural. I was happy to see their emphasis on spending time together as a family. When exploring the small towns, it was interesting to see the way people interacted. Throughout the grocery stores and markets, we saw a lot of moms pushing carts with kids hanging on them and dads trying to make those kids behave. It looked
like my family’s shopping trips. We also saw families at the community parks. Moms sat on benches with their husbands and watched as their toddlers and teenagers ran around on playsets, like my parents used to at our town’s playland. Costa Rica’s culture gave me an epiphany: it is my family who is “weird.”
Many families in Costa Rica place a lot of importance on family time and values. Being immersed in a new culture made me realize there are other families are like mine, but there are also many families who are not. My “friends” did not have dinner as a family, or go on family vacations like mine, and I wondered if they noticed what they were missing. Unfortunately, Taylor did not have the chance to join me on this trip, but she still saw that my family was not like most. She did not have the kind of family environment that I did and wanted to be a part of ours. By being my friend for so long, she made me realize how lucky I am to have a supportive and close family, and she has become a part of it. Even if my family is weird, I would not have it any differently.
Things Shouldn’t Be Different
Jacob Raup (’18)
I was six year old when my father was first deployed. I remember the day he enlisted: September 12, 2001. Now I don't remember much about that day other than panic and crying on the TV. Next thing I know, my father is leaving for Iraq, or Afghanistan, or some other hellhole that I don’t care enough about to know. I was seven and a half when he came back from his first tour. It’s not like he missed that much, I mean it was just a year....until he signed up for another tour. This time when he left, it felt different. Something was off, something didn’t feel right. He hadn’t been gone for two months when we got the call: missing in action.
Some soldiers all dressed up showed up at our house. They said that he was out on a routine patrol when an IED went off and his team was ambushed. Six dead, four missing. No body, no tags. Just gone. After a few months, we kept hope that we’d hear something. But nothing. They say that the chances of being found go down as time passes. After a year, we were convinced he was dead.
We had a funeral with no body. They played Taps and handed my mom a flag. He was gone, but for all we knew he wasn’t. But if they have a funeral, that’s the sign that they’ve pretty much exhausted all search efforts. My mom called everyone she could. She begged, pleaded to anyone with a government ID who would listen. They all told her the same thing. “We’ve done everything we can, ma’am.”
So I grew up without a father. Plenty of kids do, but I was different. At least if my dad would’ve left when I was a baby, I’d at least know
he was gone. But no, like this, I don’t know whether he’s dead, alive or somewhere in between. But I kept hope. I kept hope that someday he’d come back. That there would a knock at the door and he’d be there. That there’d be a call on the phone and it’d be him.
And eventually, we did get a call. I was nineteen years old, eleven years later. Apparently there was a raid on an Al-Qaeda camp. There
were weapons and supplies found, including American weapons and supplies. They traced one of the serial numbers on a rifle back to one issued eleven years ago, my father’s. Upon further digging, they found his dog tags and helmet. According to the United States Army, that’s enough to change missing in action...to killed in action.
You know, a part of me knew he was dead the whole time. I mean, we already buried him, for god’s sake. But there was always hope. I had convinced myself that he’d come back and everything would be okay.
Things shouldn’t be different. I’ve known he was dead...or did I. I shouldn’t feel like he died yesterday, he’s been gone for eleven years. But, a part of me—the part that had always hoped he was alive—is crushed. The hope that my father somehow escaped and has been making his way back to us for the past eleven years is gone. This isn’t news, this isn’t anything I didn’t already know, this shouldn’t change anything. Things shouldn’t be different.
Jacob Raup (’18)
I was six year old when my father was first deployed. I remember the day he enlisted: September 12, 2001. Now I don't remember much about that day other than panic and crying on the TV. Next thing I know, my father is leaving for Iraq, or Afghanistan, or some other hellhole that I don’t care enough about to know. I was seven and a half when he came back from his first tour. It’s not like he missed that much, I mean it was just a year....until he signed up for another tour. This time when he left, it felt different. Something was off, something didn’t feel right. He hadn’t been gone for two months when we got the call: missing in action.
Some soldiers all dressed up showed up at our house. They said that he was out on a routine patrol when an IED went off and his team was ambushed. Six dead, four missing. No body, no tags. Just gone. After a few months, we kept hope that we’d hear something. But nothing. They say that the chances of being found go down as time passes. After a year, we were convinced he was dead.
We had a funeral with no body. They played Taps and handed my mom a flag. He was gone, but for all we knew he wasn’t. But if they have a funeral, that’s the sign that they’ve pretty much exhausted all search efforts. My mom called everyone she could. She begged, pleaded to anyone with a government ID who would listen. They all told her the same thing. “We’ve done everything we can, ma’am.”
So I grew up without a father. Plenty of kids do, but I was different. At least if my dad would’ve left when I was a baby, I’d at least know
he was gone. But no, like this, I don’t know whether he’s dead, alive or somewhere in between. But I kept hope. I kept hope that someday he’d come back. That there would a knock at the door and he’d be there. That there’d be a call on the phone and it’d be him.
And eventually, we did get a call. I was nineteen years old, eleven years later. Apparently there was a raid on an Al-Qaeda camp. There
were weapons and supplies found, including American weapons and supplies. They traced one of the serial numbers on a rifle back to one issued eleven years ago, my father’s. Upon further digging, they found his dog tags and helmet. According to the United States Army, that’s enough to change missing in action...to killed in action.
You know, a part of me knew he was dead the whole time. I mean, we already buried him, for god’s sake. But there was always hope. I had convinced myself that he’d come back and everything would be okay.
Things shouldn’t be different. I’ve known he was dead...or did I. I shouldn’t feel like he died yesterday, he’s been gone for eleven years. But, a part of me—the part that had always hoped he was alive—is crushed. The hope that my father somehow escaped and has been making his way back to us for the past eleven years is gone. This isn’t news, this isn’t anything I didn’t already know, this shouldn’t change anything. Things shouldn’t be different.
Legs
Maxwell Fulmer ('18)
You stare out your window at the light placed above your mailbox at the end of your driveway. You keep staring, not because you see something, but because you know something should be there. You feel it in your gut, a small idea in the back of your brain that just screams for you to confirm its suspicions. Honestly, you aren’t quite sure what you’re supposed to be looking for, only that whatever it is will be in that light at the end of the driveway.
Your mailbox, and by extension the light, are partially within a bush, which causes the light to cast shadows of branches around it. Between your mailbox and the porch lights, however, is a void of complete darkness. Your mind knows what’s there, but this does little to ease your fear that something is wrong. You begin to consider whether you saw something in the first place, whether your current task of looking out the window is useless.
You attention is returned to the light once you glimpse movement.
Even with the dim light and the distance, you see a shape come into the light, unnaturally tall and cloaked almost entirely in the darkness of the night. From your window, you can only see the trunks of two enormous legs that stretch up into the darkness not covered by the light above the mailbox. Your eyes wander up the black sheet above the legs, stopping to rest on a single point. You feel something
odd, a thrumming at the back of your head as if you were trying to rest your head in a speeding car. The feeling creeps forward in your mind, consuming your thoughts about the thing at the end of your driveway. The thoughts creep through your body, causing your muscles to tense and your stomach to turn in a primal reaction to something potentially dangerous. However, you do not quite understand this feeling, this fear, and thus your eyes are still glued to the spot in the darkness. The realization comes to you like a bucket of water poured over your head to wake you up.
The thing is staring back at you.
You aren’t entirely sure how you know that the thing is looking back, considering you can only see its legs and feet, rooting the monstrosity to the earth. You can feel it, though, that feeling like staring at a security camera, a feeling of mutual voyeurism. You may not be able to see its eyes, but your reptile brain knows that it’s staring back through the darkness. You feel yourself unable to move, your eyes refusing to blink out of fear of the creature changing position in the inky blackness. Soon though, your eyes well up with tears, forcing you to close them momentarily. As you open them again, you expect the thing to have disappeared. However, the creature has stayed in the same position. It begins to move once again, creeping away from the light and your view. Its legs soon leave your sight, and you begin to feel better once again.
You go to bed several minutes later, seeing that the creature has no intention of returning. The immediate fear has left your mind, but you still can feel its presence. Though your curiosity has been sated, your mind has not been quieted. For now you know it’s there, wandering around the dark, but even worse is the fact that now you know that it knows you’re there too.
Maxwell Fulmer ('18)
You stare out your window at the light placed above your mailbox at the end of your driveway. You keep staring, not because you see something, but because you know something should be there. You feel it in your gut, a small idea in the back of your brain that just screams for you to confirm its suspicions. Honestly, you aren’t quite sure what you’re supposed to be looking for, only that whatever it is will be in that light at the end of the driveway.
Your mailbox, and by extension the light, are partially within a bush, which causes the light to cast shadows of branches around it. Between your mailbox and the porch lights, however, is a void of complete darkness. Your mind knows what’s there, but this does little to ease your fear that something is wrong. You begin to consider whether you saw something in the first place, whether your current task of looking out the window is useless.
You attention is returned to the light once you glimpse movement.
Even with the dim light and the distance, you see a shape come into the light, unnaturally tall and cloaked almost entirely in the darkness of the night. From your window, you can only see the trunks of two enormous legs that stretch up into the darkness not covered by the light above the mailbox. Your eyes wander up the black sheet above the legs, stopping to rest on a single point. You feel something
odd, a thrumming at the back of your head as if you were trying to rest your head in a speeding car. The feeling creeps forward in your mind, consuming your thoughts about the thing at the end of your driveway. The thoughts creep through your body, causing your muscles to tense and your stomach to turn in a primal reaction to something potentially dangerous. However, you do not quite understand this feeling, this fear, and thus your eyes are still glued to the spot in the darkness. The realization comes to you like a bucket of water poured over your head to wake you up.
The thing is staring back at you.
You aren’t entirely sure how you know that the thing is looking back, considering you can only see its legs and feet, rooting the monstrosity to the earth. You can feel it, though, that feeling like staring at a security camera, a feeling of mutual voyeurism. You may not be able to see its eyes, but your reptile brain knows that it’s staring back through the darkness. You feel yourself unable to move, your eyes refusing to blink out of fear of the creature changing position in the inky blackness. Soon though, your eyes well up with tears, forcing you to close them momentarily. As you open them again, you expect the thing to have disappeared. However, the creature has stayed in the same position. It begins to move once again, creeping away from the light and your view. Its legs soon leave your sight, and you begin to feel better once again.
You go to bed several minutes later, seeing that the creature has no intention of returning. The immediate fear has left your mind, but you still can feel its presence. Though your curiosity has been sated, your mind has not been quieted. For now you know it’s there, wandering around the dark, but even worse is the fact that now you know that it knows you’re there too.