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The Minkin Kitchen by Hana Minkin An Open Door By Lila Hartley AUGUST 2010 Two young parents nervously walk up the driveway to a stranger’s door, curious—or maybe unaware—their toddler following closely. The sun is setting, sky bright orange and pink, the warmth of August day holding onto dusk: iftar approaching, and the family approaching iftar. The man’s pre-glow-up hair, dark, long and curly, shifts with the soft breeze that offers no aid to cool. He wears a T-shirt and jeans. The woman’s brown hair drapes over her shoulders and touches her seven-month pregnant belly. She wears a dress that allows stretching around the abdomen. The toddler with her light brown hair, thin on top of her head, neck length, waddles like a penguin; she can’t take too far a step, or she’d stumble. Next to the driveway, there is a prayer garden, small fountain, wooden bench and a little bridge if you’d rather go through the garden instead of the concrete path, if guests would like a moment of solitude before entering the busy home of strangers and conversation. The family hopes that this is the right door, and knocks. When the door opens, they are warmly welcomed by a man who looks like how one would imagine an Ottoman warrior in ancient Turkey: built like a wall, tall and strong with short, dark hair and a mustache. They are asked to take their shoes off at the door before they enter the house. Immediately, the smell of delicious food invades their noses. They walk past the office and dining room, toward the living room. In this house, the living room is life, where friends and strangers talk alike. Yellow walls are covered in paintings and décor. Every surface has an item or three carefully and intentionally placed, including a glass vase on the back patio behind the kitchen. A semicircle forms in the sitting room, and the strangers go from nameless to acquaintances, acquaintances to friends. The hosts introduce themselves as Sel and Angie. Sel is Turkish and Muslim, and Angie is Filipina and converted to Islam. The two of them moved from the Philippines to Jacksonville in 2002 and started hosting these dinners in 2007 to share the nightly Ramadan tradition with friends and soon mutual friends. They started a charter school in 2007, Sel inspired from his brief work as a janitor when they first arrived in Jacksonville, his parents’ work as teachers back in Turkey, and his work building schools in the Philippines. They wanted to bring people together; they wanted to build bridges and introduce others into a tradition that may be outside of their own religious or traditional practices. They talk about Ramadan, introducing some of the strangers to a foreign practice they didn’t grow up knowing. Ramadan is the Islamic holy month where Muslims fast and reflect on how they live throughout the rest of the year. Sel has said that it is a time for him to recharge or reboot, and to truly appreciate the food and water he has throughout the rest of the year. The group gets into a line towards the potluck-style trays in the kitchen as the sun sets and iftar begins. As each guest gets their food, they trickle out to the screened-in back patio. The table becomes full of conversation about each other’s lives and origin stories. While the mother eats, she converses with a fellow stranger. In this moment of distraction, the toddler wanders away from her mother and father. She does what any curious child would do: inspect everything with her hands. The girl lifts a small glass vase smelling of a subtle eastern perfume oil. A crash of glass shards follows shortly. To the young mother’s horror, she quickly realizes what her daughter has done. She rushes to the scene, partly to keep her daughter from hurting herself, partly to try and clean up the mess that her child had caused in these strangers’ house. But the host couple comes to the mother’s aid and tells her that she doesn’t need to worry. “We will take care of it,” they say warmly comforting the mother. The young mother and father worry whether they will ever be invited to iftar again, whether they will ever be invited to Sel and Angie’s house again. Did their toddler just sever any possibility of friendship? * * * I am that toddler who broke the vase in 2010. I can tell you Sel and Angie did not even wait until next Ramadan to invite my family back to their home and hearts. That iftar in August 2010 is exactly what started a friendship that has lasted over a decade now. After years of attending iftars, not a common experience for white, Christian children in the south—and for a time having someone in the house who was Muslim and fasted—I started to question what the deeper meaning of Ramadan was. Ramadan is important to Muslims religiously and culturally. “Muslims observe this sacred month of Ramadan to mark when Allah sent an angel who revealed to the Prophet Muhammad the Quran, the Islamic holy book,” according to Trafalgar. Ramadan also fulfills one of the Five Pillars of Islam, called Sawm, fasting. Sel discussed one of the reasons he and Angie were called to start hosting iftars: “…it is a cultural background, because prophet Muhammad said share your breaking fast with your neighbors, but doesn’t say your Muslim or any other religion, just says your neighbor. So, we are in Jacksonville neighborhood, right? Every day we see people at different times. Sometimes we understand people more than our real neighborhoods. So, that’s why I started bringing, because sharing is good.” Opening one’s home to friends and family is not an uncommon practice among Muslims during Ramadan for this reason and others. It allows people to connect with each other and appreciate breaking fast in community together. Sel talked about what the significance of Ramadan, saying “Ramadan is like a recharging for me, recharging spiritually and mentally and also physically, and it is the opportunity for me to get better person every year.” Ramadan is a thoughtful time to recognize all the things that one takes for granted during the rest of the year. It is a way to empathize with the poor, hungry, and thirsty, and to remember to give to others when you can: helping our friends, family, communities and putting ourselves in each other’s shoes. I began to notice parallels between the beliefs that have been instilled into me throughout my childhood and those of Ramadan and that have been brought out because of those evening iftars at Sel and Angie’s house. I see how my family and friends’ actions parallel with the ideals of Ramadan. Regularly, my dad gives some of his extra cash or change to a homeless person on the sidewalk. My mom hosts dinners at her house to bring people together. At school, my classmates and I hype up each other’s writing and outfits and bring extra food for a friend who forgets to get lunch. About the Writer... Lila Hartley is a Creative Writing sophomore at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. In her freshman year, Lila fell in love with performing literary works. She participated in several open mics and in Douglas Anderson’s annual show, Extravaganza. She enjoys writing poetry and creative nonfiction. Lila is currently the Vice President of Literary Arts Honors Society at Douglas Anderson. Previously, her poem The Blue and Yellow was published in Élan Literary Magazine’s Middle School Writing Contest the 2022 Spring/Summer season and placed third in the writing category. About the Artist... Hana Minkin, 18, is an art student based in Savannah, Georgia. She plans on attending the Savannah College of Art and Design to purse Fashion Marketing and Merchandising.

Colson Gomez Colson Gomez is a visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts who specifies in Drawing/Painting. Her work has been exhibited at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Jacksonville and has won several regional Gold and Silver Keys in the Scholastic Arts and Writing Contest.

< Back Editor's Note Brendan Nurczyk, Emma Klopfer, Niveah Glover Spring heralds renewal. As what remains of winter melts, we find ourselves scampering to be ready for the new life warmer months promise. While our lives speed forward it's easy to forget to carve out moments of standing still. Our lives and bodies ever-changing, aging, moving, we are constantly taking on new challenges and opening new chapters. In our first issue of our 37th year we offer this art and language as a moment of slowing down to reflect. A kind of refuge from the cacophony of the daily . In this issue you will find work that wrestles with moments of uncertainty, transition, and what it means to belong to a place, even if it's just for a moment. We present to you Elan's Spring/Summer 2023 issue, an issue that asks us to reflect on not just where we're from, but also where we're heading.

Élan is a literary magazine publishing the best writing and art from high school students around the world. Banner ORDER THE LATEST PRINT ISSUE Volume 39 is now availible! Order Recent Issues SEE MORE Anchor 1 Volume 39 Spring/Summer 2025 Fall/Winter 2024

Handcrafting a Predictable Meatball Anthony Bernando The Peace of Pre-Quarantine Kyra Lai “Arrivederci Roma” playing from the street like Dean was there himself, Vendors selling fresh bread, fruits, and vegetables. Brooklyn, New York, 1983. Frank Caporaso got his hair cut. No charge from the barbers. They were joyful to see their homemade Italian meatball prepared, Covered in his own red sauce and shame. The dismal child walks home, His empty abode filled with the lingering stench of a vodka soaked carpet. Mama never had the money to replace it. Papa spilled drinks on the carpet whenever he got disoriented. He’s been gone for three years. Papa had his own world. It was filled with parallel figures, Deforming the fabric of his family. He was never alone, though he was never there. Cut Frankie out like the chooch’s cut into his head, Disappeared into a forest of voices and riches, Never cooking the meatball, No seasoning or preparing, only leaving blood and ground meat of a cow. Meatballs are meant to be cooked and served for the world to enjoy: Just a little pink on the inside, Delectable and scrumptious with a little ricotta. So why not follow in its true footsteps alone? Return to Table of Contents

16 Torn by Micayla Latson About the Artist... Micayla Latson is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. At the Arts Academy Micayla is a Visual Arts major, who has been dedicated to art her entire life. Currently during her time at Savannah Arts she has produced many pieces, some helping to spread awareness to various issues in society. Although not pursuing art in college she still hopes to be making art in the future and wishes to spread impactful and powerful messages within her community using her artwork.

Marcus Holley Marcus Holley is a senior poet and performer in the creative writing department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He is the senior Art Director for Élan Literary Magazine with a goal of expanding the combination of visual art and literature into the community. His adoration for writing and spoken words has manifested in hosting, organizing literary events, and bringing poetry to the stage.

< Table of Contents Daffodils by Dare Macchione Sullen Memories of a Bereaved Adult By Astrid Henry In January, I made a trip out to Long Island to visit his mom, my “paternal grandmother." I wanted to tell her about my plans to sell the house. My father grew up in a poor, small boating town where the rain never stops. I stayed in his childhood bedroom, in the upstairs of his parents’ old house. His dad died while he was still in high school. He had to drop out to support his family. He always told me how important it was that I stayed in school so I could turn out smart and get a real job, one that pays nice and keeps the lights bright. His room is painted navy blue and baseball memorabilia lines the walls like a museum. It feels like I’m in a shrine to his young mind, all the things my father held dear as a child. Old comic books are hidden in the closet, where his brothers couldn’t steal them. I come down for dinner and his mom. Again, my grandmother has cooked what looks like a full 7-course meal. I’m not hungry. I try to shove down as much as I can, but the meat is tough, and the potatoes look like melting snow—the kind that’s been pissed on. It’s way too much food for just the two of us, but I’m not going to say that to her. I only stay for a week, the entirety of which I’m stuffed full of her cooking. She sends me home with enough leftovers to last me until spring. I never ended up telling her about the house. “Someone told me dust is made up of skin cells, and God knows that fan has never been cleaned.” I’m back in the city. Back in the tiny, emptying house I was raised in. I’m back to cleaning and now all I can notice every time I try to take something down or clean an area out is how my father is all around me, from the pictures in frames to the dust on the fan. Someone told me dust is made up of dead skin cells, and God knows that fan has never been cleaned. If I ran DNA tests on the dust up there, they’d probably find Mom’s skin cells too, not just his. She walked out when I was only five to be with another man. Things didn’t work out between the two of them, but still, she didn’t come back. My father was heartbroken, he really had believed it was him and her forever. I think that might have been the start of his death, when he started to put his faith in the bottle. I could never understand why he did that sort of thing—why he poisoned himself with cigarettes plastered in warnings and spent his evenings swimming in the bottle. The top of our kitchen cabinets were—and still are—covered in bottles, empty and full. That really confused me. It was like he kept it there, in plain sight, to shame himself. Because, really, when you stand in the middle of the kitchen, it feels like one of those church paintings where the angels are looking down on some poor, sacrificial lamb. I think a part of him did it to remind himself of his mistakes, and to remind himself of the easy way out every night. I haven’t taken them down yet. They’ve always been there—it just feels wrong. Taking them down would feel like I’m kicking a part of my father out of his own home. I feel guilty, like if maybe I had gotten him to quit smoking, this wouldn’t have happened. But I know that kind of feat would be impossible, inconceivable, really. Life was a lot different after he got sick, but his vices were the one thing that never changed—not without an act of God. I remember how they couldn’t stop him smoking until two days before he died, and that was only because he had gone into a coma. I try to keep the nicest pieces I can find of him to maintain the best image I can in my mind—the best version of my father. In the hallway bookshelf, there’s only about three books that were his. The King James Bible, a copy of Slaughterhouse Five he could never finish, and a book so old the covers have been torn off and it’s just yellow stained pages glued together. He must’ve really liked that one. I wish he had more possessions left, more things I could collect, more things I could use to get inside his mind. But here I am, left with only a few crummy books and a gaping reminder of all his worst habits. All his other belongings were really just Mom’s stuff, a few pieces of jewelry and a yellowed, dried-up perfume she left behind. It smells like kitty litter. Cleaning out the house is making me decently miserable. I’ve made arrangements to move once it’s off my hands, probably out to somewhere with a bit more sun. The house is, apparently, a prime piece of real estate, something I really couldn’t imagine affording on my salary. The listing description is pretty crap. It reads, “Nestled in the heart of Queens, this cozy, two-story abode, built in 1928, features three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an unforgettable charm.” I finally finished cleaning the house, just in time for the photos. I even took down the shrine of liquor bottles in the kitchen. There were some hidden water stains that had to be repaired, which cost me a lot more than I would like to admit. I feel really empty walking out of the house for the last time, leaving it all clean and empty. The bedroom I’ve slept in my entire life staged as a guest room, my father’s room suddenly bright and well decorated. To my surprise, the house is sold within two days of the listing being posted. The realtor tells me that’s not uncommon, som e crap about desirable real estate. She keeps trying to make me look at the other houses she’s listing. She obviously wants me to buy another place, but I just feel sick. I’m staying with one of my old friends from college until I can secure a place worth moving to. I left most of the stuff I kept from the house in a little storage unit. All the things I don’t have a use for but still want to hold onto. My suitcase is stuffed full, but it’s more convenient than carrying two. I have nothing truly tying me down anymore, and it makes me feel strange. I was told that feeling would be freedom, but it’s something else entirely. I got half a million dollars to never step foot in my home again—the home where I learned to walk and first experienced the offers of life. I am forever rid of the home where my father's spirit breathes in the walls and his presence slips around the corners as you try and catch it. Never again will mold fill my lungs as I try to remember the smell of his cologne. About the Writer... Astrid Henry is a young writer from Florida. Currently, she is a Creative Writing sophomore at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. About the Artist... Dare Macchione is a freshman at New Orleans Conservatory for Creative Arts (NOCCA) a nd dual enrolls at Delgado Community College (DCC). Previously she spent summers attending The Art Academy (St Paul, MN). Her medium of choice is acrylic paint. She also has created art in watercolor, graphite and ceramic.

10 Oddity by Lucas Lowery Defining Myself as an Eternal Being by Jackson Birdsong As the boat rocked back and forth, I felt my mortality washing over me. Ebbing and flowing like the waves on the otherwise placid sea. Lost in thought I swam in ideas of infinity and humanity, reminding me that I am here, right now, grounding me to the world. A tether back to the influence of gravity. To paraphrase Roman Opalka, a man who painted infinity; "We do not know when we will die and, in that sense, we are eternal" It was July, the annual fishing trip had just begun. I always loved to fish, the thrill of getting a bite and reeling into see what took your bait. The disappointment of pulling in nothing, it didn’t matter. The only thing I didn’t like were the buckets. Buckets of ice and fish. The cold searing the scales of innocent creatures. Their horrific flopping, gasping, glassy-eyed stare into the blue sky that they were not meant to see. That’s one of the few things I remember from that day. My own thoughts, and of course, the fish in buckets. Whiting, redfish, tuna, nothing was sacred. We caught and we kept without much discrimination. Those fish just five minutes ago never knew they were going to die, they were eternal. But now, they flop in a bucket, fear setting in, they know it’s too late. After a while of fishing, clouds began to form on the horizon. Slowly approaching our vessel, they loomed. A quiet reminder of inevitable turbulence. A torrential downpour assaulted the water turning it into a churning grey range of infinite peaks and valleys. There in that cold rain I felt alive and dead. In a state I have only felt a few times, borderline indescribable. Like a warm blanket or having a bucket of water thrown at you. It’s contradictory, it’s knowing you will die, but not knowing when. In a state of superposition, I was, I am eternal. I discovered that feeling eternal is not a refusal of mortality, rather an advanced form of acceptance. Because I accepted my mortality, I don’t have to fear death. It’s as normal to me as walking. I realized then and there that I wanted to be more than those fish in the buckets. I want to be more than people who live their lives banking on an afterlife. I want to be more than those people who give up because death is imminent. I became unstuck from the paralyzing grasp of fear and self-pity. Those fish were eternal, but they weren’t capable of understanding that. I am, I can enjoy it. My eyes beheld the gray sky, and I felt at ease. About the Writer... Jackson Birdsong is a writer who lives his own head more than he does the real world. He deals mostly in creative nonfiction but that doesn't stop him from dipping his toes into other genre's waters. About the Artist... Lucas Lowery is a student at DA, he has won two silver keys in scholastic so far, and his preferred medium is acrylic paint.

< Table of Contents The Switchboard Operators By Allison Clausen It seemed like every time Helen returned to the telecommunications office, there were fewer women working and more calls to connect. The office was only slightly brighter than the dusk outside, illuminated by a few flickering lights that hummed above the rows of consoles. Each console had hundreds upon hundreds of jacks that made Helen’s head swim when she looked at them, and multicolored wires she tried desperately not to tangle. “The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights.” She had started developing a callus on her thumb and index finger from the strain reliefs dragging across her fingers as she connected call after call, though she told herself she didn’t mind. It wasn’t like anyone was looking at her hands. The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights. The two of them had become something close to friends over the past few months. They had always known each other—they lived in the same area, ran into each other in shops or restaurants—but had only started talking when they started working. Not during work, as Rose connected international calls, and Helen was in a different room with domestic ones, but afterwards. When Helen arrived at the office, Rose beamed at her from the position at the first console, causing their supervisor to snap, “That’s four more hours, Ms. O’Neal,” though Rose accumulated four hours each shift, so it was hardly worth saying. Helen never smiled in response, keeping her gaze steeled forward. If she offered anything in return, she was bound to receive extra hours as well, and her shift wouldn’t end at the same time as Rose’s. Rose was only doing what she could to ensure the two of them didn’t have to walk the darkened streets of Providence alone, and though she had never said so, Helen appreciated it. The supervisor’s eyes raked heavily across Helen’s face, but she refused to glorify him with so much as a glance. She moved to the next room, head raised, back straight, and set her purse down on a chair before the console, hanging her hat on the back. There was no use sitting down—there weren’t enough of them working the night shift, and Helen had to stay standing to sprint back and forth between each jack. There was only one other woman with her at the moment. But under their supervisor’s harsh glare, they weren’t allowed to speak. There was hardly time to talk, anyway, not with the constant ringing and connecting, over and over and over. As usual, Rose and Helen left the office together that morning and stepped down the sidewalk in unison. “That building gets so stuffy,” Rose complained, making a big show of taking a deep breath in through her nose. Helen took a breath too and walked lightly in her heels. “It is,” she agreed. “Especially after being on your feet all day.” “And never talking. Ugh!” Rose exclaimed. “You know, when we all started getting jobs I thought, ‘This is it. We’re finally going to be treated like men.’ But we still aren’t, are we?” “I don’t want to be treated like a man ,” Helen said with a scoff. “But I wouldn’t mind some decency.” “They could at least let us talk,” Rose said, crossing her arms and tilting her head back. “Or smile, even. You remember Betty? “Sure.” “Word is she hasn’t been around because they fired her for laughing. Can you believe that? Laughing!” Helen shook her head in vexation. “I heard they’ll fire you if you get married.” “Mm, I heard that too,” Rose said, “and that’s a real shame because I’ve had an eye on someone for a while now.” “You have?” Helen turned her head to look at her. Rose was focused on something in the distance, something Helen couldn’t see. “Since when?” Rose didn’t look back at her, fiddling with the bag around her shoulder. “Since we started this job, that’s when. Part of me got it to impress him.” “Well, who is it? What’s his name?” Rose shook her head. “I’m not telling until I know he and I are serious.” “Oh, please,” Helen said. “There’s not a man at all, is there?” The two of them fell silent, accompanied only by the noise of their heels on the pavement. The sun was just barely making its way past the horizon, a dim green peeking in between the buildings behind them. Helen’s house was only a block or two away, and Rose’s a little farther, but there was no way they were going to walk so long without saying anything, though what to say was troubling. Helen had a hard time imagining Rose in a life outside of their job, not that she couldn’t believe Rose wasn’t out and about flirting with men. No, the thought was entirely believable. But Helen never did anything like that. She went home to her parents, ate a small meal, woke up, ate again, and went to work. She hardly talked. She hardly laughed. She had no man to impress. Only twenty dollars a week, sore feet, and calluses. After mulling it over in a few short moments, Helen broke the tension and asked, “They let that new girl wear skates.” Rose’s hand on her bag fell still, and she glanced over at Helen, eyebrows raised curiously. “Who?” Helen shrugged. “Think her name is Louise.” Rose looked a little dubious. “What, she just skates around the place taking calls?” “Mhm.” “Could be fun, I guess.” “I never learned.” “It’s not too hard,” Rose responded, a smile starting to crinkle at the corners of her eyes. “I’d teach you if we ever had a second to ourselves. Heaven knows we need some fun around here.” The smile fell as quickly as it had appeared. “Did you hear about the girl in Boston?” “Do you know how many girls in Boston there are?” Helen asked instead of answering. “She worked switches, too,” Rose continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Killed herself last night. It was in the paper.” Helen let out a heavy exhale, murmuring, “Can’t really blame her.” Rose made a noise of agreement, then asked, “You wouldn’t though, would you?” “No,” Helen said. “I need the money. Besides, I’d miss this.” “Miss what ? Taking calls?” “No way,” Helen shook her head. “I’d miss talking to you.” She had spoken before she even realized she was thinking it, and the thought surprised her. Now that it had been said, and the words were lingering in the early morning air, Helen realized speaking with Rose may be the only thing she ever looked forward to. It was starting to stump her, but she didn’t dwell on it too long, Rose’s voice cutting through her thoughts: “I have considered leaving, but I wouldn’t go to any extremes or anything.” Rose was full of surprises tonight, sharing more than she usually did, so Helen asked another question. “Why haven’t you?” “Why haven’t I left?” “Mhm.” “I told you, to impress someone.” Helen raised an eyebrow. “Well, is it working?” Rose shrugged. “I’m not sure, yet.” “I doubt anybody’s worth working this job for.” Rose met Helen’s eyes for a brief moment. “Some people are,” she said. About the Writer... Allison Clausen is a senior Creative Writing student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Even outside of school, she spends most of her time writing, and has an appreciation for all genres. Her favorite genre to write is fiction.

14 < Table of Contents Blue Record by Jiranan Lowchaiwakul Eighteen and Up by Nadine Shanks There are gray giant double doors to enter the Emergency Department. So simple to push open and enter, one swing enough to say goodbye. Instead I hold my year-old cousin on my lap in a small-doored room adjacent. Minutes pass by, baby bouncing bubbles on my lap, fussing for his mother. My parents and aunt are inside, gone to see my grandfather for what only I know will be the final time. Holding his cries to my chest, I stand pacing in the waiting room, thirteen and unsure how to comfort his growing wails. As we walk the stark hallways he begins to quiet. The windows are clear- not one streak and the small garden outside them is a vibrant green. So silent, I can hear only the ringing in my ears, the AC pounding the walls. This is where I watch Death walk. She is a simple visitor. Quiet in her approach: a chaste licorice kiss brought along to answer final calls. Frankenstein’s Monster. "She is both messenger and deliverer. / Veiled beauty in onyx black, / Malice does not know her name." She is both messenger and deliverer. Veiled beauty in onyx black, Malice does not know her name. Her hands are a delicate framework of warm bone, she caresses every face as she walks by. Yet, not one pair of swollen eyes ever lands on her resting smile. Death: ethereal. A step away, she smells of spiderlily and winter water breeze. When her hands reach my face, my fingers flex once into tender baby flesh and release as a breath pushes past trachea. From my eyes, to my cheeks, to my lips, to my chin. Her fingers are smooth as a banister, her smile as sincere as the richest of sonnets, her eyes as honest as the dying man. She trails my cousin’s face with the outside of her index finger, And for the briefest of moments I meet her eyes. And again she began her procession, Moving person by person to the giant double doors at the end of the hall. In a swing, she is gone, and we are left alone with the garden. About the Writer... Nadine Shanks is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts with a focus on Creative Writing. She has published a minor collection of poetry in Scholastic Art and Writing. Centered around ideas of identity and childhood, she predominantly writes in memoir and poetry. About the Artist... Jiranan Lowchaiwakul is an 11th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson who majors in printmaking. She enjoys doing block printing, painting, and photography.

23 We Still Wait in the Water by Babafemi Fatoki About the Artist... Babafemi Fatoki is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At DASOTA, Babafemi is a visual arts major. The medium of their piece is paint.