Sacar

Translations of “to take.”

Andalucía has fewer words than I do. One of my professors here tells me English has three or four ways of saying anything in Castilian, Spain’s most-spoken Spanish, the one we speak here, in Granada. Some say the ratio’s more like 2-to-1. The comparison gets harder when you think about all the country’s unofficial tongues—Basque, Catalan, Galician—but going by my five-pound Spanish-English dictionary, the limit’s on the Castilian side. Sometimes I like that about Spanish, that there’s less of it. Madura: it means both ripe. . . Read more
Devon Geyelin
The Murder Trail

The paranormal reanimates a stalled investigation.

I am sitting in Jillian and Scott Hamilton’s kitchen. It is small and crowded with the essentials of home life—a blender on the countertop, papers pinned to the fridge, plates on a rack. Scott Hamilton lets out a theatrical groan and gives me a weary look. “So. You like the paranormal, huh?” Scott works in a Macy’s warehouse and Jillian is a seamstress, but their preferred vocation is Family Haunts, a paranormal research group. Jillian and Scott certainly do, though they did not get much. . . Read more
Victorio Cabrera
The Brightest Among Us

Figuring out the wiring of the tenure track.

Disneyland “is the real country presented as imaginary to make us think other things are real,” says J. D. Connor, an assistant professor in the History of Art Department at the close of a lecture in his course on Disney. “But the real is no longer real.” “Mind blown,” the student next to me whispers. As usual, when J. D. Connor speaks about film, he leaves me feeling that if I listened hard enough, I, too, could use the clues in pop culture to unlock. . . Read more
Ceri Godinez
Owning the Wilderness

Inside the the university’s largest piece of property.

Illustrations by Téa Chai I eased the SUV down a rough dirt road in northeastern Connecticut. My friend Téa, who sat in the passenger’s seat, peered into the shady woods ahead. She checked her phone to see if we were still headed in the right direction, but she didn’t have any service. Her hands fiddled with pens and papers, nervously sketching the twisted shapes of branches and leaves as we went around the next bend. Then we were there, at Myers Forest, the largest of. . . Read more
Brady Currey
A Love of Labor

Yale’s midwives help women take ownership of childbirth.

Nurse midwife Nancy Degennaro demonstrated straddling positions on a large exercise ball for Rose Gallegos, an expecting mother sitting next to her. “Sometimes we would have her sit on it this way,” Degennaro said, squatting on the ball, opening her legs wide, acting out Gallegos’s possible future delivery. “Sometimes we have her lean on it this way,” she said, moving to rest her flat tummy on the ball. “We just get creative.” Getting creative is part of the birthing philosophy in Yale’s midwifery department, located. . . Read more
Amelia Nierenberg
What’s Left Behind

The Mexican town of Tetlanohcan grapples with New Haven’s influence.

“Get in, guero [white boy], it’s cold out here,” said Daniel Mendieta, naked in the mountain air. He leaned out of the temazcal built at the edge of the cornfield. The sweat lodge, bathed in crisp moonlight, had been in the family’s backyard for generations—it was the site of their monthly purification steam baths. I undressed, placed my clothes on a dusty wooden chair, and crawled into the candlelit opening. Inside, Daniel threw a shallow bowl of water into the black hole of an antechamber. . . Read more
Sebi Medina-Tayac
Out fencing new pasture

A poem by Justine Cefalu.

I am tied by a golden ribbon, umbilical cord of late afternoon, to the ground. The land is a constellation of clapboard houses ringed by purple lupine. Hedgerows are cracks, threads tracing edges where light blooms, the gold-green, green-gold of a field dotted with sheep. I am kneeling, my arms around the warm belly of a deep-brown ewe. I scooped her stillborn lamb, soft-boned, into a box, and now I am milking out her thick cream onto grass, feeding fields.. . . Read more
Justine Cefalu
The Case of the Missing Adirondacks

You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s lawn.

It is cold more often than it is warm in the courtyard of Silliman College. A rectangular plot of grass divided by stone paths and lined on four sides by Georgian, French Renaissance, and Gothic residential buildings, it is a house-and-field setup. It’s a function of the college’s expansive structure, dating from a time when people believed that sod and sun would make you moral. Last year, seventeen Adirondack chairs (eight in chili pepper red and nine in chili pepper green) were placed in the. . . Read more
Olivia Klevorn
Letter to the Editor

A letter from Kevin Su.

“Manufacturing Cool,” the September issue’s pop-music story, has an ambiguous title—it stands there without a time, without a subject, without a place. But the author, Jordan Coley, is happy to locate who is doing this “manufacturing” at Yale right now, and it happens to be people and places dear to me. As a member of WYBC for the past four years and an executive board member for the last two, and a current resident of 216, I felt that my organization, my home, and my. . . Read more
Kevin Su
Old Asphalt Schoolyard

A poem by Ruby Bilger.

Waits near a pile of kids, anyway, “who keeps putting lizards in Polly Pocket clothes?” the problem is considered as they bat at their hair to keep the breeze from affecting them. Outside the bell tolls. Something may be happening, or the feeling of it—hard to remember until it’s happening again. In the mean time the kids must wonder what to call themselves, the niggling prettiness of luck or deadpan charity, what glimpses live inside them and why they won’t develop or why they never. . . Read more
Ruby Bilger