My name is Liv Cohen and I have one semester left at Middlebury College (I refuse to use the term super-senior Feb; I am sorry, it just makes me squirm, but that is beside the present point). The point is that I remember Middlebury in the fall of 2019 with all of the startling clarity of a terrified freshman. It was the last semester before the shit hit the fan, if you will, and one of the last semesters that Blackbird Literary and Visual Arts Journal was a vital part of campus life.
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The heavy thud of the balls against the glossy gym floors. The shiny squeak of tennis shoes. Grunts and laughs and the haunting melodic tones of Roscoe Dash and Waka Flocka Flame’s “No Hands.” This is intramural (IM) basketball. This is a haven. This is what I call home.