Voice of the Person
Aditya Dhall
RFK Politcal Views Today
Q: How do you feel about the survielence the government has over us?
RFK: What is wrong with these people. This is not what I and Jack envisioned for this country. All this surviellence is not what we need. The government should not be watching us so closely, I will put a stop to this.
Q: How do you feel about a black President?
RFK: That is a great thing that has happened. When LBJ signed in the Civil Rights Act in 1965 we envisioned that one day a black man could have a shot to become President of the United States of America. This would have made my brother exceptionally proud.
Q: What do you think about the corruption in the government?
RFK: This is what I spent my time as the United States Attorney General trying to defeat. Well this and the mob too. It is terrible that we still have corruption from the men we have elected to lead our great nation. There is no reason to leave them in office if they are going to continue not do their job.
Q: What is your take on immigration?
RFK: It is terrible that we still have problems like this. Jack and I thought that if we could help the African Americans get equal rights, that we wouldn’t have to deal with this stuff anymore. They need to work together to try to fix this.
Q: Thank you Mr. Kennedy.
RFK: Your Welcome.
Alex Avery
I awoke lying flat on my back surrounded by strange bright lights. It was if there were many suns floating throughout the room. The light burned my eyes yet eventually they adjusted, at that point I started to gaze upon my surroundings. I heard a faint beep that would happen almost on command, you could tell when it would happen and when it wouldn’t. I moved my arm till I felt a slight sting, I couldn’t tell exactly what it was but I could clearly see that it had pierced my skin. It wasn’t to painful, actually I kinda liked the way it moved inside my I slowly sat up but quickly noticed that my legs were bound to the cot I was currently on. I tried to liberate myself of the bindings yet to no avail they wouldn’t come off. So I decided that I was going to make use of the apendages that I could still use. I reached out to touch the wall because it seemed to be made out of something I was completely unaware of. That’s when the colour of the room caught my attention ,it was pale shades of creams with hints of whites, however it didn’t look as inviting as it probably should have. There was also this undeniable stench of something I couldn’t place, it wasn’t the exact same as the mettalic smell of blood yet somewhat similar.
Natalie Frazier
I have never seen so many white men in all of my life until right now. The village is big, much bigger than my home village and that of the Mandan Indians I was forced to live with. Yet, among the sea of paleness, I am only able to see a few slaves like Clark’s. Never have I been so alone and frightened. I had lived among people like me. Rarely now do I see a woman or man who I can say Shoshone or Hidatsa or of another tribe. Many white men and women come up to me and claim to be like me. Numbers are thrown about. A 1/16th? A 1/32nd? It means nothing to me. All I see is pale, white skin like Charbonneau’s. “I am not like you,” I tell them, and they get offended and insult my skin and dress. My broken English. I just purse my lips and say nothing. This happens almost every day. I see mock feathers and shiny moccasins. I look into a small pool of water and stare at the me I see staring back. I look nothing like these people. They are disrespecting my people, yet the people do not care. We are a joke. I do not understand this new world. I feel a tear rolling down my face as someone walks by doing an exaggerated war cry.
Cassandra Richards
Who: a young grad student named Cassandra; What; anthropology; When: 2024; Where: A university in Michigan. Why: not a clue.
I watch her fly around the lab. Greasy hair pulled into a bun and dark circles under her eyes. She speaks to herself and I pretend not to hear. Apparently I have arrived in the middle of her final tests or whatnot. I squint at her scandalously short skirt (just above her knees) and precariously high heels (a little over two inches). Her lab coat is haphazardly thrown on and the blue gloves stretch over her long fingers. Intelligent blue eyes squint at a skull, her elbows rest on the table she just relieved of the body part. This girl cannot see me. She cannot hear, speak or listen to me. She is an anthropology major. Excuse me, a forensic anthropology major. I sit pinned up in a nearby chair, my ghostly hands resting on my knees, one crossed over another.
Cassandra, your meeting is in less than two hours. A lady is never late.
I sigh to myself noting that she can’t hear me, and remind myself that for all four years I’ve been stuck with this woman, I have only grown to love her like a daughter of my own. Perhaps this is why I am here, wherever here is. Some form of limbo, putting the smallest tick of doubt into my agnostic stance. Miss. Cassandra and I are much alike. The only difference is she will get credit for our work.
It was August of the first few months I was stuck with this rediculous task of babysitting. She was curled up in a corner of her new dorm provided bed, anthropology textbook in hand, and I just appeared. It was like my mind had just made the assumption to accept what had happened as normal. So I spent my time altering things when she isn’t looking, adding my scribbles to her notes when I have the energy and placing certain helpful reminders and tips when she is stumped in front of her. Together we found enough based evidence all before graduating, her and her team proved and completed the research on the subject based on my research.
She gingerly sets the skull down and scribbles something into her yellow note pad. The snap of her gloves makes me look up from my daydream and memories. Unlike usual, I do not check her notes and I do not pick at her. My eyes watch her pause at the door, finger on the light switch. She seems to look right at me, and I make a shooing motion. I am exhausted. She flicks the lights of and shuts the door, and I relax my body. At least SOMEONE gets their Nobel Peace Prize…
Mackenzie Gullette
Marilyn Monroe Back?
Breaking News! Marilyn Monroe suddenly revived with new science experiments. Marilyn was placed directly back into normal everyday life and was thrown into a shock. One of our reporters was lucky enough to sit down with her and have a Q&A with her.
Q: Marilyn how does it feel to be back?
A: It’s crazy. This is nothing like the world that I grew up in and experienced. All this new technology and all the new movie techniques are wild and unbelievable to me.
Q: The body standard in modeling is sure different than in your day. How do you feel about this?
A: I feel like the way society is now is messed up. In this society I probably wouldn’t be considered as a model type. I am twice the size if not more of these girls. I was insecure enough in my time these days I feel like the standard is almost impossible.
Q: Certainly since your death you have become an inspiration to many young women. How do you feel about this?
A: I didn’t grow up with a role model that was acceptable and I am just glad that I can inspire people. I mean everything that I ever said. Imperfection is beauty and girls need to embrace their imperfections.
We were certainly lucky to be able to talk to Ms. Monroe while we could. Our reporter says that is a very down to earth girl with a unique sense of humor.
Madison Taylor Jester
“I don’t understand what this says!”
A tall boy with dark hair and a puzzled frown was staring down at a stapled heap of paper in his hands. He was pacing back and forth, flipping frantically through the pages. He hoped to find something that made sense to him, but it was as if the words on the pages were in another language.
Technically, they weren’t, but they might as well have been.
“But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?” He read aloud, trying to put emotion into the words. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun…”
After a pause, the boy slammed the pages against his forehead in frustration.
“I can’t do this.”
The boy bought the papers down again, starting to pace back and forth worriedly. He started talking to himself, going back and forth about the words he was supposed to read.
“I recognize most of the words, but none of the sentences make any sense! ‘By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am.’ Why not? Shouldn’t you have the decency to introduce yourself?!”
The boy collapsed into a sitting position, his frustration quickly replaced with woe and dismay.
“How am I supposed to perform this if I don’t understand half of it? There must be something I’m missing. I mean, people have read this, and actually enjoyed it, long after it was written! What am I missing…?”
At that moment, the boy felt a vigorous buzzing in his pocket. He jumped in surprise, pulling out his cell phone. He had received a new text message from an unknown number.
IT’S NOT ABOUT THE WORDS.
The boy frowned in confusion at the text. It was only when he got a second one that he understood what it meant.
IT’S ABOUT THE CONTEXT.
The boy stood up, spinning in a circle to survey the area. He was alone in the small auditorium. His phone buzzed again, making him jump once more. He did one last sweep of the stage before looking down at the text.
INSTEAD OF READING THE LINES, READ BETWEEN THEM.
This was definitely god advice. The boy’s tense shoulders relaxed, and he couldn’t help but smile a little. Whoever this person was, they were definitely attempting to solve his dilemma.
Thanks…
There was one last text message that popped up on the screen.
YOU’RE VERY WELCOME.
Kate Weyeneth
Ghostly Encounters in the Henry Ford Hospital
I was walking through the deserted halls of the Henry Ford Hospital when I met a ghost. No one should have been there, nor did I expect anyone to be. But there was someone, or should I say, there was an apparition. Her hair was elegantly twisted with ribbons and bright floral flowers were perched atop her head. She was dressed in traditional Mexican clothing and her features were sharply handsome. Stunned, I could only stare at the ghost of what appeared to be Frida Kahlo. Then, her striking gaze fell upon me . . .
“¿Donde estoy?”
Initially, I was at a loss for words. I began to panic. She had died over fifty years ago! I told her as much.
“Si, pero, ¿Donde estoy?”
Her clipped tone made it clear that she did not have any patience to put up with any theatrics. I figured that it was best to act as normally as I could and answer her question.
“You’re in the Henry Ford Hospital.”
Frida closed her eyes and an intense look of deep pain crossed her face.
“Are . . . are you alright?” I hesitantly asked.
“Mi seguno aborto natural” was her only reply. I did not press for details.
After a moment, she composed herself and her steely mask was back. She looked around slowly, then walked into another patient’s room. Hesitantly, I followed. She was critically examining the heart monitor and looked bewildered by the faint beeps and digital display.
“¿Que es esto?” she demanded.
Slightly surprised, I explained what the heart monitor was and what it did.
“¿Y esto?” she asked, pointing at the computer.
Less surprised, I explained what the object was. She had never seen most of the equipment in this room. We moved slowly throughout the room, and I identified each object that she pointed at. Her eyes grew wider and wider with each explanation. She then left, only pausing to make a sharp gesture to tell me to follow her. After a short walk, we approached a restricted area. Frida did not care. I cared, but my curiosity got the best of me. We emerged in a room where the supplies for blood transfusions are kept. She was fascinated. She kept murmuring under her breath, “increible”. She explored the hospital in a frenzy and the look of pure wonder on her face never faded. Suddenly, she whipped around and looked straight into my eyes. Then, she pointed at herself.
“¿Qué puedes hacer para mi?”
I paused. She sighed impatiently and her dark eyes bored into me.
“¿Qué puedes hacer para mi pierna?” This time, though, she pointed to her amputated leg.
I understood. I told her about all the advancements made in prosthetics since she had last lived. She leaned forward as I described mechanical prosthetics that did not chafe and that moved as the limb would naturally move. She was transfixed when I told her about the promising research in limb regeneration. A desperate look of longing appeared on her face. Then she spoke again.
“¿Qué puedes hacer para mi espalda?” She moved her hand along her back.
I explained about revolutionary chiropractic treatments, new surgical procedures, and the increased knowledge of spinal treatments. Once more, she avidly listened, then nodded when I had finished. Her features wore an expression of amazed disbelief.
“¿Qué puedes hacer para ---?” She suddenly stopped. Her head jerked up and she suddenly took off, floating down the hospital hallway. She seemed to know exactly where she was going. We traveled down the maze of hallways, and I began to hear a faint crying sound. Then we arrived at the maternity wing. Frida stopped. She tenderly laid her hand upon the baby’s face and the baby ceased crying almost immediately. Then the baby began to giggle. Frida had the gentlest look on her face. She then turned to me, her eyes full of hope.
“¿Qué puedes hacer para esto?” She said, laying her hand across her lower abdomen.
I hesitated, and she understood.
“¿Nada?” she said, her voice filled with disappointment.
Historians had speculated that her reproductive organs had been torn apart when she was impaled by a metal rod in the trolley accident. Her condition had most likely worsened to a state of irrepair over the years. Various potential solutions existed, but her case was so severe that I did not know if the treatments would even work on her. I did not want to give her false hope.
“Nothing,” I sadly confirmed.
Frida nodded once more, her face stony now. She returned her gaze to the baby, and her mouth curved into a small, sad smile. She looked at me once more, tilted her chin upwards, and her eyes conveyed her thanks. Then, she vanished, leaving me in the maternity wing with a now crying baby. My mind was reeling- did I really just meet the ghost of Frida Kahlo? As I went to comfort the sobbing baby, I felt a chill run down my spine when I noticed the baby’s name: Leonardo.
**Author’s Note: Leonardo was the name Kahlo planned on giving her child.
RFK Politcal Views Today
Q: How do you feel about the survielence the government has over us?
RFK: What is wrong with these people. This is not what I and Jack envisioned for this country. All this surviellence is not what we need. The government should not be watching us so closely, I will put a stop to this.
Q: How do you feel about a black President?
RFK: That is a great thing that has happened. When LBJ signed in the Civil Rights Act in 1965 we envisioned that one day a black man could have a shot to become President of the United States of America. This would have made my brother exceptionally proud.
Q: What do you think about the corruption in the government?
RFK: This is what I spent my time as the United States Attorney General trying to defeat. Well this and the mob too. It is terrible that we still have corruption from the men we have elected to lead our great nation. There is no reason to leave them in office if they are going to continue not do their job.
Q: What is your take on immigration?
RFK: It is terrible that we still have problems like this. Jack and I thought that if we could help the African Americans get equal rights, that we wouldn’t have to deal with this stuff anymore. They need to work together to try to fix this.
Q: Thank you Mr. Kennedy.
RFK: Your Welcome.
Alex Avery
I awoke lying flat on my back surrounded by strange bright lights. It was if there were many suns floating throughout the room. The light burned my eyes yet eventually they adjusted, at that point I started to gaze upon my surroundings. I heard a faint beep that would happen almost on command, you could tell when it would happen and when it wouldn’t. I moved my arm till I felt a slight sting, I couldn’t tell exactly what it was but I could clearly see that it had pierced my skin. It wasn’t to painful, actually I kinda liked the way it moved inside my I slowly sat up but quickly noticed that my legs were bound to the cot I was currently on. I tried to liberate myself of the bindings yet to no avail they wouldn’t come off. So I decided that I was going to make use of the apendages that I could still use. I reached out to touch the wall because it seemed to be made out of something I was completely unaware of. That’s when the colour of the room caught my attention ,it was pale shades of creams with hints of whites, however it didn’t look as inviting as it probably should have. There was also this undeniable stench of something I couldn’t place, it wasn’t the exact same as the mettalic smell of blood yet somewhat similar.
Natalie Frazier
I have never seen so many white men in all of my life until right now. The village is big, much bigger than my home village and that of the Mandan Indians I was forced to live with. Yet, among the sea of paleness, I am only able to see a few slaves like Clark’s. Never have I been so alone and frightened. I had lived among people like me. Rarely now do I see a woman or man who I can say Shoshone or Hidatsa or of another tribe. Many white men and women come up to me and claim to be like me. Numbers are thrown about. A 1/16th? A 1/32nd? It means nothing to me. All I see is pale, white skin like Charbonneau’s. “I am not like you,” I tell them, and they get offended and insult my skin and dress. My broken English. I just purse my lips and say nothing. This happens almost every day. I see mock feathers and shiny moccasins. I look into a small pool of water and stare at the me I see staring back. I look nothing like these people. They are disrespecting my people, yet the people do not care. We are a joke. I do not understand this new world. I feel a tear rolling down my face as someone walks by doing an exaggerated war cry.
Cassandra Richards
Who: a young grad student named Cassandra; What; anthropology; When: 2024; Where: A university in Michigan. Why: not a clue.
I watch her fly around the lab. Greasy hair pulled into a bun and dark circles under her eyes. She speaks to herself and I pretend not to hear. Apparently I have arrived in the middle of her final tests or whatnot. I squint at her scandalously short skirt (just above her knees) and precariously high heels (a little over two inches). Her lab coat is haphazardly thrown on and the blue gloves stretch over her long fingers. Intelligent blue eyes squint at a skull, her elbows rest on the table she just relieved of the body part. This girl cannot see me. She cannot hear, speak or listen to me. She is an anthropology major. Excuse me, a forensic anthropology major. I sit pinned up in a nearby chair, my ghostly hands resting on my knees, one crossed over another.
Cassandra, your meeting is in less than two hours. A lady is never late.
I sigh to myself noting that she can’t hear me, and remind myself that for all four years I’ve been stuck with this woman, I have only grown to love her like a daughter of my own. Perhaps this is why I am here, wherever here is. Some form of limbo, putting the smallest tick of doubt into my agnostic stance. Miss. Cassandra and I are much alike. The only difference is she will get credit for our work.
It was August of the first few months I was stuck with this rediculous task of babysitting. She was curled up in a corner of her new dorm provided bed, anthropology textbook in hand, and I just appeared. It was like my mind had just made the assumption to accept what had happened as normal. So I spent my time altering things when she isn’t looking, adding my scribbles to her notes when I have the energy and placing certain helpful reminders and tips when she is stumped in front of her. Together we found enough based evidence all before graduating, her and her team proved and completed the research on the subject based on my research.
She gingerly sets the skull down and scribbles something into her yellow note pad. The snap of her gloves makes me look up from my daydream and memories. Unlike usual, I do not check her notes and I do not pick at her. My eyes watch her pause at the door, finger on the light switch. She seems to look right at me, and I make a shooing motion. I am exhausted. She flicks the lights of and shuts the door, and I relax my body. At least SOMEONE gets their Nobel Peace Prize…
Mackenzie Gullette
Marilyn Monroe Back?
Breaking News! Marilyn Monroe suddenly revived with new science experiments. Marilyn was placed directly back into normal everyday life and was thrown into a shock. One of our reporters was lucky enough to sit down with her and have a Q&A with her.
Q: Marilyn how does it feel to be back?
A: It’s crazy. This is nothing like the world that I grew up in and experienced. All this new technology and all the new movie techniques are wild and unbelievable to me.
Q: The body standard in modeling is sure different than in your day. How do you feel about this?
A: I feel like the way society is now is messed up. In this society I probably wouldn’t be considered as a model type. I am twice the size if not more of these girls. I was insecure enough in my time these days I feel like the standard is almost impossible.
Q: Certainly since your death you have become an inspiration to many young women. How do you feel about this?
A: I didn’t grow up with a role model that was acceptable and I am just glad that I can inspire people. I mean everything that I ever said. Imperfection is beauty and girls need to embrace their imperfections.
We were certainly lucky to be able to talk to Ms. Monroe while we could. Our reporter says that is a very down to earth girl with a unique sense of humor.
Madison Taylor Jester
“I don’t understand what this says!”
A tall boy with dark hair and a puzzled frown was staring down at a stapled heap of paper in his hands. He was pacing back and forth, flipping frantically through the pages. He hoped to find something that made sense to him, but it was as if the words on the pages were in another language.
Technically, they weren’t, but they might as well have been.
“But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?” He read aloud, trying to put emotion into the words. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun…”
After a pause, the boy slammed the pages against his forehead in frustration.
“I can’t do this.”
The boy bought the papers down again, starting to pace back and forth worriedly. He started talking to himself, going back and forth about the words he was supposed to read.
“I recognize most of the words, but none of the sentences make any sense! ‘By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am.’ Why not? Shouldn’t you have the decency to introduce yourself?!”
The boy collapsed into a sitting position, his frustration quickly replaced with woe and dismay.
“How am I supposed to perform this if I don’t understand half of it? There must be something I’m missing. I mean, people have read this, and actually enjoyed it, long after it was written! What am I missing…?”
At that moment, the boy felt a vigorous buzzing in his pocket. He jumped in surprise, pulling out his cell phone. He had received a new text message from an unknown number.
IT’S NOT ABOUT THE WORDS.
The boy frowned in confusion at the text. It was only when he got a second one that he understood what it meant.
IT’S ABOUT THE CONTEXT.
The boy stood up, spinning in a circle to survey the area. He was alone in the small auditorium. His phone buzzed again, making him jump once more. He did one last sweep of the stage before looking down at the text.
INSTEAD OF READING THE LINES, READ BETWEEN THEM.
This was definitely god advice. The boy’s tense shoulders relaxed, and he couldn’t help but smile a little. Whoever this person was, they were definitely attempting to solve his dilemma.
Thanks…
There was one last text message that popped up on the screen.
YOU’RE VERY WELCOME.
Kate Weyeneth
Ghostly Encounters in the Henry Ford Hospital
I was walking through the deserted halls of the Henry Ford Hospital when I met a ghost. No one should have been there, nor did I expect anyone to be. But there was someone, or should I say, there was an apparition. Her hair was elegantly twisted with ribbons and bright floral flowers were perched atop her head. She was dressed in traditional Mexican clothing and her features were sharply handsome. Stunned, I could only stare at the ghost of what appeared to be Frida Kahlo. Then, her striking gaze fell upon me . . .
“¿Donde estoy?”
Initially, I was at a loss for words. I began to panic. She had died over fifty years ago! I told her as much.
“Si, pero, ¿Donde estoy?”
Her clipped tone made it clear that she did not have any patience to put up with any theatrics. I figured that it was best to act as normally as I could and answer her question.
“You’re in the Henry Ford Hospital.”
Frida closed her eyes and an intense look of deep pain crossed her face.
“Are . . . are you alright?” I hesitantly asked.
“Mi seguno aborto natural” was her only reply. I did not press for details.
After a moment, she composed herself and her steely mask was back. She looked around slowly, then walked into another patient’s room. Hesitantly, I followed. She was critically examining the heart monitor and looked bewildered by the faint beeps and digital display.
“¿Que es esto?” she demanded.
Slightly surprised, I explained what the heart monitor was and what it did.
“¿Y esto?” she asked, pointing at the computer.
Less surprised, I explained what the object was. She had never seen most of the equipment in this room. We moved slowly throughout the room, and I identified each object that she pointed at. Her eyes grew wider and wider with each explanation. She then left, only pausing to make a sharp gesture to tell me to follow her. After a short walk, we approached a restricted area. Frida did not care. I cared, but my curiosity got the best of me. We emerged in a room where the supplies for blood transfusions are kept. She was fascinated. She kept murmuring under her breath, “increible”. She explored the hospital in a frenzy and the look of pure wonder on her face never faded. Suddenly, she whipped around and looked straight into my eyes. Then, she pointed at herself.
“¿Qué puedes hacer para mi?”
I paused. She sighed impatiently and her dark eyes bored into me.
“¿Qué puedes hacer para mi pierna?” This time, though, she pointed to her amputated leg.
I understood. I told her about all the advancements made in prosthetics since she had last lived. She leaned forward as I described mechanical prosthetics that did not chafe and that moved as the limb would naturally move. She was transfixed when I told her about the promising research in limb regeneration. A desperate look of longing appeared on her face. Then she spoke again.
“¿Qué puedes hacer para mi espalda?” She moved her hand along her back.
I explained about revolutionary chiropractic treatments, new surgical procedures, and the increased knowledge of spinal treatments. Once more, she avidly listened, then nodded when I had finished. Her features wore an expression of amazed disbelief.
“¿Qué puedes hacer para ---?” She suddenly stopped. Her head jerked up and she suddenly took off, floating down the hospital hallway. She seemed to know exactly where she was going. We traveled down the maze of hallways, and I began to hear a faint crying sound. Then we arrived at the maternity wing. Frida stopped. She tenderly laid her hand upon the baby’s face and the baby ceased crying almost immediately. Then the baby began to giggle. Frida had the gentlest look on her face. She then turned to me, her eyes full of hope.
“¿Qué puedes hacer para esto?” She said, laying her hand across her lower abdomen.
I hesitated, and she understood.
“¿Nada?” she said, her voice filled with disappointment.
Historians had speculated that her reproductive organs had been torn apart when she was impaled by a metal rod in the trolley accident. Her condition had most likely worsened to a state of irrepair over the years. Various potential solutions existed, but her case was so severe that I did not know if the treatments would even work on her. I did not want to give her false hope.
“Nothing,” I sadly confirmed.
Frida nodded once more, her face stony now. She returned her gaze to the baby, and her mouth curved into a small, sad smile. She looked at me once more, tilted her chin upwards, and her eyes conveyed her thanks. Then, she vanished, leaving me in the maternity wing with a now crying baby. My mind was reeling- did I really just meet the ghost of Frida Kahlo? As I went to comfort the sobbing baby, I felt a chill run down my spine when I noticed the baby’s name: Leonardo.
**Author’s Note: Leonardo was the name Kahlo planned on giving her child.