The Monroe College Art Collaborative Club

New Rochelle Art and Technology Event!

City of New Rochelle to Host on Art & Technology Event this Weekend

 As part of the work underway to create a thriving arts and technology culture in downtown New Rochelle, the city is presenting a two-day event this weekend to bring together artists, technologists, and other creative visionaries for a series of classes, workshops, talks, performances, and celebratory activities.

Named The Spectral Event, this unique event next Saturday and Sunday will showcase the role that art, technology, and new media can play in strengthening future communities. The city has invited a number of creative leaders in the fields of creative technology, interactive media, design, urban planning, data science, and the virtual and augmented reality space to lead the various conversations. Monroe College is proud to serve as a sponsor and host for some of the workshops and sessions.

While there is a fee to participate, INTERESTED STUDENTS MAY RECEIVE COMPLIMENTARY ADMISSION  by contacting Dean Carol Genese at (or just drop by the Academic Center in Main Hall).

The New Rochelle Public Library will host keynote addresses both days at 10:30 am and 4:00 pm; these talks are open to the public (no charge).

Interested students, faculty, and staff are encouraged to check out the planned activities.



The Spectral Event





Thank you all for coming to the Open Mic Night Thursday, July 13th! We had a great time at the Barnes and Noble on campus.  A highlight was a rendition of “Alexander Hamilton” from the musical “Hamilton”. Enjoy the pictures and see you at the next event!


Spring Writing Contest: 3rd Place


By Nickoy Montaque

The suffering and pain my mother went through with her battling of diabetes is considered an unforgettable experience. It led to her departure from this life and has given the family a horrible wound. It has been one year and thirteen days and I know it is by God’s help we are getting through such an experience.

In 2012, when my mother began to lose her vision, it started to be very difficult and stressing for the family. I began to feel doubt and become fearful of the worst happening to my mom, which is her going totally blind. The diabetes had started to deteriorate her organs more and more. I was now in 5th Form at school and felt helpless, going all over Jamaica to seek a solution for her to regain her sight. We tried everything requested by doctors but nothing was effective enough, so her sight got worse as the months and the days went by.

In 2014 things started to take a more drastic turn as doctors predicted she was heading down the “End Stage” of diabetes, which is renal failure. I started to take more responsibility regarding her care and made appointments for her to see kidney specialists. I was only eighteen. Luckily, I got in touch with the best kidney specialist on the island and made a consultation appointment. The consultation was very accurate. Her eyes became even worse, causing her to quit her job.  Her vision was down to 15%. That became very stressful on me as I was an only child. I knew school was no longer in play for me. My mom was later placed on a kidney transplant list, as recipient number thirty-five. It was hard but my family and I stuck by her side and gave our support, which led to her being less stressed.

Unfortunately, in late September 2015, she took a drastic turn. Her legs and face were severely swollen, which was a result of one of her kidneys totally shutting down. She had to be admitted in the hospital. Upon starting at home dialysis, it was proving not to be effective on her. I started to be petrified of the worst outcome of death. There was no progression with the treatment. She had okay days of little or no pain, and horrible days of constant pain. In April 2016, both kidneys failed. I became terrified. Doctors spoke of how little was left to be done. On May 11th, 2016, a horror story became real as my mom succumbed to this horrible illness of diabetes.

It has been a year and thirteen days but it still feels like yesterday. My family and I have experienced this. This is a story which has marked my life and motivated me.

Rest in peace, mom.

Nickoy Montaque is a Criminal Justice major here at Monroe College.

Spring Writing Contest: Runner-up


By Hilary De Silvia

2005, July 13

Hello, my name is Hilary. I am seven years old and I know everything.  There are approximately six gazillion people in the world but more than half live under water. No one listens to me because I am small and walk into things a lot. When I grow up, I’ll be a lawyer in the morning, a teacher in the noon and a scientist by night. If I feel like it, maybe I will be queen of the world. I will eat whatever I want to and mommy will not tell me I cannot eat the whole chocolate bar at once. By then, I will be older than Mike and Issy so they will not get more food than me.


Present Day

Dear Hilary,

You can’t eat chocolate every day for the rest of your life and live in a candy house because dying before the age of thirty from sugar actually happens. For your information, thirty is not middle aged as we thought, it’s actually fifty but people are just in denial about it. You won’t understand how to do your taxes even if you get all A’s in Math. There will never be an answer as to why we do Algebra and we will never need it.  That silver dollar you planted in the crusty dirt behind the clothes line is not going to sprout hundred dollar bills because you watered it with apple juice you didn’t want to finish. It’s not going to grow regardless of whether you add milk for calcium. Those VHS tapes with inaccurate fairytale plots will really screw you over. Why are you so gullible to believe a prince charming is going to show up on a white horse and beat up your brothers? We don’t even like horses or the color white and its impossible for you to “out-age” your brothers. They will always be older; that’s just the way it is.

Also, a day job doesn’t take less than thirty minutes to do. Barbie only switches careers every three hours because you have the mini outfits and no, you do not automatically know everything for the job once you’re wearing the right outfit with accessories. Better said, we need to take a test to study for four years to earn a doctorate in order to take another exam to be a practicing lawyer so you should start liking school more. For your betterment, please stop reading in the dark; we’ll need glasses by the time you’re thirteen but won’t admit it until sixteen. Maybe speak up some more in class too. If you read the book and not talk about it, the teachers won’t believe you.  I advise you to rethink that world domination scheme you have wrapped up in the closet since you will come to find out sleeping is very important to you. It’s two-thousand and seventeen and I wake up every day knowing how my day won’t go. So at least go dig up that silver dollar and put it in a piggy bank; better yet, put it back in mommy’s purse. It’s such a shame you’ll never receive this; it could have been a great wakeup call that you wouldn’t answer.

With Smiles,



Hilary De Silvia is an Honors Student and Criminal Justice major here at Monroe College.

Spring Writing Contest Winner

Mermanians vs. Humans

By Catalina Metellus

            “Dead! They’re all dead! Except for one, the one who wanted this, the one who watched it all happen, and I can’t blame him for it. More than half the human species is wiped out, and all for what? Because he wouldn’t listen, because he was too stubborn to understand what they wanted and what they needed. I need to put an end to this now before it’s too late, but first let’s rewind and I’ll explain how and why the war between two species began.”

I am Samantha Brown. I grew up in the wealthiest part of Beverly Hills with a wealthy family, and my father is the CEO of the Beverly Oil Company, (B.O.C), which has been passed down through four generations. Alexander Brown was my father’s name and he was the reason why the Mermanians wanted to destroy all humans. All of this could have been avoided if my father didn’t selfishly dump oil into the Pacific Ocean. I’ve always hated what my father was about. He would always say, “Samantha, people don’t always get what they want, but I do.” I never quite understood that. Yes, he was part of a huge establishment but why did he think that it was okay to have selfish mindset. So, I guess you can say that is why I was a troublesome child. For instance, in the third grade a girl with a blonde pixie haircut and a snaggletooth, had this beautiful 24 karat gold diamond bracelet. I knew it was 24 karats because she would brag about it every five minutes. Nap time came and I wanted that 24 karat gold diamond bracelet, so I slipped it right off her skinny little wrist and put it in my pocket. Another time was when I was in the sixth grade, my teacher gave me a bad grade on an assignment that I worked very hard on soafter school I slashed all four of her tires. The reason behind me doing this was that I knew my father could get me out of trouble, because like he always says, he gets what he wants. In the ninth grade there was this hideous, fat, stupid, beast, named Carol. Every day I would throw dollar bills at her because she was poor and I was wealthy. Now I know you may think I am a heartless individual but you see at that age I did not care who I was hurting. But my senior year of high school is when everything changed. I met this guy named Nicholas Sinclair; he became my chemistry partner. He had big beautiful green eyes, long luscious brown hair, and the whitest smile. As the days went on and on we got closer and more into each other’s lives, but the strange thing was he would ask me about my father. One day as we were sitting in The Dot, a well-known café in the area, he suddenly asked me questions about what my father did for living:

       “So, what does your father do for a living?”

      “He owns an oil company!”

     “Oh cool, which one?”

    “The Beverly Oil Company.”

     “Oh, is that the one that dumps the oil in to the Pacific Ocean?”

As I was realizing where he was going with the conversation, I pulled him away from the subject by inviting him to my home.

     “So, hey! want to go to my place?”

     “Oh yeah sure.”

We got to my house and it was empty, and I decided to show him around. After showing him my game room, tennis court, swimming pool, hot tub, and finally my dad’s yacht,we decided to hang out in my dining room, when out of nowhere my father stormed through the door.

     “Who is he?”

     “This is Nicholas, my chemistry partner from school”

     “Why is he in my dining room?”

     “We were just hanging out.”

      “I do not want him in my home, when I am not here. Get him out!”

     “But father, we were just hanging out, I’m 18 I can have a friend over if I please!”

     “Who do you think you are?! You live in my house, under my roof, and you will abide by my rules.”

At that moment for some reason there were voices in my head saying, “The yacht, take the yacht and go.” He stormed out of the room and I quickly got up and told Nicholas, “Let’s go!” Baffled as he was, we both sprinted to the yacht and took off. After a while at sea, my father’s yacht suddenly malfunctions and started sinking. Not knowing Nicholas was behind all of this the whole time at that moment I turned looking for him to tell him about the safety boats, he was nowhere to be found. I went inside while the yacht was sinking and finally found him and he was just staring at me. There was something about his eyes that wouldn’t let me look away; his eyes were glowing purple and it was making me feel weird, I knew this because I’ve never felt that way before and I slowly dosed off. When I woke up I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, it was so beautiful, it was a whole new world but underwater, I actually was convinced that I was dreaming or going crazy because of the trauma of my father’s yacht sinking. When I finally came into realization that this was all real, I realized I was wearing a clear slim mask that was allowing me to breathe underwater. I turned to see Nicholas with a mermaid tale that was unbelievably beautiful and I could not believe my eyes, because the guy I liked and knew throughout high school was a merman.

     “I am Nixon Clearwater, and this is Mermania a world deep under water”

     “Why am I here?”

     “You are the key to all of our troubles.”

     When he said “ours” I looked around to see no one with him.

     “I’m sorry, but ours? There is no one around but me and you.”

     “That’s what you may think, but there is a whole world of us Mermanians.”

That’s when he made a weird siren sound and the water lit up and showed different types of mermaids and mermen. I was so mesmerized by everything around me and I had so many questions, but I first wanted to know what Nixon meant when he said “I” was the key to their troubles so I proceeded to ask him what he meant by that, and he explained about the oil spills killing his people and destroying his world.

     “You see, your father’s company is dumping oil into the Pacific Ocean, and as it comes down it enters Mariana’s trench. Mariana’s trench is the deepest part of the Pacific Ocean and that’s where my world is.”

     “I don’t think my father means any harm.”

     “But you see he does. I’ve been watching your family for years, mainly your father, and I’ve come to realize that he cares for no one but himself, and that ends now.”

It all made sense now why he became so close with me, why he pretended to be so interested in what my father did, why he agreed to come to my house, and why I heard voices in my head telling me to take my father’s yacht. It was all a set up.

     “It was you wasn’t it? The voice telling me to take my father’s yacht, so you can bring me here to prove a point. Wait… what do you mean that ends now?”

     “If your father does not stop dumping oil into my ocean a war will start, and I will be the one to start it, and yes it was all me, I had to find a way to bring you here, I couldn’t just kidnap you and bring you here against your own will. So I used your anger towards your father.”

     “A war? Okay! Send me back and I’ll talk to him, I’ll make him stop.”

     “Okay, but I shall warn you, if even you cannot stop your father from dumping oil into my ocean then no one will be able to. If he selfishly says no then the war will start between your species and mine.”

I wake up to realize I was back home and my father’s yacht was perfectly fine. I went straight to my father and I asked him why would he dump oil into the Pacific Ocean and continued to tell him that he was killing fish and underwater life. He told me he didn’t care and that as long as he’s making money and not getting hurt then it’s not a problem. I could not believe what I was hearing. I never realized how selfish humans can be, especially my father, a man I looked up to at one point in my life, and now I can’t even bear to look at him. But I would not let it go, I needed for him to say he would never dump oil into the ocean again, it was life or death and he didn’t even know it. After a while of me begging and bothering him he told me to get out of his face.

     “Why is this so important for me to stop dumping oil into the ocean, does it affect you in anyway shape or form? Is it hurting you?

I didn’t know how to answer that without telling him what I saw down there, and about Nixon and the war he plans on starting. So I stood quiet, and watched him walk away and there was nothing I can say or do to stop him. Then it started, what I feared, what I tried preventing but couldn’t, it was the war Nixon warned me about if my father told me no. The ground started to shake as it split in half, the ocean rose as high as the sky and all I saw was Nixon with a thunder staff striking people with lightening and killing them. Then the rest of the Mermanian species came out with him and started attacking the humans.

     “I warned you Samantha, I had no choice I have to protect my people and if that means wiping out yours then that’s what I’ll have to do.”

I ran as far as I could to hide, the human race was being wiped out right in front of my eyes, one by one and all I kept thinking was this could’ve been avoided if my father just listened for once. My father was the first one to go, I didn’t know whether to cry or get angry because it didn’t have to be this way. I stopped running and thought to myself I didn’t want to make the same mistake my father made. Now that everything is explained up until now, back to what I was saying.

      “Dead! They’re all dead! Except for one, the one who wanted this, the one who watched it all happen, and I can’t blame him for it. More than half the human species is wiped out all for what, because he wouldn’t listen, because he was too stubborn to understand what they wanted and what they needed. I need to put an end to this now before it’s too late. My father is the reason for this war and it my responsibility to end it, so I will.


Catalina Metellus is a Criminal Justice major here at Monroe College.


Spring Writing Contest Reminder

Hello Monroe Writers!

The deadline for submitting work to the Spring Writing Contest is Friday July 9th–TWO DAYS FROM NOW! Get out your pens and pencils, power up your laptops, and submit!

Benedicto Santana

“Flaming Eye” by Benedicto Santana.

More Free Books!

The resident book cart now has an entire row of Graphic Novels! Come to Huguenot 140 Offices and grab some books!


Benedicto Santana

Benedicto Sanatana is an aspiring Computer Science Theorist with a hobby of drawing art. He mostly likes drawing abstract art. When not attending classes at Monroe College, he usually finds himself with a pencil and drawing whatever he sees in front of him. He is graduating from Monroe with his associates degree in December 2017 and returning to finish his masters.

Dear Mother

By Linn Siljebo

Dear Mother,

I never missed any of you.

Now that we are finally far enough apart, in a place where you cannot find me—whether I am safe or unwell—I am able to tell you exactly how well I’m doing; how happy I am; how I haven’t quite missed you, or anyone.

I used to feel guilty for not missing anyone, because isn’t it true that I am supposed to? You and Father raised me with the intention that I grow up to want to be near; that I feel obliged to take care of you both as you grow older, like you did me when I was younger; that I love you as you love me.

It took me awhile to understand what those seemingly random dreams were about; when I repeatedly dreamed that I was still in a relationship with a previously important person in my life, whom I had somehow forgotten. In those dreams, I would suddenly recall a person whom I used to care about, that we never really did break up, did we? And that awkward, long overdue, breakup phone call was only my voice asking questions like how they had been doing, why we hadn’t spoken in three years, and whether I still had their phone number at all. With those voices pushed out of my mind and safely forgotten, I was merely an inadvertent cheater who felt guilty for not having felt guilty, while performing an accusatory monologue in front of a non-existent audience.

But I remember all of your voices. I just never missed you.

I gathered the courage to write you this letter now, because I figured that I’m finally far away enough from you to hear you sob in my ear, and that you’re too far away from me to hear me hang up the phone. But if it makes you feel any better, you should know that I kept my ensuing cross-country move to myself with difficulty, even though I knew you would hold me back, had I uttered a word. If it makes you feel any better at all, I would have you note that only three people knew about my move, where you were not one but I was. Another person was a priest. And yes, I am aware that God is with me wherever I go.

It was already late afternoon by the time I had finished packing the last of my belongings into the car, as I had severely misjudged the time it would take me to carry my belongings down the steps of three floors before meticulously filling every available space inside of my trusty old 1984 Volvo like a careful game of Tetris. The snow was already coming down, and I was to expect bad weather driving south.

If I told you back then that I nearly drove the car off the road during the storm, you would’ve stayed awake those coming nights, while also pondering all of the other unrealistic what-ifs you could conceive of in one sitting. But you should rest assured that I was being quite realistic with regards to my endurance as a winter night-driver, and had already booked a room at a hostel to spend the night somewhere mid-way to my new home.

You see, I may hurt you, but I will never disappoint you.

There was a feeling of constrained freedom and contained peacefulness while my presence occupied that small, red-carpeted hostel room, to the extent that I didn’t really want to sleep but rather savor that lone moment. But fear not, Mother—I slept. There was a new life to begin that following day, and I remember finally reaching the city when dark had imposed yet again, trying to find the way to the house where I would be staying for that first week; how the unfamiliar bends and road exits had my cell phone slide off my lap and fall onto the car floor where it remained out of my reach; how the phone falling down reminded me of Father’s story of his drunken brother, who once dropped a cigarette on his car floor and insisted on picking the cigarette up while still driving, and how Father was forced by their parents to get the poor, little brother’s car out of a ditch in the middle of the night yet again; how I wasn’t necessarily sure I was doing the right thing anymore, as the voice of the cell phone GPS continued to guide me through that mid-week evening.

One shouldn’t linger too much in the past; just move ahead. I try not to linger in the past, but you linger, always.

I sometimes consider the time that can be seen as wasted, and how things perhaps weren’t supposed to have turned out the way they did. I also consider all this good, and I consider all this good only being good because it’s supposed to be. Things always turn out how they should, I think—I hope! —but I mourn. I mourn that my “supposed to” doesn’t match yours. I mourn you mourning me.

Should you happen to see me on the street—somewhere and in many years from now—I will merely be a stranger you somewhat recognize the facial features of. Your presence will be intrusive as always, and your sense of entitlement to asking questions will be invasive as ever. And when you look closely enough, you will see that I have been a stranger for years.

I am a stranger you mistakenly think you know.

It sometimes overwhelms me how much has changed, all the ways in which I’m different now—the polar opposite of the depressed teenager who hid away in a dark room for years; diametrically opposed to the person who was guilted into staying down, much like a dog, careful not to achieve too much, or wander too far away from the safety of a home once broken. I often times struggle to understand how you seem to be the same person still—or worse. Perhaps that was your change as human beings. If change is a direction, you went backwards. And you just keep going, either knowing you’re lost or not knowing any better. I struggle with that, too, because there was a period of time where I still had hope that things would be better for you; that your lives would be better, if not as good as mine was turning out to be; that you would finally come to the same realization as I in that the goodness of your hearts does not exist to the extent you believe it does. Or perhaps you always knew that, but you just submitted to the path of least resistance. Is that what happened?

There was a time when I tried, and I mean really tried, to fix you. I had such hope, even. I felt that it—and I—made sense in my unrelenting wish to get you back on track with what truly is important, so that I could mend a fence or two for you to reach the brighter side unscathed. It is ironic how your sedentary wills allowed a rotten piece of that damned fence to impale me, as if I was the sacrifice to ensure that ignorance remained your bliss. I wanted to open your eyes; how I tried to pry those eyelids open to how it really was all you and not in the least bit me, not yet understanding that I could only save myself and not you.

I regret how you didn’t bother. I don’t know what you regret. I don’t want to know.

I no longer care to know the measures required to fix you. Only my eyes were bluer than yours.

Perhaps I should find comfort in knowing that there are things that will never change. There is a place I can come back to if I want to, but you made me not want to. How can I be homesick when I don’t have a home?

Perhaps said comfort should be found in knowing that you will remain the same, that I will always know you, and that I will always know who you are. You never aimed to be anything different. I will always know you, like I always have. And I’m certain that you want to know me, because you try to and if you succeed in fooling yourself, maybe you will know me eventually. I know you and you think you know me, and there was a time when I wanted you to know. There was a time when I thought you knew me. But I was always the one to go my own way; always the one who was different from others—the one you sometimes felt like you had to make excuses for.

Do you remember when you gifted me that picture of me walking down the spring-flood trail to reach the river at the bottom of that hill? I still remember that late, summer afternoon, with the sound of the water roaring in the distance; the color of those silent water drops up-stream, which hurried past everything and anyone who was possibly near, only to dive head-first into those rocks before the drop. But no end is nigh while time continues to pass.

I remember knowing that as I was walking down that hill I had walked a few hundred times previously, something was happening behind me. It wasn’t until later, when I saw the picture you had taken with your little, old, camera that I found out what that strange, tingling feeling at the back of my neck was. You gifted me the picture the following Christmas—framed and all—while talking about how I have always been the one to choose my own path. I always hated that off-center picture with the afternoon sun-glare—or perhaps it was the tip of your finger that ever so slightly covered the camera lens—because you chose that beautiful, early summer evening to take a picture of me while I was wearing flannel pajama pants and Father’s old t-shirt with a hole in it. Perhaps you noticed that I never hung that picture frame on my wall.

The macabre part about time is that it passes us so quickly. Perhaps I will dare to be less cold to you one day, and perhaps one day I will come around. Perhaps I will see you again—one day. Perhaps I will stop by unannounced, because even though I hate every moment of being around you, I somehow used to forget that very same thing at the thrill of the surprise and smiles on your faces.





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