Flower Abstract – Henry Zhang

Nydia Davis

My hair is not any different from yours. Nowadays, we are fixated on looking our best and comparing ourselves to other people. We frequently find ourselves comparing our qualities to others, whether it’s people in our personal lives or people we see on TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, novels, or the hottest form of media at the moment. This comes with many different perspectives of how we should look, what we should wear, and what we should do with our lives. Somewhere in the world, there is the topic of black girls’ hair constantly floating around. Some cases are negative, some positive, but both types are developed around observing black girls’ hair. I often encounter many interactions where I am questioned about my hair or told something that provokes thoughts of what people believe my hair is. However, it is just like everyone else’s, but simply a different texture, curl pattern, density, and thickness. Yet, these attributes even reflect differences in hair between all races. There should be no more “Why is your hair…?” statements because my hair is different and doesn’t fit into stereotypical black girl hair. 

When my hair is out, in its natural state, it is not unprofessional; just because there are kinks and curls doesn’t mean it’s nappy. At previous professional events, I have been told by mature adults that putting my hair up looked more presentable because people perceived my tight curls as nappiness, and given that, it looked as though I had just rolled out of bed. My superiors questioned my professionalism because it looked as if I didn’t consider my appearance. It gets washed, conditioned, and uniquely positioned so my curls can “pop”. It has gone through roughly the same process the average person does in the upkeep of their head, so why is mine seen as unprofessional? In reality, it’s not. Its distinct appearance is an outcast in the sophisticated idea of being professional. Black girls should not conform to a mold relating to the standards of our hair in a professional environment. Whether it’s visible or not, this often deters many black women from “professional” jobs in fear of not being accepted by the majority. Or worse – they are pressured into relaxing or constantly straightening their hair, further avoiding the humiliation of being singled out. 

I cherish the moments when I get my hair done in braids, twists, or cornrows (although I’m severely tender-headed). I get extensions. Not because I devalue my hair, but because it adds elegance to the style. Often, with the added hair, I can experiment with different colors, types, and styles of hair, which is an outlet of expression for many girls. Nevertheless, although an enjoyable addition, extensions aren’t tied to me; they don’t represent my most internally natural state of being. When I decide to get rid of the style, I am not cutting my hair; I’m cutting the extra, temporary attachment of personality, which is unnecessary for self-improvement. In connection with cutting my hair, I don’t cut it every time I wash it; it shrinks. Shrinkage shows the accelerated healthiness of the hair due to the fact that when hair gets wet, especially thicker hair with tighter curls, it shrinks back to its natural pattern, which is often more intimate than the state it is in before you wash it, showing there is no damage. 

When my hair is in styles inspired by well-known black celebrities such as Tupac, ASAP Rocky, or Chris Brown, it does not make me a “thug”. Many of these replicated styles are seen in black-affiliated gangs and a portion of black criminals, but that does not make me one. These styles attract multitudes of people because they are trendy and they simply look nice. The hairstyles have no actual symbol nor do they purposely have a meaning. When wearing these styles, I get targeted and observed more because of the type of people often seen with the braids. In stores notoriously known for being robbed, like Walmart or beauty supply stores, I feel sets of lasered eyes on my back with every move I make with fear of the recurring pattern. It places a weighted target on my back. Although I have good intentions, the target makes me question my every move. I despise the feeling as if I did something horribly wrong when all I have ever done is everything a million times more right for compensation of those who have brought this discerned negative meaning to the hairstyles. My hair does not affect my morality, speech, intellect, or style. I am still the same person with or without these styles. 

It is common for black girls not to wash our hair every other day. We may not even wash it for months if we have it styled a “protective style.” A protective style is a style you keep in for a prolonged period and is “protective” because it is not being manipulated as much, stimulating growth. Rarely are there times when protective styles are washed. It doesn’t make us dirty and primitive. If anything, we’re improving our health by not constantly stripping essential oils and moisture out of our hair. Yes, it may begin looking not-so-nice after a while due to the extreme growth. That should not be a reason why we are looked down upon. Let’s be honest; everyone has a bad hair day every now and then. 

Vividly understanding black girl hair would significantly aid in breaking social norms worldwide. Black females would feel more comfortable in a multitude of environments. Questions such as “Why does your hair look that way?” would not be asked, making them feel more comfortable within their bodies and not alienated. This new sense of confidence could empower more black women to represent big companies and have successful corporate jobs or entrepreneurial ventures. Representation gives the black girl community a massive voice and hopefully eliminates the world’s many negative opinions about us in that department. It is crucial to have continuous vocalization and media representation of black women for maintaining and promoting the understanding of black girl hair, given that media constantly impacts our everyday lives. We desperately need more black women to accept their hair as is so they can step up and take those roles confidently. With the immense and ever-growing forms of communication we have now, there is no doubt that the world will become knowledgeable about black girl hair and the relations of many different types of hair within various cultures. Until then, there will be a continuation of current trends in the black community, growing the acknowledgment of our hair and our culture as a whole.

Mustard Dreams – Chloe Fox

Nola Clifford

 Chick-fil-A

  In the summer of 2021, my family packed up the house we had lived in for 12 years and moved across the country to North Carolina. I, a rising eighth grader, began a new and entirely online middle school the following year. I hated it. I spent all my time holed up in my room, glued to my laptop, hoping that if I just kept myself distracted, I wouldn’t feel so alone.

I didn’t understand most of the school material, struggled with constant distractions, and never saw the faces of my classmates. I turned my camera on in hopes that someone from the sea of Zoom profile pictures I stared at daily might see me and want to be friends. But not one of the 60 students in any of my eight classes ever turned their camera on. 

Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and as time passed by, I gave up. I turned my camera off, stayed in bed during class, and obsessively watched episode upon episode of Criminal Minds, fearing the silence without it. I desperately told myself that if I hung on for this year, things would be okay, but most days, I didn’t even believe that myself. I was utterly alone, and unless the COVID-19 pandemic magically ended, that would never change. My mom, who witnessed my demeanor change firsthand, was particularly concerned. 

On a cold December morning, two weeks after I stopped getting up for class, she told me:

“You can’t just stay in bed all day.” 

“Why not? What difference does it make if I get up? It’s not like I can go anywhere.” I retorted.

“You aren’t living; you’re just existing.”

“I don’t know what you want from me. There’s a global pandemic!”

“I just want you to be happy; you can’t be happy with your life right now.”

I knew she was worried. I saw it every time she looked at the dark circles under my eyes or the stained GAP shirt I wore more days than not. And she was right; I wasn’t happy with my life. I needed less time alone and something that fulfilled me. With no estimate on the beginning of in-person classes or extracurricular activities, my prospects were bleak. Or at least that’s what I assumed till I discovered bright red “Help Wanted” signs in almost every shop near my house. I thought that a job might reestablish some normalcy in my life. 

I learned quickly that the employment opportunities for a 14-year-old were extremely limited. In fact, there were only two establishments that hired teens that young: Harris Teeter and Chick-fil-A. I had little knowledge of either, but the promise of free chicken nuggets was enough for me; I sent out applications to four nearby Chick-fil-A’s. With the intense need for staff at the time, I signed the onboarding paperwork only two days after I applied. 

The Cameron Village Chick-fil-A, my Chick-fil-A, was a brick-covered two-story building with large clear windows that naturally illuminated the entire store. A blue and white striped awning shaded the patio, filled with uncomfortably hard metal chairs and matching tables. An American flag hung stagnantly on a pole near the store entrance, lowered to half-mast. It was the only exterior reminder that everything was awry, that the normal world was a far-off fantasy from my pandemic reality.

Inside, however, the jovial restaurant had been transformed into a quarantined nightmare.  Bright yellow caution tape mummified the dark red booths in the dining room, making it look like a crime scene. Instead of greeting hungry clientele, the indoor order-taking counter became a vessel for cleaning supplies and employee belongings. Signs on every wall listed the symptoms of COVID-19, and by each door sat a corporate-required log book of every employee’s temperature before work. Neon social distancing stickers littered the floor, invisible barricades ensuring employees stayed far apart. There were more boxes of masks on the counters than tubs of sauce, and the entire place reeked of disinfectant. It was the kind of smell that burned your nostrils even through a mask, a spicy mix of headache-inducing Clorox wipes and chemically lemon-scented floor wash. My eyes teared up almost every day during the first few months of my employment.

But despite the sterile environment, every employee looked happy; their eyes crinkled gently, signaling hidden smiles beneath the company-mandated cow print masks. The restaurant echoed with laughter, the light, effortless type only expected from children. Even the managers policing health regulations distributed by the CDC joked around as they watched over employees wearily. It was the kind of contentment I hadn’t seen since lockdown started, a contentment I didn’t fully understand until my training began.

The first station every employee learned was drinks. A deceptively simple-looking small space, only taking up half of a fake marble counter, the drink station required incredible speed. A successful drink maker navigated quickly between a large central soft drink machine, six dispensers of lemonade and sweet tea, and a rickety, ever-churning ice cream machine, all while keeping lids, cups, straws, lemons, cherries, stevia, and ice cream base stocked. For an uncoordinated and easily distracted teenager like me, this meant regularly spilled sweet tea, a myriad of incorrectly poured sodas, and an eternally empty bin of lids. It was never my strongest station, despite my skilled and patient trainer. 

 Elijah, the kindest person I’ve ever met, trained me on drinks. He had seven siblings, a talent for playing the tuba, and fluffy golden hair that covered his eyes when he waited too long for a haircut. His father was a pastor, and despite my non-religious background, I saw how his faith shaped every part of his life: he had a warm gentleness about him. It radiated through everything he did, from the soft smiles he gave me as my hands shook with the fear of slowing down the drive-thru to his reassuring voice as he showed me the Caramel Crumble Milkshake recipe for the seventh time. 

I was bewildered by his complete selflessness. He wanted nothing more than to make the people around him happy, especially me. He read ice skating romance novels even though he hated them because they were my favorite. When we walked around the city, he made sure I never got too close to traffic. Every time we went out for food, he insisted on paying. Elijah thought of me before himself. He became my best friend, and slowly, I started feeling a little less lonely. He was the first facet of my new life that left me contemplating the possibility of a pleasant future in Raleigh.

After drinks, new employees are sent to bagging, the complex art of properly placing chicken sandwiches in red paper bags with the correct sauces. This particular station consisted of a large metal work table with an assortment of fancy heat lamps that kept food from the kitchen warm until a bagger boxed it off for an awaiting customer. A small TV screen listed every order with its entrees, sides, and sauces. If an order stayed on screen for longer than three minutes without being completed, a sharp chime sounded from the TV, alerting the on-staff manager to slow work; this particular feature–as a girl who constantly feared upsetting an authority figure- scared the crap out of me. 

Kacey trained me on bagging. He was quiet, the kind of person nobody noticed in a crowded room. He avoided talking at all costs, communicating almost only with subtle brow lifts and firm head nods. I only saw him on Friday nights when I worked past seven since he was exclusively a night shift manager. I thought maybe he chose late shifts because, at that point, exhaustion squashed most people’s desire for a conversation. Kacey was in his late 30s with a dark buzzcut that showcased his receding hairline. He wore the same dark blue colored polo shirt every day, which was meant to distinguish him from his red-shirt subordinates but only made him blend in further with the inky darkness of the night sky.

The more time I spent with Kacey, the more I learned about him. I noticed the ever-present dark circles underneath his eyes and his complete lack of care for anything anyone did. I watched him open and then close his mouth often as if his own words had no value to those around him. I never saw him smile or laugh; I barely ever heard him talk. Kacey was depressed. But even on his darkest days, when his eyes were rimmed with crimson, and his breathing was so labored it seemed like a chore, he came to work. He never missed a single shift. So, on the days when getting out of bed seemed pointless to me, I still got up because I knew, somewhere across town, Kacey did, too.

Drive-thru order-taking was the last of three major stations every employee must master; it combined the speed of drink making and the accuracy of bagging all into a tiny iPad and credit card reader. I spent over a hundred hours on the thin cement sidewalk that lined both lanes of the drive-thru as I took orders while simultaneously walking each car up the uneven pavement. I was naturally talented when it came to all things drive-thru; I was quick, precise, and prevented all customer complaints with a well-timed “my pleasure.” Those two dark asphalt lanes became a second home to me; they were my domain.

My love for the drive-thru, however, came from more than just my naturally nimble fingers and silver tongue; it started with Dylan. 

Think of the stereotypical image of a frat guy; that’s Dylan. A junior at NC State studying business, he had spiky black hair perpetually concealed by a red backward-facing baseball hat. He always made inappropriate jokes and talked about the parties he planned on attending after work. Dylan was the ultimate symbol of college life and adulthood, which simultaneously scared me and made me want to grow up faster. He was a terrible influence and probably my parent’s worst nightmare, but, of course, this only made me idolize him more. 

In comparison to him, however, my drive-thru skills were amateur. Taking orders was second nature to Dylan. He weaved gracefully through traffic as his fingers flew across the iPad screen in front of him without ever looking down. During training, he told me his speed depended entirely on remembering the precise location of every menu item, including hidden gems like the heart-shaped nugget tray. Yet, no matter how long I spent memorizing, I never obtained Dylan-level speed.  

In some ways, he was the closest thing I ever had to a big brother in that, most days, he irritated me beyond belief. A non-exhaustive list of “Annoying Things Dylan Did To Me” included sending me to drinks during every dinner rush we worked together, making fun of the books I read on break, and radioing down to the drive-thru with fake customer complaints he made up about me. But every so often, usually, when I saw him taking orders at an ungodly speed, I wanted to be just like him. The thought of becoming as cool and talented as Dylan made me look forward to the future and focus less on the gloomy present.

My Chick-fil-A career ended one short year after it began. In that small window of time, I witnessed the dining room reopen, got promoted to a trainer position, and met some of the most interesting and genuine people I know. Even now, three years after I quit, when I have a bad day, I often end up in my car at the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, hoping that I’ll see a familiar face or simply remember the place that became my second home during my first year in Raleigh.

 Chick-fil-A

  In the summer of 2021, my family packed up the house we had lived in for 12 years and moved across the country to North Carolina. I, a rising eighth grader, began a new and entirely online middle school the following year. I hated it. I spent all my time holed up in my room, glued to my laptop, hoping that if I just kept myself distracted, I wouldn’t feel so alone.

I didn’t understand most of the school material, struggled with constant distractions, and never saw the faces of my classmates. I turned my camera on in hopes that someone from the sea of Zoom profile pictures I stared at daily might see me and want to be friends. But not one of the 60 students in any of my eight classes ever turned their camera on. 

Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and as time passed by, I gave up. I turned my camera off, stayed in bed during class, and obsessively watched episode upon episode of Criminal Minds, fearing the silence without it. I desperately told myself that if I hung on for this year, things would be okay, but most days, I didn’t even believe that myself. I was utterly alone, and unless the COVID-19 pandemic magically ended, that would never change. My mom, who witnessed my demeanor change firsthand, was particularly concerned. 

On a cold December morning, two weeks after I stopped getting up for class, she told me:

“You can’t just stay in bed all day.” 

“Why not? What difference does it make if I get up? It’s not like I can go anywhere.” I retorted.

“You aren’t living; you’re just existing.”

“I don’t know what you want from me. There’s a global pandemic!”

“I just want you to be happy; you can’t be happy with your life right now.”

I knew she was worried. I saw it every time she looked at the dark circles under my eyes or the stained GAP shirt I wore more days than not. And she was right; I wasn’t happy with my life. I needed less time alone and something that fulfilled me. With no estimate on the beginning of in-person classes or extracurricular activities, my prospects were bleak. Or at least that’s what I assumed till I discovered bright red “Help Wanted” signs in almost every shop near my house. I thought that a job might reestablish some normalcy in my life. 

I learned quickly that the employment opportunities for a 14-year-old were extremely limited. In fact, there were only two establishments that hired teens that young: Harris Teeter and Chick-fil-A. I had little knowledge of either, but the promise of free chicken nuggets was enough for me; I sent out applications to four nearby Chick-fil-A’s. With the intense need for staff at the time, I signed the onboarding paperwork only two days after I applied. 

The Cameron Village Chick-fil-A, my Chick-fil-A, was a brick-covered two-story building with large clear windows that naturally illuminated the entire store. A blue and white striped awning shaded the patio, filled with uncomfortably hard metal chairs and matching tables. An American flag hung stagnantly on a pole near the store entrance, lowered to half-mast. It was the only exterior reminder that everything was awry, that the normal world was a far-off fantasy from my pandemic reality.

Inside, however, the jovial restaurant had been transformed into a quarantined nightmare.  Bright yellow caution tape mummified the dark red booths in the dining room, making it look like a crime scene. Instead of greeting hungry clientele, the indoor order-taking counter became a vessel for cleaning supplies and employee belongings. Signs on every wall listed the symptoms of COVID-19, and by each door sat a corporate-required log book of every employee’s temperature before work. Neon social distancing stickers littered the floor, invisible barricades ensuring employees stayed far apart. There were more boxes of masks on the counters than tubs of sauce, and the entire place reeked of disinfectant. It was the kind of smell that burned your nostrils even through a mask, a spicy mix of headache-inducing Clorox wipes and chemically lemon-scented floor wash. My eyes teared up almost every day during the first few months of my employment.

But despite the sterile environment, every employee looked happy; their eyes crinkled gently, signaling hidden smiles beneath the company-mandated cow print masks. The restaurant echoed with laughter, the light, effortless type only expected from children. Even the managers policing health regulations distributed by the CDC joked around as they watched over employees wearily. It was the kind of contentment I hadn’t seen since lockdown started, a contentment I didn’t fully understand until my training began.

The first station every employee learned was drinks. A deceptively simple-looking small space, only taking up half of a fake marble counter, the drink station required incredible speed. A successful drink maker navigated quickly between a large central soft drink machine, six dispensers of lemonade and sweet tea, and a rickety, ever-churning ice cream machine, all while keeping lids, cups, straws, lemons, cherries, stevia, and ice cream base stocked. For an uncoordinated and easily distracted teenager like me, this meant regularly spilled sweet tea, a myriad of incorrectly poured sodas, and an eternally empty bin of lids. It was never my strongest station, despite my skilled and patient trainer. 

 Elijah, the kindest person I’ve ever met, trained me on drinks. He had seven siblings, a talent for playing the tuba, and fluffy golden hair that covered his eyes when he waited too long for a haircut. His father was a pastor, and despite my non-religious background, I saw how his faith shaped every part of his life: he had a warm gentleness about him. It radiated through everything he did, from the soft smiles he gave me as my hands shook with the fear of slowing down the drive-thru to his reassuring voice as he showed me the Caramel Crumble Milkshake recipe for the seventh time. 

I was bewildered by his complete selflessness. He wanted nothing more than to make the people around him happy, especially me. He read ice skating romance novels even though he hated them because they were my favorite. When we walked around the city, he made sure I never got too close to traffic. Every time we went out for food, he insisted on paying. Elijah thought of me before himself. He became my best friend, and slowly, I started feeling a little less lonely. He was the first facet of my new life that left me contemplating the possibility of a pleasant future in Raleigh.

After drinks, new employees are sent to bagging, the complex art of properly placing chicken sandwiches in red paper bags with the correct sauces. This particular station consisted of a large metal work table with an assortment of fancy heat lamps that kept food from the kitchen warm until a bagger boxed it off for an awaiting customer. A small TV screen listed every order with its entrees, sides, and sauces. If an order stayed on screen for longer than three minutes without being completed, a sharp chime sounded from the TV, alerting the on-staff manager to slow work; this particular feature–as a girl who constantly feared upsetting an authority figure- scared the crap out of me. 

Kacey trained me on bagging. He was quiet, the kind of person nobody noticed in a crowded room. He avoided talking at all costs, communicating almost only with subtle brow lifts and firm head nods. I only saw him on Friday nights when I worked past seven since he was exclusively a night shift manager. I thought maybe he chose late shifts because, at that point, exhaustion squashed most people’s desire for a conversation. Kacey was in his late 30s with a dark buzzcut that showcased his receding hairline. He wore the same dark blue colored polo shirt every day, which was meant to distinguish him from his red-shirt subordinates but only made him blend in further with the inky darkness of the night sky.

The more time I spent with Kacey, the more I learned about him. I noticed the ever-present dark circles underneath his eyes and his complete lack of care for anything anyone did. I watched him open and then close his mouth often as if his own words had no value to those around him. I never saw him smile or laugh; I barely ever heard him talk. Kacey was depressed. But even on his darkest days, when his eyes were rimmed with crimson, and his breathing was so labored it seemed like a chore, he came to work. He never missed a single shift. So, on the days when getting out of bed seemed pointless to me, I still got up because I knew, somewhere across town, Kacey did, too.

Drive-thru order-taking was the last of three major stations every employee must master; it combined the speed of drink making and the accuracy of bagging all into a tiny iPad and credit card reader. I spent over a hundred hours on the thin cement sidewalk that lined both lanes of the drive-thru as I took orders while simultaneously walking each car up the uneven pavement. I was naturally talented when it came to all things drive-thru; I was quick, precise, and prevented all customer complaints with a well-timed “my pleasure.” Those two dark asphalt lanes became a second home to me; they were my domain.

My love for the drive-thru, however, came from more than just my naturally nimble fingers and silver tongue; it started with Dylan. 

Think of the stereotypical image of a frat guy; that’s Dylan. A junior at NC State studying business, he had spiky black hair perpetually concealed by a red backward-facing baseball hat. He always made inappropriate jokes and talked about the parties he planned on attending after work. Dylan was the ultimate symbol of college life and adulthood, which simultaneously scared me and made me want to grow up faster. He was a terrible influence and probably my parent’s worst nightmare, but, of course, this only made me idolize him more. 

In comparison to him, however, my drive-thru skills were amateur. Taking orders was second nature to Dylan. He weaved gracefully through traffic as his fingers flew across the iPad screen in front of him without ever looking down. During training, he told me his speed depended entirely on remembering the precise location of every menu item, including hidden gems like the heart-shaped nugget tray. Yet, no matter how long I spent memorizing, I never obtained Dylan-level speed.  

In some ways, he was the closest thing I ever had to a big brother in that, most days, he irritated me beyond belief. A non-exhaustive list of “Annoying Things Dylan Did To Me” included sending me to drinks during every dinner rush we worked together, making fun of the books I read on break, and radioing down to the drive-thru with fake customer complaints he made up about me. But every so often, usually, when I saw him taking orders at an ungodly speed, I wanted to be just like him. The thought of becoming as cool and talented as Dylan made me look forward to the future and focus less on the gloomy present.

My Chick-fil-A career ended one short year after it began. In that small window of time, I witnessed the dining room reopen, got promoted to a trainer position, and met some of the most interesting and genuine people I know. Even now, three years after I quit, when I have a bad day, I often end up in my car at the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, hoping that I’ll see a familiar face or simply remember the place that became my second home during my first year in Raleigh.

Out and About – Maddy Goldstein

Benya Wilfret

I felt his penetrating gaze scrutinizing me, scouring my face for any discernible clues. I slowly raised my head, locking eyes with him, his icy stare piercing into mine with unwavering intensity. I found myself incapable of any movement. His intricate web of wisdom ensnared me, its delicate strands wrapping around me with a suffocating hold, overwhelming my senses and leaving me entrapped in this cerebral entanglement. With each second a new strand pulled taut, enveloping me with a new constricting embrace. With a determined effort, I tore back against his gaze, winning back my autonomy from his strangling grip. I have to think. I turned my head back towards the chess board, analyzing the intricately carved wooden pieces lying on the old wooden board. 

The pieces danced throughout my mind conducting a symphony of deliberate moves, harmonizing into an ensemble of strategic ruin. Shattering the beautiful composition, my grandfather’s disapproving voice reverberated across the room, his viscous Ukrainian accent slathering the room with disdain.  “Don’t got all day now,” he uttered, his impatience nearly tangible. 

My lips contorted into a scowl as I grasped my knight, guiding him through his predetermined L pathway, poised to trap and outmaneuver my grandfather’s pawn. Without wasting a second, my grandfather’s eyes traversed across the board, concocting a counterattack that would inevitably ensnare me. 

As his brain was consumed with the task of beating me, I lifted my gaze and analyzed my grandfather’s aged countenance. His face, weathered and knotted like the bark of an elderly tree, bore an uncanny resemblance with that of a sea sponge. His beard, unruly as the untamed wilderness, conjured a man who has removed himself from the harsh constraints of civilization. I could only wonder what tales hid beyond his arcane face, yearning to learn the mysteries underlying his past. 

My family kept much of my grandfather’s life hidden from me, with many members unaware of his concealed past. Born with an exceptional intellect, he was forced towards engineering. Amidst the brewing tensions of the Cold War, he became a part of history, participating in the renowned space race between the Soviet Union and the United States. Unfortunately, soon after, my grandfather’s life took a far more twisted turn. As poverty increased in Ukraine, my grandfather’s greed overtook him. He began working more suspicious and unethical jobs within the USSR. Much of the storyline is unknown, but my grandfather would often leave his family to develop classified innovations for the Soviet military. 

While my grandfather’s contributions to society may have been significant, as a young child I couldn’t help but acknowledge the equal amounts of destruction that he may have wrought. Even with the unconditional love of a child’s innocence, I became skeptical.

 Bringing my attention back to the game, I watched my grandfather bring his impish bishop into play, manipulating the board into a labyrinth of complexity. As he brought his cigarette to his mouth, he smiled, understanding that he had successfully triumphed against my feeble attack. 

Dejected from his intellectual force, I slouched down in my chair and sipped my steaming black tea, its bitter herbal taste a temporary distraction from the recent loss. Despite the setback I remained undeterred. While my grandfather prepared his move, I mirrored his thoughts in my mind, strategizing and preparing my response. 

Although my grandfather’s intelligence was remarkable, it did not exempt him from having his shortcomings. During my adolescence, my grandfather frequently underestimated me, certain of his great intellect. With this realization I realized I could set a trap, relinquishing one of my pieces to capture an even greater one. If I misjudged the board and the plan didn’t act accordingly, it would surely result in a loss.

I timidly acknowledged the risk and moved my knight directly in the path of my grandfather’s bishop, its regal silhouette piercing the grey smoke emanating from his cigarette. Afraid to give away my plan, I refused to make eye contact, instead directing my gaze towards my tightly clasped hands. I intertwined my fingers, squeezing them together as hard as I could. My knuckles grew pale, the blood cells retreating as if they were soldiers called back from a raging battle. 

Mustering all my confidence I hesitantly looked up. As I saw my grandfather’s face I couldn’t help but release a light giggle. My grandfather was smiling. Exuberantly he crossed his bishop across the board toppling down my horse, removing it from the battlefield with a vibrant crash. With a radiant smile, I quickly used my pawn to capture his bishop, solidifying the brilliant exchange. Arrogantly I offered my hand to my grandfather, gesturing for his surrender. 

Furrowing his brows together he disdainfully slapped my hand away and lit another cigarette. He puffed on it furiously as though he expected Gary Kasparov to materialize in the smoke, ready to guide his hand to the best move. My grandfather did have one more shortcoming – he did not handle losses gracefully. 

Quite livid, he moved his pawn a step further, directly opposing my queen. A stupid move, it was clear that I could capture it with my bishop. With swift precision, I maneuvered my bishop to counter his, seizing yet another one of his pieces. My grandfather’s frustration intensified with every move, his once imposing army dwindling, and his options diminishing. 

After this, the speed of the game began to exponentially increase, my grandfather making more and more reckless moves and me knocking down his pieces one by one.  Next to the board lay a vast graveyard in which laid my grandfather’s once robust army, a haunting testament to their valiant yet futile struggles against my relentless army. As the destroyed pieces bore witness to the onslaught of my attacks the atmosphere around the chessboard grew increasingly charged. 

The weight of its impending climax lingered in the air, heavy and potent, a pendulum at the peak of its swing poised to determine whether I would be reaching victory or defeat. With delicate precision I cradled my queen between my thumb and forefinger, seeking the perfect destination for her regal power. 

Finally, I saw it; my eyes discerned her triumphant path, deftly sliding her across the board to the white and black encampment where she would reside. The beauty of this decision lay in the restraint it imposed on my grandfather. Simultaneously targeting his rook and king I forced him into a macabre retreat, compelling him to yield his king as I seized control of his rook. 

The sweet taste of victory enveloped me as I maneuvered my queen and rook, cornering my grandfather’s king in an inescapable checkmate. A surge of elation washed over me, every fiber of my being reveling in the triumph of outwitting my grandfather. The man could perform mathematical calculations at its highest level, create instruments that put men in space, and even create machinery of mass destruction, but he could not beat his eight-year-old grandson at the simple game of chess.

 I raised my fist triumphantly, a wide smile adorning my face as I eagerly scanned my grandfather’s expression, hoping to find the unmistakable glow of pride in his eyes. But all I witnessed was sadness, a reproachful disgust etched upon his face. As my smile began to fade my grandfather silently placed his pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket and withdrew to the solitude of the front porch.

In that bittersweet moment of ambivalence, I almost wished that I hadn’t won. Although we often did not show it, I cherished my grandfather. I loved these war-like chess battles, I loved listening to his vast collection of eccentric music, and I loved hearing his almost unbelievable stories. Above all else, I yearned for the affection and warmth only a grandfather could give. 

For many years until his passing, I attempted to play chess with him again. Despite my countless attempts, that fateful match remained the last game of chess he would ever play with me. In every chess piece’s move, I find echoes of our silent conversations, a legacy of love and complexity in every strategy.  Rest well Deda.