This document is a personal essay by Melissa Dittrich about her experience using disposable cameras. She recalls how her mother always used disposable cameras at events when she was younger, which drew attention. Now as an adult, Dittrich finds herself using disposable cameras at parties and work. While not very economical, she enjoys how disposable cameras require snapping just one photo rather than taking multiple shots like with digital cameras. Developing the photos later creates a fun sense of anticipation not found with digital photos.

2. As we approach The California Aggie Newspaper’s
100th year of production, we must consider how far Davis
as a city and campus has come. We have truly grown as a
campus community and it is important we have a medium
to share our stories and personal narratives to continue to
flourish.
The Centennial Magazine is a monthly online
magazine that will feature personal essays, investigative
reporting, cultural commentary, photo essays, music, art
and more. We hope to capture, preserve and celebrate the
essence of Davis and the individuals who contribute to our
community.
As the editor of The Centennial Magazine, I invite
you to share your experiences and stories. There is power in
the written experience.
Please email us at magazine@theaggie.org to ask us
any questions, engage in philosophical debates and submit
your writing. Check us out online at The Aggie | Online
Newspaper for each monthly edition.
Sincerely,
Gabriella Hamlett
Editor, The Centennial Magazine
Note from
the Editor
Gabriella Hamlett is the Editor of The Centenni-
al Magazine. She is a third-year Psychology Major,
B.S. Quirky socks and clogs, the fiction section of
the New Yorker and lavender oil make her happier
than they should. You can usually find her at strange
hours of the day in The California Aggie office. To be
her pen-pal or share submissions for The Centennial
Magazine, contact her at magazine@theaggie.org.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
EDITOR
Gabriella Hamlett
ART DIRECTOR
Jennifer Wu
WRITERS
Melissa Gaherty, Eli Flesch, Camille
Woods, Melissa Dittrich, Anisa
Bashiri, Jacob Siegler, Sydney
Cohen, Kristine Nødgaard-Nielsen,
Ryan Reed, & Scott Dresser
GRAPHIC DESIGN TEAM
Sandra Bae & Tiffany Choi
PHOTOGRAPHERS
Anisa Bashiri, Melissa Gaherty,
Melissa Dittrich, & Jennifer Wu
ILLUSTRATORS
Shaina Forsman, Sam Reisman, &
Evan Liley (cartoonist)
04 JAKE, YOU DAMN DOG
10 DID THE FLASH GO OFF?
14 THE PARADOX OF AMERICAN FRIENDLINESS
18 DRUNKEN THOUGHTS FROM INSIDE EL BURRITO ON
22 FIRST BORN SCREW UP
24 EBB & FLOW
28 TALKING TO STRANGERS: NEW FAMILIARITY
30 I USED TO BE A GOOD CHRISTIAN WOMAN
32 JUDAISM FAQ
36 OFF THE COURT, ON THE RECORD
38 CARTOONS: RE-REANIMATION
THE EVE OF MY 20TH BIRTHDAY
32

3. Jake, You Damn Dog.
By Melissa Gaherty
54

4. high. Kids and families swarmed around the puppies,
most coming in for a brief moment, admiring their cute-
ness and then leaving without further interest. Not me, I
was in love. I planted myself in the middle of them all,
petting and playing with them, believing that I would
go home with one in my arms.
I strategically talked to the owner who told me
that six of the puppies had already been claimed and
pointed me towards the two that were left: one male and
one female. Both had similar coloring, all black except
for hints of white and brown markings throughout their
fur. I gravitated towards the little, clumsy male who had
a big white spot behind his neck, contrasting with the
blackness of the rest of his fur. He was one small ball
of fluff, running frantically and biting softly at every-
thing that touched him. When he got excited, he tried
to run around in circles. During
this motion, his hind legs were of-
ten faster than his front legs, so he
ended up gradually turning side-
ways and tripping over himself.
I played with him and held him
for hours. When I picked him up
his big brown eyes looked at me
with innocence and immediate
love while he stuck his tiny pink
tongue out to lick the entirety of
my face. I did not even notice the
grossness of his slobbery kisses; I
was in heaven.
“Time to go, Melissa.”
Both of my parents waved me out-
side of the pen, refusing to step inside.
“Dad, just come in and take a look at him. I
promise, then I’ll leave.”
After a 30 minute argument between the entire
family, my dad signed some papers and paid the origi-
nal owner. We were allowed to pick up the puppy, who
we named Jake, the following week after he grew a bit
bigger. My dad still teases me to this day, saying he will
never forgive me for that trick I pulled.
From that moment on, Jake was a part of the
family and not to mention, just as my dad had warned
me, a daily responsibility. Whenever he could escape
the house he would sprint down the street, eager to
chase down any cat or squirrel in sight. He often man-
aged to break free from our backyard by digging a hole
beneath our wooden fence. The main concern was he
did not see cars as a threat. A couple of times I found
him sitting or lying down in the middle of the street,
stopping oncoming cars. Most dogs would run away
from an approaching car, but my stupid dog would not
move a muscle, even as the driver honked repeatedly
at him. Jake would stare at the car blankly, as if to say
“Actually, I’m pretty comfortable here so you should
go around.”
Jake maintained this prince-like attitude for his
entire life. My dad had a very strict rule that Jake could
not sleep on the furniture; however, the couch became
his bedroom. His other rule was against feeding Jake
“people food,” until Jake was given steak and chicken
leftovers on a weekly basis as a result of his insistent
begging. Yes, my father could not resist spoiling Jake.
Slowly, as previously predicted, my dad became the
No. No. No. No. My eight-year-old self had
been all too accustomed to hearing the word no, but I
could not help but to continue whining, “Dad, can we
please get a puppy? Pleaseeeeeee?”
My heart pounded as I proceeded to jump up
and down. Every time I touched the floor my favorite
new tennis shoes lit up blue at the rims. I gave my dad
a look I thought he could never refuse, widening my
eyes and smiling big, as if the word “yes” would keep
me happy forever, or at least shut me up. But his only
response remained, “No way, Melissa. Do you know
how much responsibility a dog will be? And guess who
will end up walking it, feeding it and taking care of it
every day? Huh? I’ll tell you. ME!” I desperately tried
to refute him, saying I was perfectly capable of the re-
sponsibility since I was older now and could handle it.
Of course, my father saw right through my naive inten-
tions. However, this was not the end of the argument.
In fact, it was just the beginning of the story about my
dog, Jake.
A couple months later my parents made a big
mistake. It all started when they took me and my sisters
to a charity event for Multiple Sclerosis (MS) disease
in Half Moon Bay. The event was hosted at a ranch,
where we paid for a meal, musical entertainment and a
petting zoo. All the proceeds went to helping find a cure
for and fighting MS disease. The mistake was exposing
their obsessive daughter to a pen full of available pup-
pies without the intention of getting one. In my parent’s
defense, they were unaware that the host’s Australian
Shepherd had just birthed a litter of eight adorable ba-
bies. Immediately, I ran inside the pen and would not
leave for the next four hours until it was dark and time
to depart.
The puppy pen was big with multiple hay stacks
inside, all surrounded by a metal fence at least four feet
76

5. primary guardian of “my” dog. My father was the one
who fed, walked and looked after Jake.
Though my dad said he did not want this respon-
sibility, he loved taking care of Jake. The two of them
became inseparable due to their routine morning strolls
and nightly TV time together, where my dad would sit
in his armchair and Jake would lie at his feet. The dog
was the only family member who could pretend to like
any boring news show my dad put on. They were best
buds. Jake was all of our best buds.
Our dog became much more than just a dog. He
became the person we could go and rely on when we
needed to vent, when we needed a furry cuddle session
after a hard day, when we wanted to go on a walk or
hike but no one else was interest-
ed and when we wanted to jump
and run around celebrating.
Over the years both Jake
and I both grew up. I went from a
scraggly, awkward grade school-
er to an adventurous college stu-
dent while he went from an active
young pup to a greying, slow dog. My first two years
of college, I watched him get excited and jump onto me
when I arrived home. At a certain point, he could only
look up and wag his tail, struggling to stand and greet
me as usual. Though I noticed the signs of his aging, I
continued to believe he was invincible, that he would
always be there beside me.
It was May and I was back at school in Davis. I
was taking detailed notes during my Politics of Inequal-
ity lecture when my mom called, so I did not pick up.
I got a text that said: Can you call me when you get a
chance? I had various tasks to complete after class so I
did not call right away. Then she called again. I picked
up the phone this time and my mom was in tears. She
told me that Jake had a stroke and that she found him in
the bushes, his face buried beneath the leaves. “I have
no idea how long he has been out there all alone. Your
father and I are taking him to the vet. He seems to be
okay now, though….No honey, don’t come home yet.
Just wait to see what the vet has to say.” I had some
hope.
An hour later my phone rang again; I picked up
immediately. “Sweetie, he’s not going to make it.” My
heart stopped, my body shook convulsively and tears
streamed down my face. “Mom, I’m coming home. I’ll
find a ride, let me just ask my friends to borrow their
car.”
She responded with the painful words: “Melis-
sa, I’m so sorry, there is no time. The strokes are hap-
pening more frequently and they are getting worse. The
vet said waiting for you to put him down would be cruel
in his condition.”
“What? No. I can get there I’m
just going to ask my friends for a
ride, okay?” My voice was shak-
ing. I barely realized I had been
screaming into the phone. My
mom kept repeating that there
was no time while I desperately
looked for a ride. I hung up on
my mom and called everyone I knew explaining the sit-
uation; that I needed a car right now. A couple people
said their cars were broken and some said they could
give me a ride. I was gathering my stuff when I got a
yet another call.
This time it was my dad. He was crying and
said, “Melissa, listen to me, I know you want to say
goodbye in person but it is not possible. Jake needs you
right now to say goodbye. If it can’t be in person then
you must do it over the phone.”
My heart sank and I cried harder. I dropped the
random items I was carrying to pack for home, sat down
on my floor and put my head in my hands. I sobbed
over the phone until I could catch my breath.
“I’m putting the phone up to him now,” my dad
said.
My lips trembled as I imagined my childhood
friend strapped to a cold, white table. I pictured Jake
lying there, incoherent and in pain, desperately waiting
for it all to go away. There was nothing that could be
done.
“Hi Jake. It’s me, Melissa. Aw buddy you have
terrible timing,” I laughed in between sobs. “Remem-
ber all the times I tried to get you to play fetch and you
would just catch the ball, run away and bury it some-
where where I could never find
it? I would eventually give up and
just chase you around the back-
yard until we got tired and lied in
the grass together.After a fleeting,
relaxing moment, you would gain
more energy and jump on top of
me until I went to find the ball for
you again. I just want one more of
those moments with you.”
I paused, knowing what-
ever I said next would be the last
words he heard from me, if he
could even hear me. I like to think
he did. Finally I managed to say:
“Don’t be afraid now because ev-
erything is going to be okay and
I will see you again someday. I
love you.”
My family all said their
goodbyes into the phone for me.All of it was a blur. The
next few days I woke up with a pain in my chest, feel-
ing the loss of him. When I eventually arrived home, I
went out into the backyard. My dad was outside and I
looked over at him; all I could manage was a shoulder
shrug. We both had tears in our eyes, so he came over
and hugged me. “It’ll get better,” he said.
No one thinks losing a pet will be as difficult
as turns out to be in reality. However, it did get better
with time. Many days pass where I do not think of him
at all; other days little things randomly remind me of
him. When I think back on our times together, I rarely
feel sadness, but instead cherish all the memories we
had together growing up. The memories alone keep his
spirit and our childhoods alive.
To this day my dad still says: “Melissa, if only
you hadn’t tricked me into getting that damn dog. Then
we never would have loved him as much as we did.”
We both know we would never trade the experience of
owning, loving and losing Jake for a life without him.
Melissa Gaherty is a Centennial Magazine
contributor. You can reach her at
magazine@theaggie.org.
“Melissa, if only
you hadn’t tricked
me into getting that
damn dog...”
98

6. DID THE
FLASH
GO OFF?BYMELISSADITTRICH
At a party while my friends are looking away, I pull out a
Rite Aid brand disposable camera, wind it and press the
gray button at the top. They look over at the bright flash
in confusion while I laugh. Instantly I am taken back 10
years, looking into a crowd where I heard the whirr of a
camera being wound and a white flash blinded me as I
stood smiling, holding a certificate of graduation.
1110

7. Melissa Dittrich is a third-year English and Sociology
major, The Aggie’s Opinion Editor and an all around
pretty okay person! For questions about where to get
your disposable pics developed, she can be reached at
medittrich@ucdavis.edu.
That was my mom, always making herself known
in my elementary school audiences with her dispos-
able cameras, which made me want to hide in fright
because of how noticeable they were. While other
parents were switching to digital, my mom stuck with
the disposable, pointing out that I was her daughter
at every big event, with the bright flash and the loud
wind. I never thought that as an adult, I would be the
one visiting friends and showing up at work with a
disposable camera in hand.
I love pictures, but I don’t know a lot about film or
aesthetics. Part of this is because I’m too lazy to learn,
and too cheap to buy a real film camera (although de-
veloping disposable cameras is not very economically
friendly). I could just truly hone my skills with a digital
camera or my camera phone; however, something that
I’ve learned to appreciate as I’ve gotten older, perhaps
something that my mom has known for a long time, is
that there is a lot of fun in snapping one picture and
having that be it. On a disposable camera, there’s no
taking multiple pictures, standing around to get the
perfect shot unless you want to waste your film. Your
friends can’t ask you to see the preview and make you
retake it if they think they look bad. You take one pic-
ture and you’re done. If it looks good in the end then
that’s great and if it looks bad then at least you have
the fuzzy memory to prove you were there.
After getting a bunch of pictures back from Rite Aid,
Costco or Walgreens (wherever will develop them), I
get the best sense of excitement. I get to look through
all of the moments of a birthday party, a retreat or
a big event like Picnic Day and remember each one
exactly as it was when I took the picture. Even the pic-
tures that are blurry or dark evoke a sense of emotion
– I remember seeing that the flash didn’t go off after
I took the photo, that the room was especially dark,
or that my friend took it while she was running toward
me. These are raw moments that I can’t easily edit or
change – and that I don’t want to edit. Coming to this
revelation in the age of iPhones and digital cameras
has been exciting for me, and it makes me look back
with a new appreciation for all those years when my
mom made herself known in a crowd with the flash
and the wind of her disposable camera.
You take
one picture
and you’re
done.
1312

8. Pierre Noro, a French international student, felt
like an idiot. He must accidently have given the girl the
wrong number. A week had gone by, and she still hadn’t
called him.
He had met the dark-haired American girl in
front of Dutton Hall which she was drawing for a land-
scape architecture course. He gave her some advice,
and they ended up talking for three hours. When they
parted, the girl asked for his number.
Pierre worried she thought he was one of those
persons who just gives a fake number in order to escape
further action and decided to find her contact informa-
tion through the university directory.
“I only knew her first name so I bothered a few
people with my emails before I found the right person,”
Noro says. “We texted, and I asked her if she wanted to
go out for a drink. There was an awkward text silence
– the amount of time where you know it is impossible
that the person has not checked her phone – and in
the end she texted me and said she wanted to be my
friend.”
The Paradox of American Friendliness
BY KRISTINE NØDGAARD-NIELSEN
How foreigners interpret the friendliness
that Americans show strangers
Friendliness vS. the intention to be friends
Like many other international students, Noro
had encountered a friendly American who at the end
of the conversation asked for his number; and like
many other international students, Noro was surprised
to learn that Americans don’t expect a conversation
with a stranger to lead anywhere – that Americans ask
for strangers’ numbers without the intention of con-
tacting them.
“Americans exchange numbers and Facebook
and never hear back from each other. It’s puzzling but
they do it to show openness,” says Moira Delgado,
the Outreach Specialist for Services for International
Students and Scholars. “For Americans, when they
ask for your number, they are expressing a possibility
of a friendship, more than a promise to be in contact.”
Delgado is used to dealing with the different
culture clashes that occur when international students
arrive in Davis, and she recognizes Noro’s confusion.
In America, there is a paradox because an American
showing friendliness does not necessarily mean that
he/she has the intention to become friends. Mean-
while many internationals assume that the exchange
of phone numbers will lead to some kind of follow
through.
Peaches & coconuts
An analogy that has struck a chord with many
exchange students is the comparison of Americans
to peaches and many other nationalities to coconuts.
A colleague of Delgado once described how Ameri-
cans are peaches - they are soft on the outside, easy
to approach, but the pit is harder - it’s harder to get
to know an American really well and to create a real
friendship. In contrast, many other nationals will be
like coconuts. It is hard to get inside, but once you are
there, it is pleasant and you are real friends when you
have gotten through the tough exterior.
Jeehye Choi, a 20-year-old chemistry major
from South Korea, agrees with the peach analogy.
She wants to build close relationships, but she doesn’t
feel she can do that with Americans. They are peach-
es to her. It is too hard to get close to them. She also
thinks that the analogy describes Koreans:
“It fits a 100 percent. Koreans are definitely coconuts.
1514

9. If a Korean stranger smiled at you in the streets of
Seoul, you’d think he was really weird.”
Choi prefers that people are genuine, and that
they only smile if they mean it. In America, people
smile at strangers, but it is often not genuine:
“Americans are nice, they smile, and they try to help.
They pretend to be friendly,“ Choi says. “They have
an obsession with being nice to everyone, but I can
see if it is a fake smile. I’m not stupid. When Amer-
icans ask me how I am and I answer, they have a
certain smile. It’s big, but it’s bored if my answer is
too long or if the answer is not great.”
The origin of friendliness
Many foreigners are surprised to discover how
friendly Americans are when they arrive in America.
Strangers talk to each other, the cashier at the super-
market asks how your day has been, and you strike
up conversations with people who are standing in line
with you. For Europeans, who tend to keep a certain
distance from strangers, this at first is a welcome
change, but when they realize that “how are you?”
only means “hi,” they often see it as a lack of genu-
ineness from Americans.
Delgado points out that there is a historical
reason why Americans are friendly towards strangers.
Americans are a mobile people. Historically, they
have had to move around a lot, and they have needed
to make connections quickly, but also to be able to let
go of those connections. It also has to do with their
deep sense of being independent and not relying on
other people because once you have a deeper relation-
ship, you also become dependent on that person.
The ability to let go easily is not something that goes
unnoticed by international students.
“People are very nice and I like them but I
know the relationships won’t go any further. Ameri-
cans don’t care after you split up,” says Tina Rodri-
guez, a 23-year-old law student from Switzerland.
“Americans appreciate the moment, and when they
are there, they are there. They listen to you, but the
next day they have forgotten your name.”
The definition of friendship
An important factor is also how Americans
and internationals define friendship. Americans call
other people their friend very easily. It is a term used
loosely – perhaps because the English language does
not offer any viable alternatives. According to Delga-
do, “acquaintance” sounds too cold and too remote.
Especially among college students.
Evelyn Alper, a 21-year-old American na-
tional and food science major, somewhat agrees. Her
definition of a friend is someone who loves you for
who you are, who would help you in any situation,
and someone you have fun with, but she realizes that
she probably uses the term differently because most
Americans use it for both intimate friends and for
acquaintances.
“Americans use the word ‘friend’ for someone
they would say hi to and have a casual conversation
with,” Alper says. “Generally, Americans would call
somebody a friend even if they know the person is
not somebody who would be there in situations where
a real friend is needed.”
At first, many international students feel
happy that they so quickly become “friends” with
Americans, but the enthusiasm fades when they get to
observe Americans for a longer period of time and see
how easily Americans deem somebody their friend.
Quickly, the feeling of inclusiveness loses value.
“Sometimes I’m confused,” Choi says.
“Americans are always being nice so I don’t know if
we’re close or if there’s still a distance between us. I
prefer that people say honest things. If there’s some-
thing they don’t like about me, I wish they would just
say so. Americans are obsessed with being nice.”
What to do?
How do Americans and internationals tackle
culture clashes in the best way? One thing Delgado
points out is that a good idea is for both sides to con-
sider how they phrase their questions when they ask
questions about other cultures. Asking “how” ques-
tions and not “why” questions allow conversations
about any culture – like asking “How do you show
friendship in your country?” while “why” questions
limit the conversations and often sound accusatory
even if they were not meant to – like Why do you say
I’m your friend when you don’t mean it?”
Delgado points out that you also have to think
in the framework of a particular culture. It might be
true that asking a stranger “how are you?” in a su-
permarket in France would be superficial because
nobody cares about the answer, but in America it
would be considered rude if you didn’t say hi. In-
stead of feeling affronted, people should realize that
the characteristic they are looking for, for example
friendliness, might be missing in a person in a par-
ticular situation, but that it is often possible to find
that characteristic in the same person but in another
situation.
“If Americans analyze the French from their
American cultural reference, it is true that the French
appear cold and snobby, that they don’t engage in
conversation in public,” Delgado says. “If you go
back to America, it is true that somebody with that
behavior is rude, but in France it is not necessarily so.
Beware of what framework you are judging from.”
According to Delgado both Americans and
foreigners can learn from each other. Foreigners have
to realize that they have to take the initiative. If an
American says “we should go to a movie sometime,”
the foreigner should follow up and be specific. The
foreigner should ask which movie and which day.
Otherwise, it likely will not happen.
At the same time, Americans should learn not
to be afraid of taking part in deeper conversations
which they often refrain from because they don’t
want to cause conflict. In some cultures, it is okay to
discuss politics but Americans tend to be more guard-
ed.
“Internationals complain that Americans only
want to talk about sports and the weather, and it’s not
because they’re superficial, Americans just don’t want
to upset the balance,” Delgado says. “It’s okay for
some people to talk about politics.”
For Noro, who was rather disappointed by the
outcome of what he saw as a profound conversation,
his perception of Americans is somewhat pessimistic:
“I think Americans feel sociable by talking and ask-
ing for a phone number. They are satisfied with that.
They connect over banalities that don’t lead any-
where, and it becomes boring.”
Not all internationals are deterred by Amer-
icans and their easy-going friendliness. Tina Rodri-
guez is in America for the third time and has realized
that Americans rarely keep in contact, but she has
accepted that and now quite likes their behavior:
“I think I prefer the American way even
though it is fake. I like to see everybody smiling and
happy even though I know it is not possible that ev-
erybody is.”
1716

10. DRUNKEN THOUGHTS
FROM INSIDE EL BURRITO
ON THE EVE OF MY 20TH
BIRTHDAY
by Jacob Siegler
1918

11. I remember play-fights with playdough, sugar highs
off mango, Mama singing Aesop’s Fables and footsie
under the table.
I remember when I couldn’t read medication labels,
before Xanthem and Lipphomite, I remember Dragon
Tales and Zaboomafoo, I remember Marzapone and
Kryptonite.
I remember having wet dreams about Scooby Snacks,
saving three months of allowance to buy a walkman,
Arthur taught me to spell and, Elmo taught me to talk,
man.
I remember when religion was written out of Spa-
ghetti-O’s, the schoolyard was the only caste system I
knew and the closest thing to discrimination was not
letting Davin Rigly onto the top of the swirly slide
because he smelled like broccoli soup and cough
medicine.
IF I COULD I’D
KEEP THESE
FEELINGS IN A
PLASTIC JAR.
I remember tamagotchis and Pokemon, trying to get
a second on the jumbotron, and saying “shit” for the
first time.
I remember when I licked my first lime, and then spit
it out. I remember when conquering Oregon Trail was
the only part of my life I hadn’t figured out.
I remember eating ants for protein, when plots of
grass became playgrounds, I remember my first arm-
pit hair, the first pimple I squeezed, Gameboy Colors,
kindergarten lovers, being a little brother and the days
when cutting the milk line was the only action that
earned you the title of “cutter.”
I remember snackpacks more than snapbacks, Chee-
rios were my pick-me-up, Sunny D was my Vitamin
C, and otter pops weren’t cool because they were
cost-efficient – they were cool because Sami Peter-
son’s house always had the 200 pack and he was the
best at Arts and Crafts.
I remember when we used to do art in class, I re-
member when we used to “pass gas.” I remember
flatulence as a form of opulence where affluence was
accessed from initiating the ordinance of “whoever
smelt it dealt it.”
I remember when The Twin Towers fell. I remem-
ber when Papa died. I remember when I learned the
word cancer, when they broke Hanley because he
was a dancer. I remember when I got too high for the
first time, I remember my first cigarette, I remember
sitting on the edge of Sunset Cliffs with Eminem’s
“Stan” playing in my headphones and one foot hang-
ing off the bluff, my whole body telling me to jump.
I remember loneliness, and sad music, I remember
my cousin swearing that he’d stop using. I remember
looking at my 6-year-old self walk away from my life
and thinking, “ If I could I would keep this feeling in
a plastic jar.”
I remember play-fights with playdough, sugar beets
and mango, Mama singing Aesop’s Fables; man
where’d the good days go?
Listen, you can still hear yourself if you’re quiet. You
can still see yourself if you try. Turn your Sunny
D-colored tamagotchi onto that pimpled faced, Scoo-
by Doo-looking image of Arthur eating Spaghetti
O’s while peeing his pants during naptime, and you’ll
realize, that plastic jar hasn’t gone anywhere. In fact,
it’s right where you left it.
Jacob Siegler is a contributing poet for The Centennial
Magazine. He can be reached at magazine@theaggie.org.
2120

12. “It was the first time
I saw true disappointment
in their eyes. “
My vision was hazy but I could still see it clearly. I could feel heartbeat in my eyes and in my knees,
the tips of my fingers began to feel hot from coming into the warm car too quickly from the frigid street. I was
drunk, I was a liar, I was 16.
I sat silently in the front seat of the car as my dad navigated the quickest route back to our house. The
only thing that glowed were puddles of light cast by the sporadically spaced street lights. Everything else was
black, almost dirty looking, like the sky had sprayed a layer of soot over everything. The five minute car ride
felt like I had driven from my Bay Area home to Tahoe and back again by the time we pulled into the driveway.
All I wanted to do was crawl under my covers and never come out; surprisingly my parents obliged my
desire to disappear without me even saying it out loud. Both my parents told me they would deal with me in the
morning; I cried the whole night. Too scared to leave my room, I didn’t even shower, I just let myself lie awake
in my bed, skin and hair reeking of beer.
They ended up grounding me for two weeks, pure isolation and shame for two whole weeks. Worse
though was the silence. The air almost felt solid in my house, stiff with tension. It’s odd to say that it took 16
years to truly disappoint them, but it really had.
My parents used to get TIME Magazine sent to our house, they had caved to my magazine selling fund-
raiser for school and picked one of the only good magazines from list I was peddling from neighbor to neighbor.
I had read an article in TIME about birth order. The article stuck with me for years because I was the realiza-
tion of the first child they described. The first born was responsible, eager to please, had three more IQ points
on average than the child born after them and was usually taller and heavier at birth than later-born siblings. In
contrast later-born siblings were more willing to take risks and unafraid of disruption. That was me, eager to
please and responsible. It had become an expectation that I would always do the right thing, that I would always
over achieve, that I would always set a good example. It being an expectation, I played into it. I killed myself to
stay on honor roll, to balance three extra curricular activities, to have an impressive SAT score, and in the weeks
leading up to my grounding I started to question what it was all for.
It began to feel like too much, the expectations and the pressure that came along with fulfilling them.
Just once I wanted to do something selfish, something detrimental. I never intended to get caught though. Even
though I was sick of the expectations, I still couldn’t shake them loose. I still wanted to be the image of the per-
fect, responsible child they had in their heads.
My grounding passed. I got very well acquainted with the cracks in my ceiling and I had probably paint-
ed my nails a different color every hour of my “prison sentence,” which, like most things, also passed. The ten-
sion passed as well. The frozen air thawed, the business of my parents’ lives eased in the erasing of their anger. I
returned to my striving state. Reaching to fulfill expectations above and beyond.
Then I was so mad at myself for letting myself slip up. Looking back on that moment, I wouldn’t change
the situation. Feeling like a disappointment was truly awful, there’s no denying it, but slipping up and coming
out alive taught me that not being the person everyone expects you to be isn’t the end of the world. I am far
from conquering my need to please and unburdening myself for taking the responsible route 99.9 percent of the
time, but I am getting closer. There’s so much value in the achievements, but there can be equally as much in
the screw ups.
First Born Screw Up
by Sydney Cohen
2322

13. Ebb & FlowBy Anisa Bashiri
2524

14. While strolling through Golden Gate Park, a Pentax
K1000 hangs around my neck and film canisters fill my pockets.
I come across roller-skaters gliding in circles to French hip-hop.
I ask to take their picture, and the two smile and nod. I shuffle
and shoot, keeping up with their dance.
The ephemeral snapshots of Garry Winogrand and Henri
Cartier-Bresson, which I discovered during my black and white
photography courses in college, have inspired me to document
today’s street life in San Francisco. As I venture from Market
Street to Lands End, photography allows me to meet eclectic
people that are the ebb and flow of urban life. The medium em-
powers me to break through socioeconomic and racial barriers
that can often keep people from interacting. Photography is my
invitation to participate in the experience, to connect with new
people.
Mankind is a rich subject to photograph. Looking
through the viewfinder, I am fascinated by how I can engage
with a stranger within the frame. What in reality is a covert en-
counter, when preserved as a photograph, the moment is magni-
fied in its meaning. I have the luxury of being able to consider
the image and revisit that scene as often as I wish. Capturing an
instance in time is important to me because it satisfies my desire
to tell a story visually.
I go out to the city with little intention or expectation.
With camera in hand, I focus on my surroundings and am pres-
ent in the moment. To watch the skaters practice their choreog-
raphy, to hear the sound of their wheels rolling on the pavement-
-these are personal instances that I would not have been able to
experience if it weren’t for photography.
Photography demands patience and faith in the uncertain. I
don’t know what I’ve captured exactly, and I won’t know until I
develop the film. And that’s when I realize why I am a photogra-
pher. I am spontaneous, leaving the outcome to chance. Just like
my photographs, I live in the moment. The experiences that I’ve
had as a street photographer have expanded my worldview and
satisfied my innate curiosity about human nature.
2726

15. We’ve all at one time or another had the
experience of recognizing someone in public who
we know personal things about, though they have no
idea who we are. Sometimes this person is a friend’s
ex-partner we have seen in Facebook photos, some-
times they are a professor who will never remember
your individual face from a lecture hall of 500 stu-
dents and sometimes this person is just someone you
happen to pass by on your daily walk to work but
have never said hi to, yet you know they like their
coffee black and toast slightly burnt because, well,
you never see them without it when your paths cross.
I consider these people strangers, because as
long as they are unaware of my existence, I cannot
fully understand theirs. It’s never easy to approach
this type of stranger because I’m always afraid that
person will think I’m creeping on them (I swear
stalking is not part of my social repertoire — I just
don’t have enough time). Lately, though, I’ve taken
it upon myself to interact with these particular kinds
of strangers, especially if my recollection of them is
positive.
In fact, the other day I was in a waiting room
TALKING TO STRANGERSby Akira Olivia Kumamoto
New familiarity
and upon walking in, noticed a guy that I had seen
perform in a student-run show a few nights before. I
knew who he was, knew his name, but being a mere
audience member, he certainly did not know mine. I
decided I wanted to tell him how well he did, because
well, he had acted really well and I have always liked
making sure people know when they are appreciated.
I figure, if you can do something to let another person
know that they are interesting, important, or noticed
in a positive way, why not let them know?
The encounter was awkward at first. I sat
down next to the unsuspecting man and, unable to
get his attention at first, waved “hello” in his face. He
seemed confused and a little annoyed that someone
would try to start a conversation in a waiting room
(and it didn’t help that everyone else around us was
dead silent).
“You’re in Birdstrike,” I said to him. “I recog-
nized from the show the other night.”
I ended up telling him that they were really
funny and that I’d like to go again. He still seemed
somewhat concerned that an absolute stranger was
addressing him, and for a moment I thought I should
drop trying to converse with him altogether. Un-
fortunately for him, though, once I start something,
I always commit and follow through, even if that
commitment is an uncomfortable conversation (also, I
can’t handle awkward silence and tend to compensate
by talking…).
Like the derpy human I am, I started to ask
questions about his experience with acting while
cracking painfully unfunny jokes. Realizing that he
was still probably traumatized by the fact I wouldn’t
stop talking, we sat in awkward (the amount of times
I’ve used this word is accurate to this situation) si-
lence until I, for no reason, thought of a podcast I had
recently listened to on the topic of the existence of the
universe and the asymmetry of everything.
At that moment, I was reaching to keep our
dialogue going, at least until I was called back for
my appointment, so I whipped out a healthy dose
of “I can’t believe we exist – our whole existence is
a lucky accident”. Something about this sentiment
struck him. His face kind of lightened up and he im-
mediately engaged with my notion.
“Right? My train of thought is pretty existential, too,”
he said to me.
Immediately we began to have a silly (but
kind of serious) and interesting beyond my expecta-
tions conversation about the ever-expanding universe
and the abstractness of consciousness (even typing
that made my brain hurt). At one point we even pon-
dered the strange fact that literally anything at all was
possible. We discussed how in the grand scheme of
things, statistical improbability of an event occurring
merely meant that though that event was not probable
or likely to happen, theoretically anything was possi-
ble. For example, sure pigs can’t fly, and it’s likely a
mutation in their genes won’t occur anytime soon to
allow them to do, but by the slightest, tiniest bit of ge-
netic mishap (or pigs somehow learn how to navigate
airplanes), pigs could technically start flying.
“This beneath us could literally become twelve
thousand ducks,” I actually said at a point in the con-
versation when nothing was awkward anymore and
everything was theoretical (abstraction is always more
comforting than the reality of things).
He agreed, and we both decided that there were
endless scenarios as to how twelve thousand ducks
could possibly replace the bench we were sitting on.
We geeked out about the philosophies of everything
ever until I had to leave for my appointment. By then,
everyone in the waiting room had been silently eaves-
dropping on our odd anecdotes, and though normally
I’d have felt self-conscious about my nerdiness, I didn’t
that time. I felt as if I’d made a friend and our conver-
sation had assured me that making the effort to really
speak to someone was totally worth it.
I don’t think it’s likely I’ll ever cross paths with
him again, but that conversation is a conversation I’ll
never forget. How often do we find a stranger willing
to talk about the weird crap we like? Chances are one
in a million, and I will always be grateful that someone
out there also understands that statistically, by some far
stretch of the imagination, anything is possible.
Akira Olivia Kumamoto (A.O.K.) is the Arts Editor at The Cali-
fornia Aggie. She writes the “Talking to Strangers” column in The
Centennial. She is passionate about string theory, Mark Ruffalo
[the human], jazz and cultural journalism. On any given day you
can find her writing poetry, practicing a cappella, running long
distances, fighting for social equity and not sleeping. If you would
like to remind A.O.K. that talking to strangers is creepy as heck,
you can reach her at arts@theaggie.org or send her a tweet at @
akiraolivia.
2928

16. I used to be a good christian woman
by Camille Iman Woods
I used to be eve
I used to be mary
or maybe I was delilah
I used to be a rib
I used to be a virgin
or maybe I was a liar
I used to be a piece of a whole
where pregnancy was my purpose
I used to be silent for the men, the public, and the church walls
and politely dressed in the pews.
I used to be subjected to the word of the ordained
but never in robe.
I used to be a good christian woman
but now
I am just good.
God is good.
all the time.
and all the time.
I am Good.
I USED TO BE A
GOOD CHRISTIAN
WOMAN
“Camille Iman Woods is an undergraduate at UC Davis interested in advances in medicine through the arts.
Camille would like to do graduate study in linguistics to examine the impact of Art therapy – poetry, dance, etc. –
on the autistic brain and social interactions. Camille is the creator, editor and facilitator of aggieANGELOUS, UC
Davis first poetry column. She loves to laugh and has a newfound love for Afro-Cuban salsa dancing. “ 3130

17. Question One:
Are Circumcisions Barbaric?
Answer: On September 13th, 1995, I was born to Sammy
Spinner. It was a very rude awakening. The womb had been
fantastic. Room service three times a day. Warm weather.
Quarters were a little cramped. But it was for naught,
because, on September 13th, 1995, I was literally vacuumed
out of my mother.
She was pushing hard for many hours, but it was futile. I
know, because I was stuck in this very awkward position,
somewhere in the birth canal. I heard a slurp! and suddenly
my head was affixed to a rubber vacuum, the head of which
was not unlike that of a toilet plunger. It was hot, and it left
a temporary burn on the top of my head. That was the first of
my traumas.
They kept me prisoner for around thirty hours. This
was to be expected, and, frankly, it was kind of nice. They
applauded when I pooped and coddled me when I was able
to make a fist. I waited, and waited. An hour is a long time
when you’ve yet to have more than a week’s collection of
them. But it was not long before Sammy was waving my arm
for me, and the doctors were waving back. I was free.
But what to do with my freedom?
It was not long before I fell into a deep
depression.
I slept all the time, sometimes up to eighteen hours. The
waking hours were spent gorging myself with the same
bland, corporate formula. I hated myself. I broke out into
fits. Sometimes it was because I had gas, other times it was
because I was too hot or too cold. Sammy would burp me,
give or take covers. But more often than not I cried because
I knew the best days of my life were behind me. I rued
my birth. It was as if I had gone to sleep in Manhattan and
woken up in New Jersey. How displaced! How adrift! In
these cases, there was no consolation. Sammy could never
know what I felt.
Endless heaps of visitors. They all looked different,
but equally frightening. Some would offer their fingers and
I would grasp, but it was automatic at this point. When I
did indulge them, they would look at each other, gasp with
adoration, hug with all the strength in their bodies. I felt
none of it.
It got so bad that, on the seventh day, I considered
rolling over on my face while I slept. One last noble deed,
JUDAISM FAQBY ELI FLESCH
before sending my body into the Earth. The night I was
to do it, some rational thinking emerged from an odd,
backward logic. I believed that there was another way.
But it had to be something as equally traumatic as my
birth. I needed to be jump-started, so to speak. How?
I did not know. My dependence on the formula had
become absolute. Sammy was no help. There was a great
despondency within me, as real as bone and flesh, that I
believed resulted in an utter inability to make a move on
my own.
The next day I was awoken by Sammy. She was
dressed nicely. She fed me, and I slept for several hours.
When I woke again,
I was surrounded by a group of unfamiliar men.
They smiled, and were comforting. And though they
looked quite different than me, they wore pieces of cloth
on their heads that reminded me of my own, now faded,
burn mark. One of the men chanted over me in calm
rhythms. I cooed.
And then he cut part of my penis off.
It was a physical kind of pain that was quite
different from the mental pain I had gone through. Though
I had to admire these men for their conviction. They
certainly saved me.
Question Two:
What’s the Difference Between a
Reformed Jew and an Orthodox Jew?
Answer: One of my earliest memories was our house lit
up in Christmas lights. Sammy had hung them up all by
herself. She worked quickly, but was careful to include
everything: wreaths of green and red over the doorway, a
whole medley of colors lining our house so that it looked
like a hand-drawn cartoon. When she was finished, a great
grin came over her. She waddled over to me and scooped
me into her arms. Said, “Looks good, huh?” Rocked me up
and down until I said, “Yes”. Gave me a red-lipstick kiss
right on the nose. “My little Rudolph.”
We walked across the street to the house opposite
our own. It was a small Colonial that my mother had been
trying to sell since its owners got into financial trouble
and killed themselves six months prior. Why don’t they
just kill me? is what my mother had said at the time. Six
months later, dust had begun to accumulate in between
her crow’s feet. She paced back and forth in her pantsuit.
Dusted herself. Licked her thumb and cleaned my nose,
which was awful.
A mini-van pulled up to the curb of the Colonial.
A woman got out. Her name was Linda, and she was
looking to buy a home on behalf of the Rebbe Judd
Oppenheimer, the infamous and enigmatic leader of
the Hollywood Jews. Linda wore a long skirt, and her
hair, which was parted from the middle, drew back into
her neck, forming the shape of an onion. According to
Sammy— this ugly hairdo, with the van and the seemingly
desperate avoidance of schlump—this was the informal
liturgy of the Orthodox Jews.
“Shalom, shalom,”
Sammy said. She was almost clapping her hands in
excitement.
“I’m sorry, the Rebbe couldn’t be here,” Linda
said. She looked at me. “Oh, but you brought your son?”
She didn’t seem very enthused about it. I didn’t like her.
“He’s learning the business,” Sammy said. “Plus,
we were going to go on a walk after this. Believe me, we
need the exercise.”
“This does seem like a nice neighborhood for
walking.”
“Let me tell you— this is the best neighborhood
for walking. Oak trees. Sidewalks paved. Come Sabbath
night, and Saturday, there are so many people to enjoy it
with too. It’s really awesome.”
“Have there been any problems?”
“Problems?”
“Are people comfortable with Jews here? I mean,
I know, it’s Los Angeles. But still. I’m asking more for the
Rebbe. He is very concerned about such things. And this is
where he wants to set up shop.”
“Well, I’m sure you have nothing to worry
about,” Sammy said. She gestured to her house. “The only
problem you’ll have is having to live across from the kind
of gentile who still has Christmas lights up in July.” Linda
laughed, but Sammy laughed harder.
You see, by laughing, Sammy proved that she
was above all this— able to adapt to the times and stay in
touch with culture.
That was the Reform way.
Question Three:
Why Do Jewish Conspiracy Theories
Spread?
Answer: Inky dark nights. They met only when there was
a new moon, and talked in the Colonial’s lounge:
“Gentleman, our time is close. Soon, the world
will know our fury.” This was Artie Goldberg. He was
from UTA (The United Talent Agency). A representative
from each major Hollywood agency was in attendance:
from CAA (Creative Artist Agency), to WME (William
Morris Endeavor) and finally to JCC (Jewish CommunityPicture courtesy of Creative Commons
3332

18. Center). The Rebbe Oppenheimer presided over all. He
was the one who invited Sammy. Out of courtesy for
the Sabbath deal she offered when the Linda had finally
decided to buy the house. Sammy brought me in case the
group needed the blood of a virgin.
The Rebbe never spoke during these meetings, but it was
his will that was done. .
“Starting in the New Year, we will be remaking
Hollywood classics,” The man from CAA said. “No one
doubts the power of film to change the world. So it is
of utmost importance that these remakes must carry a
pro-Jew message. But it must be subtle. I cannot stress
this enough. If we are successful, we can finally usurp
our power. Even the most cold-hearted anti-Semite will
be singing Fiddler. Now, do we have suggestions for the
movies?
“The Unnecessarily Loud Sound of Music,”
recommended UTA. Everybody nodded in agreement.
“Lawrence of Miami,” suggested WME.
Handshakes all around.
“The Passion of the Christ (The Man),” exalted
JCC. Heaps of praise.
“Well done, Gentlemen. I’ll have Harvey
Weinstein on the line shortly,” said UTA.
But before the Manischewitz could be poured,
a pattering of footsteps came from a nearby window. A
man’s eyes poked slightly into the frame.
“A spy!” yelled the Rebbe. Everybody got up. The
man in the window revealed himself to be Mel Gibson.
Caught, he looked left and right for his escape route.”
“Ach! This is the third time!” said JCC, “You
get now!” Gibson made a break for it, jumping over
fences, patches of flowers. JCC turned around to face his
companions. “I am sorry, gentlemen. This is my fault.
Just a reminder for us: do not use the Lord’s name in vain.
Gibson will appear and he will ruin us. Fortunately, I don’t
think he heard anything. We got lucky this time.”
Years later, the Rebbe explained this night to me.
According to him,
to be a Jew is to have fear.
It could be a fear of anything— pogroms, assimilation—
in the tortured history of the Jews, there was much to
choose from. But he told me, that above all else, I should
fear the failure of his plan for world domination.
The Rebbe was an odd man.
Question Four:
What is Assimilation?
Answer: It was the day of my Bar Mitzvah. For
months, I had been studying with the Rebbe, gaining
an understanding of my people, but when I got to the
synagogue, it all seemed hopeless. There were so many
people, and I was trembling very hard. At best, I would
stammer a few words of the Torah. At worst I would
measure on the Richter Scale. The amount of people here
was Sammy’s fault. I had only invited twenty friends,
about five of whom were gentile and had never been
to a Bar Mitzvah before. Considering this, they were
appropriately amazed by the fact that every man and
woman over the age of sixty was Billy Crystal. The rest
of the congregation was all Jewish, and abuzz with the
anticipation of watching me become a man.
The Rebbe had made his opening remarks, and
offered me the stage. I had only said half a dozen words
before my legs and hands started to violently shake. This
caused the synagogue to wobble. Chairs and tables started
to collapse. People lost their balance and fell down. A
portion of the ceiling caved and blocked the exit. There
was screaming, but that was only because nobody wanted
to get dirty.
We were trapped.
I climbed over people, trying to make my to my
friends so I could explain to them the great fortune and
relief of not having to speak the Hebrew language. They
were pinned right by where the exit was. A heavy piece of
drywall blocked the way.
“That’s it, we’re goners,” I said, noticing this. My
good mood had left me.
“We’ll be in here forever,” a friend whined. In
fact, the whole congregation whined. I suspected that, if
heard from the outside, we would have sounded like one
large droning insect.
“It’s not too bad,” said one of the gentiles. “I think
I can lift this drywall if I use my legs, and if I got some
help.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Please, no— you’ll hurt yourself.
My cousin once injured himself on a construction site.”
“Oh, yes,” cried my cousin from somewhere
among the rubble, “It was a terrible, terrible splinter.”
Suddenly the whole congregation grew frenetic, telling my
gentile friends not to lift the wall. But the gentiles insisted
they could. To prove it, they easily lifted the wall an inch.
But everybody went mad, so they gave in and put it down.
“What do you all suggest we do then?” asked the
gentile. “We’ll never get out of here.”
“We’ll wait for help!” someone yelled. And we
did.
Three hours later, the rescuers had started to lift the rubble
with a crane. But for so many it was already too late.
Dozens had perished. They had starved to death. Prison
hymns had been written, sung, and gone out of fashion.
Of course,
there was no hope for the gentiles.
Surrounded by so many Jews, they had little choice but
to say, ugh, and give in. To have held on to their beliefs
would have assured their death by lecture. We must
have been trapped fifteen minutes before they too were
kvetching with everyone else. In these troublesome times,
our world was confined within the collapsed synagogue,
and these gentiles, deprived of any other option, were
forced to make amends with Hashem. It wasn’t necessarily
bad for them. Just a natural process. Troubling? Perhaps a
little. But I can say without hesitation that they entered the
synagogue as gentiles, and left as disappointments to their
sports teams.
It was a dream come true.
3534

19. UC DAVIS WOMEN’S BASKETBALL:
This time on Off the Court, On the Record
we explore a number of UC Davis sports topics. At
the time of recording, women’s basketball was on
a roll having won four straight games on their way
to a No. 2 spot in the Big West Conference. The
team has been anchored by senior forward Syd-
nee Fipps and junior forward Alyson Doherty. Each
has been playing spectacular basketball, with
Doherty rebounding nicely from a serious knee
injury during the 2013-14 playoffs. Her resurgence,
marked by her newfound ability to score with her
left hand, has led them to a number of wins.
Since recording, the Aggies have embarked
on a three game losing streak, including two close
contests and one blowout by Cal Poly. Now, UC
Davis is in an uncertain place as far as their Big
West ranking. The Big West Conference Tourna-
ment will take place from March 10 to March 14
and it will remain to be seen whether the Aggies
that won five games in a row or lost three straight
will show up.
UC DAVIS MEN’S BASKETBALL:
On the other side, men’s basketball has
continued their dominance despite falling to UC
Santa Barbara on the road for their second con-
ference loss. Star senior guard Corey Hawkins,
who was discussed at length in the first podcast,
sat out for three games and the Aggies were still
able to win. The team did so by running the of-
fense through senior forward Josh Ritchart who
responded with several high scoring games before
being named Big West Player of the Game.
The men’s team will play in the Big West
Conference Tournament from March 12 to March
14. The Aggies need to win one of their last games
in order to clinch a number one seed. This is an
attainable goal as UC Davis has not lost yet in 12
games at home.
UC DAVIS WOMEN’S WATER POLO:
Elsewhere at UC Davis, several other
Aggies teams have been playing extremely well.
Women’s water polo, now ranked No. 10 national-
ly, was able to showcase their skills to their home
campus during the Davis Challenge. The team
won both games that day, including an upset
win against then No. 11 UC San Diego. Now, the
Aggies are looking forward to the Aggie Shootout
which will begin on March 7.
UC DAVIS WOMEN’S GOLF TEAM:
Sophomore Paige Lee, and the UC Davis
women’s golf team in general, have been show-
casing their talent throughout the state. Lee won
her first collegiate tournament at the Peg Barnard
Invitational, facing several top-ranked teams. The
team finished in second as a whole after ending
the first day with the lead. The Aggies struggled
slightly in their next tournament, finishing in sev-
enth, and now have three tournaments before they
host the Big West Conference Championships.
UC DAVIS MEN’S TENNIS:
Men’s tennis is in the midst of one of the
best seasons in UC Davis history, currently ranked
No. 70 in the country and continuing to improve.
They recently won six competitions in a row, and
eight out of their last nine. The women’s tennis
team is in the middle of playing 11 out of their last
12 matches at home.
UC DAVIS INDOOR TRACK AND FIELD:
Finally, indoor track and field has come to
a close with a number of Aggies setting school
records. Senior Ashley Marshall has been phe-
nomenal, consistently breaking her own records
while three of the five best pole vaulters in UC
Davis history are currently on campus. The team
will open up their outdoor track and field season
on March 7 when they face UC Berkeley.
That wraps up On the Court, Off the Record.
Thank you for listening and reading to everything
that we have to say, especially you moms!
Please email us at sports@theaggie.org if you have
any questions or comments.
Ryan Reed and Scott Dresser are both editors for The
California Aggie. Ryan can be found listening to Grant-
land podcasts while playing 2k15 in bed, or waiting for
Scott to show up late to their 10 a.m. language class
every day. He can be reached at sports@theaggie.org.
Scott can be reached at campus@theaggie.org.
OFF THE COURT,
ON THE RECORD
A sports podcast recorded by Ryan Reed and Scott Dresser
Welcome to Off the Court, On the Re-
cord, the sports focused podcast for
The Centennial Magazine! We covered
a number of topics this week and will
give you a brief overview of what we
went through.
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20. Evan Liley is a cartoonist for The California Aggie. Send him
questions to magazine@theaggie.org
CARTOONS
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