One of the most impactful parts of the trip was seeing firsthand the meaningful work that local organizations are doing. We spent the most time with Alfajiri Street Kids Arts, located near the Mathare slum, which focuses on art therapy outreach for street children. Before traveling to Nairobi, I had already heard of Alfajiri when its founder, Lenore Boyd, visited campus to speak about her work and its impact on the lives of street kids. While visiting the organization, we were able to see the remarkable artwork the children have created over the past few years and hear the stories behind their piece including what inspired them, what they were expressing and what they had endured. It was painful to learn how much these kids have gone through yet deeply moving to see how Alfajiri gives them a way to process and express their experiences.

Lenore told us that the street kids are some of the happiest people she has ever met, always maintaining
a positive outlook on life. One memory that stayed with me was her story about a boy she once saw dancing outside, radiating joy. When she asked why he was so happy, he replied, “Because God will provide for me.” That moment struck me, not only because of his faith, but because everywhere we went in Kenya, people were eager to share their faith with genuine enthusiasm. Overall, our visits to Alfajiri were enriching and humbling, and it was a blessing to witness the good they are doing for the street kids of Nairobi.

Another powerful experience was visiting the St. Benedict Children’s Center, also called Madodo, in the Mathari slum. Before arriving, I had a vague idea of what to expect based on conversations with the current Benedictine Volunteer in Nairobi. However, traveling through Mathare and then stepping into the center made me realize how inaccurate my assumptions had been. I’m not even sure what I expected, but the moment we walked in, we were surrounded by children who were thrilled to see us, eager to talk and even ready to challenge us to a game of chess. To be honest I have never lost so fast in chess, with the kids at the center being insanely good. The experience was uplifting, and once again, we saw the incredible work the staff does to support the street kids giving them a safe place to spend the day and a break from the harsh realities of life on the streets.

By the end of the trip, I felt nothing but gratitude for choosing to participate and I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. Throughout our time in Kenya, we were blessed with beautiful weather, welcoming people and breathtaking natural scenery. Visiting the organizations that support street kids was especially meaningful, and seeing their work firsthand was invaluable. This trip has become one of my favorite experiences of my life, and I know I will cherish it for years to come.

I’ve spent almost half of my existence on this world fixated on this show and, I have to admit, it has taken over my life.

But something happened. I began to notice it in season four, but it really picked up in season five. It felt less mysterious. Less personal. Less… nostalgic. It was escaping the grasp of authenticity that it held in the first few seasons that made it so different from every other show and was instead becoming an over-commercialized cash grab in front of my eyes.

I knew this installment would be different as soon as I saw the first five minutes that the show most graciously posted online a few weeks before the premiere, where we get a flashback scene of a weak little twelve-year-old Will Byers—on the brink of death on his sixth day in the Upside Down—somehow mustering the strength to swing from tree to tree to escape the Demogorgon.

Like… absolutely not.

My expectations were already low, but I held onto hope. Ross Duffer had promised on an FYC panel in 2022 that season five would have a similar “tone” to season one. And Matt Duffer stated in a Variety interview last October that every remaining piece of lore had been exhausted to create a “complete story”—no plot holes, no dropped storylines and nothing unnecessary. No “Game of Thrones.” No “Walking Dead.” No “Rise of Skywalker.”

Instead, as each volume released, it became clear that the Duffers cornered themselves into a wall, inflating their show until it all eventually spilled over onto my screen in the form of eight episodes full of retconning, over-explanation, overcomplication and, in general, scenes that made me squint my eyes, tilt my head and say, “Really? Are we seriously doing this?”

And the worst part is, it doesn’t even seem like they tried to clean the mess.

Firstly, I have an issue with the characters and how they were handled this season: for example, Joyce Byers. She’s one of my favorite characters, but it was hard to give her her tens this time when her character completely flopped. What happened to the woman whose adventures stretched from communicated with her missing—presumed dead—kid using Christmas lights to hopping onto a plane with some conspiracy theorist and a Russian smuggler to a prison camp in Siberia? In season five, her role in the series was reduced to being a set of ears during heart-to-hearts with her son, scenes of which there are far too many.

The storyline of the bold mother who anchored previous seasons (dare I argue she was the main character?) completely disappeared in favor of expanding the plots of characters I unfortunately felt little emotional attachment to, such as Holly Wheeler. She got more screen time this season than the core cast, yet she still felt like such a random, last-minute addition. Holly felt oddly disconnected from her earlier appearances—like they created a brand new character and just slapped a familiar name onto it. Even her reunification with her siblings at the end didn’t make me feel anything because of how little the show seemed to want me to care about it. Not to mention the random and irrelevant plot she was attached to, which lowkey bored me to death. Sorry.

Vecna, the central villain from season four onwards, was introduced as a terrifying presence last season. He could kill people with the snap of his fingers and there was no clear method to defeat him. However, he quickly turned into more of a burden for my viewing experience in the fifth installment. Henry completely lost any intimidation he may have had once he took on the questionable role of Mr. Whatsit, running a daycare instead of twisting people up like wet towels. And his death scene? Puh-lease. The only times he really had an effect on me was whenever he was actively a villain, but then he would go back to babysitting his class of fifth graders who were clearly never taught “stranger danger.”

Even more frustrating was all of the implied lore surrounding him. The writers repeatedly hinted at Henry Creel’s origins while withholding meaningful explanations about it. For example, what about Joyce’s play was so important to him that his memory of that day was encountered twice? Who was that man in the cave that he randomly walked into, and why did he have a suitcase with a glowing rock in it that seemed to give Henry his powers? It almost feels to me that the writers are holding back so much information because they’re practically begging the audience to travel over to New York or London and cough up a couple hundred dollars to watch the stage play, which means more money in Netflix’s wallet.

Speaking of money, the budget for season five reportedly reached about $480 million. For reference of just how much it’s grown, it cost approximately the same amount per episode of this season (around $50 million) as the entire first installment did in total. Also—fun fact—it’s just about the entire GDP of Micronesia.

While much of that undoubtedly went toward the crew, ensemble cast, marketing and whatever else, my main concern is with the unnecessary amount of it that was spent on CGI. It’s difficult to justify the presumably hefty cost when I’ve seen them capture amazing spectacle in the past without overcomplicating it with excessive amounts of CGI effects that I know a lot of that money went to. Like, for example, there was absolutely no reason why the final battle just had to take place in a random, badly bluescreened-in desert against some absurdly easy-to-kill variant of the Mind Flayer rather than somewhere in Hawkins or at least in the more familiar Upside Down.

I’m also growing intolerant of the Duffer Brothers themselves. Since the final release, interviewers have been asking them valid questions about the lore and completely unanswered questions that are still lingering, and the brothers’ responses are just atrocious damage control.

When speaking about the fate of the military after the Upside Down disintegrated, this was Ross Duffer’s “explanation”: “I suppose there’s not much else to do. My guess is they just sort of slowly dismantled operations and left town.”

On whether or not Eleven actually died: “It’s up to the audience to decide ultimately what her fate is.”

On whether or not Robin and Vickie stayed together: “We want to leave it a little bit up to the fans. Maybe, maybe not.”

On why Joyce, Hopper and Karen never actually realized in the show that they went to school with Vecna (them all being the same age is a concept that was retconned in, by the way), Matt says, “I’m sure that, yes, in the gap between seasons four and five that was discussed.”

This is my favorite. On why there weren’t any demogorgons, demodogs or demobats in the Abyss helping Vecna: “They’re there somewhere.”

Girl… hello?

Aren’t you the creators of the show? Why do we have to figure this out? Do you even have it figured out? How about you use some of that half-a-billion-dollar budget to actually put it on my screen? They’re framing their plot holes as being deliberate artistic choices, but they really just read as avoidance.

To be frank, it’s sloppy. They’re acting as though they didn’t have over four years to write, plan, film and edit season five to be cohesive with other seasons, let alone almost ten years to narrow down the final story. I haven’t even talked about my issues with the ambiguity surrounding characters once central to helping out the group (like Dr. Owens and Suzie), or what happened to the Turnbows after they were kidnapped, or the fate of the pregnant women in the Upside Down, or why Will wasn’t physically affected by the deaths of the Mind Flayer or Vecna, or the terrible endings for Mike and Eleven… or, or, or.

The “Stranger Things” I used to watch—the one that was made with love and minimal advertising—has turned into a shell of its original self. The charm and intimacy of the early seasons has been buried beneath pricey, Marvel-esque action sequences and big fancy special effects, and it just got worse when they began to sideline major characters in favor of inviting more cast members to match its already inflated scale.

Ten-year-old me fell in love with the most perfect story. It had quirks. Its own personality. Eighteen-year-old me watched it dissolve into a product that seems like it was built just to make a profit. I really hope that whatever spinoffs are planned will do the series justice, but, as of right now, I have some serious doubt.

Album opener “Trinidad” starts with Winter mumble singing over Emily Green’s staccato guitar, Dominic DiGesu’s steady bass, and the bizarre, 13/8 groove courtesy of Max Bassin on drums. Winter repeatedly shrieks out anxiously “There’s a bomb in my car!” as a psych-rock freakout peaks, then returns to the calmness of the intro, then peaks again. This quiet-loud dynamic shocks the listener and proves to be a strong opener. The lyrics introduce the themes of anxiety and paranoia through lines like “When that light turns red, I’m driving away” and “My daughters are dead.” The cacophony of “Trinidad” calms down on tracks “Cobra” and “Husbands” as Winter’s crooning provides a relief from the abrasiveness of the opener. The former invokes themes of romance and shame with dreampop-esque instrumentation, and the latter features a stomp-like feel from Bassin and subdued guitar from Green. The album continues with the mid-tempo experimental title track. Green’s guitar is at the forefront of the mix, with a distinct lack of reverb, and boosted treble and mids. Along with odd vocal samples throughout, these elements resemble tracks such as “15 Step” and “Reckoner” from Radiohead’s 2007 album “In Rainbows”. The line “I am trying to talk over everybody in the whole world”, captures the anxiety of Gen Z, as we live in a chaotic world of information overload which bombards the senses. “Islands of Men” discusses feelings of isolation and loneliness, building from a metronome click, and eventually morphing into a soaring jam with Winter proclaiming, “You can’t keep running away from what is real”, evoking the cathartic release of finally grappling with deep seated emotions head on and directly. “Au Pays Du Cocaine” and “Taxes” are album centerpieces for me. As a songwriter, these songs make me appreciate the craft and inspire me to experiment with lyrical imagery and instrumental dynamics. “Au Pays Du Cocaine” showcases Winter’s ability to invoke brutal heartbreak through sparse prose, and the lyrics pair perfectly with the soft and melancholic instrumental. The line “You can stay with me and just pretend I’m not there” portrays aformer lover or perhaps someone who cannot seem to let go of someone who is trying to push them away. Lead single “Taxes” is another massive achievement and my personal favorite song on the album. It begins with Bassin playing a rolling tom groove on the drums with subdued bass from DiGesu and slowly builds up until Green joins in and ushers the cathartic and joyful coda which slowly speeds up in tempo under intense drums, chiming guitar and concrete bass. The album closes with the epic 7-minute finale “Long Island City Here I Come” which gradually builds intensity and increases its tempo over its length. Bassin wails on his drumkit with athletic speed and precision, and the song culminates in a superb showing by the entire band with DiGesu’s melodic bass playing and Winter’s hypnotic and emotive singing. Winter emotively yells over the increasing tempo of the band, the song abruptly ends, and that’s “Getting Killed.”

This album absolutely floored me and is an incredible achievement for this young band. It is exciting to witness their growth in real time, and I am looking forward to seeing them realize their potential and stun me more than they already have. I cannot wait to try and see them this July in St. Paul.

The energy of arrival has faded. Résumés are being finished. Graduate programs and job offers hover in inboxes. Conversations circle the same predictable questions: Where are you going? What’s next? When do you start? For many seniors, the future feels both thrilling and claustrophobic, full of motion, yet strangely rushed.

In that rush, we rarely pause to ask a more unsettling question: Who do I want to become before the world decides for me?

For more than twenty years, the Benedictine Volunteer Corps (BVC) has offered graduates of St. John’s a radically different answer to that question. Not a delay tactic. Not a résumé gap. But a year-long immersion into communities where life moves to an older rhythm, one shaped by prayer, work, hospitality and presence.

BVC volunteers live and serve in Benedictine monasteries across the world: teaching in classrooms, supporting clinics, mentoring youth, assisting retreat centers, maintaining libraries, kitchens and gardens. The work is rarely glamorous. Much of it looks ordinary; dishwashing, lesson planning, cleaning, showing up again tomorrow.

And yet, it is in this ordinariness that something extraordinary takes root.

One volunteer in Rome recently wrote home about a day that began like any other, morning prayer, library work, refectory cleaning, until it ended with an unexpected encounter with the Pope. The moment itself was remarkable, but the deeper realization came later: that even the unnoticed acts, the repetitive work, had quietly placed him in the path of grace. “I appreciated dishwashing as an act a bit more,” he reflected.

This is the hidden curriculum of the BVC.

In Guatemala, another volunteer arrived convinced he was unqualified to teach English. Standing in front of a room full of students, he felt the weight of inadequacy settle in quickly. Weeks later, he found himself eager to return to the classroom, surprised by how much the students had taught him, about patience, resilience and belonging. “I know that for these next several months,” he wrote, “I am called to be here.”

In Puerto Rico, a second-year volunteer described how hospitality reshaped his understanding of leadership. He learned from an elderly monk who spoke multiple languages and met each guest with patience and curiosity. The lesson was not efficiency but attentiveness, how presence itself can be an act of service.

In Montserrat, high above Barcelona, volunteers live among centuries of history and music. Their days are split between helping young choir boys navigate school life and finding quiet moments of reflection in the mountains. One volunteer wrote about discovering that even in a place shaped by tourism and tradition, the deepest gift was balance, between noise and silence, work and rest, ambition and humility.

And in Nairobi, volunteers working alongside young men in the Mathare neighborhood have witnessed something that no textbook could teach: initiative born not from abundance, but from scarcity. They have watched youth organize themselves, plant trees, clean their streets, hold meetings they call “Parliament” and build something lasting without waiting for permission or rescue.

These stories are not exceptions. They are the pattern.

The Benedictine Volunteer Corps does not promise clarity on day one. In fact, many volunteers write about early uncertainty, about feeling small, unseen and unsure if they are making a difference at all. But slowly, through repetition and relationship, something shifts. Volunteers begin to see that formation does not happen through acceleration, but through attention. In a moment when national volunteerism is declining, when burnout seems to arrive earlier and earlier, the BVC insists on something countercultural: that a year devoted to service is not time lost, but time reclaimed.

Importantly, the BVC is structured so that service is accessible. Volunteers receive housing, health insurance, a living stipend and travel support. This is not an experience reserved for those who can afford to pause their lives. It is an intentional investment in young adults from St. John’s who are willing to be shaped before they rush forward. BVC alumni go on to medical school, graduate programs, teaching, public service, nonprofit leadership and careers across countless fields. But nearly all say the same thing when asked about that year: it gave them a deeper sense of direction, not because it answered every question, but because it taught them how to listen. This semester, as graduation looms and decisions feel heavier by the day, I want to offer a gentle challenge to the campus community:

What if the most responsible thing you could do after graduation is slow down? What if service is not a detour, but a foundation? What if the year you give becomes the year that gives you back your clarity?

The Benedictine Volunteer Corps is not easy. It asks for humility, patience, sacrifice and a willingness to live without immediate validation. But for those who feel that quiet pull, the sense that there is more to become before settling into what’s next, it may be the most honest place to begin.

And sometimes, the year that changes everything starts with saying yes to service.

If you are interested in the Benedictine Volunteer Corps and discerning a different approach following graduation, send an email to bvc@csbsju.edu or llindvedt001@csbsju.edu and I would be happy to navigate the next steps with you. Join the 10 seniors who have said YES to serving.

The label is cream linen with a single Italian word in serif font, positioned with the confidence of a man who wears a scarf indoors on purpose. A gold “90” medallion in the corner, displayed with the restraint of someone who mentions their marathon time only when asked, which is always, because they have steered the conversation there with the patience of a deep-sea fisherman. No circus tents. No cartoon animals. No indication, anywhere on the packaging, that this bottle has ever shared a shelf with anything that costs less than it does. It is the kind of label that makes you want to dislike what’s inside on principle. We tried. We failed. We are still processing this.

Prati Cabernet Sauvignon 2021. Sonoma County, California, Dry Creek and Alexander Valley, appellations named like racehorses owned by a divorce attorney. 16 to 18 dollars. 13.9 percent alcohol. 85 percent Cabernet Sauvignon, six percent Petite Sirah, eight percent “other red varieties,” a phrase with the exact energy of a witness who has been advised not to answer. Aged 18 months in French and American oak, because this wine holds dual citizenship and we hold a meal plan. “Prati” means “meadow” in Italian, a single word doing the work of an entire marketing department, which, to be fair, is exactly what happened. The wine used to be called Louis Martini Sonoma County Cabernet, a name with the sex appeal of a municipal zoning document. Someone was paid to fix this. They earned it.

Look: Deep garnet, purple at the rim. Darker than its price suggests. This is a wine that put on a suit to go to a gas station.

Nose: Black cherry, blackberry, vanilla, cedar. The cedar arrives the way an expensive ingredient arrives in a cheap apartment, uninvited, out of place, and immediately the best thing in the room. Oak is present but restrained, like a man who owns a boat but has the decency not to bring it up at dinner.

Taste: Plum. Tannins that have been to finishing school. Full-bodied. Toast and licorice doing something competent in the background while the fruit takes all the credit, which is how most teams work. By the second glass, Bugbee used a coaster without being asked, an event we cannot explain and have chosen not to investigate. Our astute tendencies toward critical analysis, once again awakened, proved to be a benefit to our academic and personal lives. The inspiration was true as we marveled at what the world can truly bring to us. We wrote that. Stone sober. We have since checked the bottle for controlled substances. It is clean. We are forced to conclude the wine is simply like this, which is worse.

Finish: Stays after the glass is empty the way a good sermon stays after church, uninvited, unexplained, and you are mildly furious to discover it has improved you.

Serve it right: Room temperature. Decant if you want. Prati is not precious about your process. It has already decided what it is, and your glassware situation is not going to change that.

Pairings: Whatever the Reef is serving. A Tuesday that didn’t ask to become significant. The company of someone you haven’t yet disappointed, though the evening is young.

Verdict: We opened this as our first bottle back from break fully prepared to be cruel to a prissy label on a 17 dollar Cabernet. Wine Spectator gave it 90. James Suckling gave it 92. Wine Enthusiast named it a Top 100 Best Buy, which means a panel of adults who taste wine for a living agreed that this bottle, which looks like it was designed for a gallery opening in a city we cannot afford to visit, is also a bargain. We hate that they’re right. We especially hate that a wine with the visual personality of a country club thank-you note has more professional accolades than our combined résumés. 40,000 cases were made. None of them were meant for us. We are keeping this one anyway.

Rating: 8.9/10. Showed up overdressed and made it everyone else’s problem.

We would like to file a formal complaint. We were two men of simple palates. We were content. Prati has introduced the concept of standards into our lives without consent, and we are now unable to return to the wines that previously sustained us. We have tried. They taste like apologies. If anyone from the Louis Martini Winery is reading this, which we doubt, because they are busy winning awards and speaking Italian and living in meadows, you owe us our ignorance back. We were happy. This is not a recommendation.

Sincerely,
Gabe Evenocheck & Ben Bugbee
NATO Subcommand for Affordable Cabernet

(This column is for readers 21 and older. Legal counsel read this draft, said “I went to law school for this,” and did not finish the sentence.)

Normal days as a benedictine volunteer in Rome are fairly simple. I wake up and try to get to morning prayer on time. After prayer is breakfast, a two-to-four hour shift in the library (depending on the day), midday prayer and finally an hour shift cleaning the refectory. Then I’m free for four or five hours until vespers. I usually walk around the eternal city, read in my room or take a nap. After vespers and dinner – I go to sleep.

Today, however, was different. It was remarkable.

Technically this was a normal day when compared to most major liturgical feasts, which see major revisions to the schedule. They also see my shifting away from my normal work in the library to the kitchen and refectory to set up for the large meals. There was nothing abnormal in that moment though. Even with the pending arrival of an importance guest, most of my day was regular.

The mass should have felt strange, but there was a sense of familiarity to it. Same Formula as always. It was the same language as I had struggled with for three months. The celebrant, though surrounded by an entourage, looked like he could have been my parish priest or a friend of my grandparents. When a con-celebrant accidentally knocked off the celebrants zuccheto, it felt like the same sort of innocent mistake an altar-server would make at home.

Yet, scuttling into the line of monks wrapping around the wall of the cloister I felt that sense of ordinariness melt away. There we waited, until a group of suited men came out occulting the view of our white-clad guest. But quickly he came nearer and nearer until, before I knew it, he was in front of me – reaching for my outstretched hand.

That is how I shook the hand of his holiness, Pope Leo XIV, at roughly 6:00 PM on November 11th following the celebration of the consecration of the Pontifical Atheneo Sant’Anselmo. The momentous nature of this occasion is something to remark upon.

Most of the BVC experience is uninteresting. Though there are moments of struggle or surprise in each day, most of it is the quotidiennal prayer, work and leisure of Benedictine life.

In this sense, there is little difference between the Benedictine Volunteer Corps and our ordinary lives. Each day has the horizons for tremendous opportunities and various struggles but most of the time we wallow through a set of habitual events and tasks we find rather unengaging.

The difference is that Volunteers are in a different place, immersed in a monastic lifestyle and culture unfamiliar to us. Each day I try to stay engaged because the familiarity which I could dismiss work and study in Minnesota is unavailable to me.

In this environment, in this state of mind, when something does happen which breaks the normal cadence of monastic life, I come to not only realize how enriching the experience is, but how enriching normal life can be. Slowly the expectedness of the unexpected is revealed and the magical in the monotonous becomes apparent.

All of that to say, two hours later, I not only appreciated how dishwashing had secured an opportunity to shake the popes hand; I appreciated dishwashing as an act a bit more.

I won’t pretend the Benedictine Volunteer Corps is all fun and games. It can often feel insignificant as you alternate between cycles of work and prayer. Then moments occur which disclose the wonder and strangeness of the situation one finds himself in.

Sometimes that’s a brief, remarkable meeting with the Pope.

“There’s lots to learn, but it’s going very well,” he said.

Originally from the small town of Delphos in northwestern Ohio, Pohlman professed temporary vows as a Benedictine monk in Lisle, Ill., before relocating to St. John’s Abbey in 2010, where he made his life vows. From there, he got a bachelor’s degree in construction management from Ohio State University, and, after “inspiration struck,” he pursued a master’s degree at UW-Madison in library and information studies, just wrapping up last December.

Pohlman took over for beloved CSB+SJU head archivist Peggy Roske, who retired last year. A longtime volunteer at the archives, his reasoning for wanting to get involved paired well with his love for history.

“It was just a natural fit,” he said, “and I love to know the history of the place where I have made my permanent residence.”

Our tour first started in the research room of the SJU Archive. Displayed on the table was a portable typewriter owned by writer Betty Wahl (CSB ‘45), who, with her novelist husband J.F. Powers, moved back and forth between the United States and Ireland before settling in Collegeville.

Pohlman led me to the temperature-controlled back stacks, which are kept at a brisk 65 degrees, set to protect materials from deterioration. There, he pulled out a 1960 prospectus for the Alcuin Library. Hand-drawn elevations, support structures and proposed entrance designs showed a concept that seemed very close to today’s building, minus the eventual additions and the 2016-17 renovation.

He showed me the shelves full of archives of SJU’s publications, including crumbling volumes of The Record, its earliest issues dating back to 1888. Displayed beside them sat promotional catalogs from the early 20th century, which included color plates of campus: the old formal gardens, the original gymnasium, the boathouse and even the monks’ private beach on the lake.

We ended the tour in a room locked behind a metal door, where the rare books collection stood, including the “Arca Artium” collection. It was donated by Frank Kacmarcik, Obl. O.S.B. who collected the rare books, manuscripts and references for his own work as an artist. Some pieces were medieval, like a handwritten Book of Hours written in the 15th century, and some were more modern, like a 20th-century print of the Gospels featuring woodcut illustrations by Eric Gill.

Nearly a year into the job, it’s clear that Pohlman is dedicated to his work. He still treats every discovery like a small miracle, from old basketballs and skates to fold-out maps to John Gagliardi bobble heads, and each of them carries their own importance in defining the history of CSB+SJU. He was able to narrate the evolution of the Quad, the Great Hall, the gymnasium (Guild Hall), Alcuin Library and the early science buildings with the precision of someone who has scoured the archives back-to-front, and then back again. And I don’t have any trouble believing that he really has—multiple times.

Overall, I had a blast talking with Brother Eric about the Archives, and I encourage you to check them out sometime! Just make sure you bring a jacket on your tour.

Visit csbsju.edu/sju-archives or csbsju.edu/csb-archives for more information.

As a freshman at Edinboro University, Webb arrived with all of his belongings: the clothes that he had, his trophies and medals he received as a standout athlete in high school, and everything he grew up with, all fitting into his dorm room.

Originally from the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, area, Webb grew up moving between foster homes and group homes. It wasn’t until Thanksgiving break during his freshman year of college that it hit him: his campus and dorm room were his home now.

As the dorms closed over break and his friends and teammates headed home, Webb thought to himself, “where am I going to go?”

“I’ll never forget that time, because I ended up staying [at school], but they locked all of the doors, so I took my clothes and slept in the bushes… it was a rough time and that is when I realized I am really on my own now,” Webb said.

Years later, as he began his career in higher education, Webb created a lasting tradition of welcoming students to join him and his family for Thanksgiving in their home. “It’s an opportunity for me to have a nice, home cooked meal, but also to share the company and connect relationships with the students outside of the campus atmosphere. It gives them a sense, an understanding, of who I am,” Webb said.

Webb enjoys cooking. Outside of a traditional turkey, he creates a variety of food, including collard greens, mac and cheese, and smoked ribs.

While growing up, the type of community Webb experienced was through his friends and centered around food. His love for cooking stems from that.

“The type of family community [I saw] was through food; cookouts and barbecues. It was an opportunity for me to actually experience family… everybody was there to celebrate each other, to engage in each other. I saw the impact food can have on bringing people together. If you look at all the events and celebrations we do, there’s always food. I love to barbecue, so it’s a way for me to share something I love to do,” Webb said.

Community, stewardship and hospitality are core Benedictine Values that are ingrained in us here at CSB+SJU. Having only arrived here four months ago, Webb is no stranger to those values.

Webb embodies many Benedictive Values, standout ones being community and hospitality. He hopes his tradition of hosting students for Thanksgiving dinner will reach students here at CSB+SJU, with the aim of creating lasting connections across our community.

“As we prepare for the Thanksgiving holiday, I am delighted to invite any student who may not have a place to go this year to join my family and me for dinner. As someone who once entered college without belonging or knowing where I would spend a holiday, I deeply understand the importance of community, connection, and hospitality. Hosting this dinner is my way of expressing that at our institutions, we live our Benedictine values of respect, compassion, and belonging. I hope you will consider joining us, and know that you are always welcome here,” Webb said.

Webb hopes this opportunity will showcase to students that if they need anything, they can always reach out to him, whether they are seeking support or help, or to celebrate an A on an exam.

“I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for the people who looked out for me. I know the impact other people can have on an individual’s life,” Webb said.

From playing card games, tossing a football around with Webb and his two kids, or simply enjoying a home cooked meal with good company and community, Webb and his family welcome students warmly this Thanksgiving season.

“It would be our joy to welcome [students] to our table and share an evening of good food, conversation and fellowship rooted in the Benedictine spirit of “all are to be welcomed as Christ,’” Webb said.

If you are interested in joining them for Thanksgiving, please email Joseph Webb at jwebb001@csbsju.edu by Friday, Nov. 21, so that they can plan accordingly.

Casa Valduga Arte Forza Blend. Serra Gaúcha, Brazil. Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot—50 reais retail, roughly ten dollars American before your credit card remembers to charge you for the privilege of spending money abroad. 12.5 percent alcohol. Estate-bottled by Casa Valduga, a family operation since 1875, back when “estate-bottled” actually meant something. The label reads “Arte Forza”—strength through art—which sounds better in Portuguese than it does translated but holds up either way.

Look: Ruby red, violet at the edges. Looks like it should cost more than it does, which is the kind of visual deception we can support.

Nose: Blackberry, plum, spice. Clean. No off-notes requiring creative reframing as “character.”

Taste: Dark fruit—cherry, plum, blackberry. Full-bodied, round, warm but not aggressive. Tannins show up soft, present without making themselves a problem. Oak contributes spice and depth in a way that suggests barrels were actually involved rather than wood chips and good intentions. The woody notes linger—natural, deep, the kind you get when someone knows what they’re doing.

Finish: Sticks around. Warmth on your palate, not heat, just a reminder that this is wine. Polite about it. Eventually leaves.

Serve it right: Room temperature, or whatever the restaurant decides that means. This wine doesn’t care. Neither should you.

Pairings: Steak with chimichurri. Conference dinners where the keynote ran over and everyone’s too tired for small talk. Conversations conducted mostly in gestures and optimistic nodding.

Verdict: This costs ten dollars. Worth saying twice: ten dollars. For a wine this structured, this smooth, this competent at being wine, that price makes Minnesota’s markups look less like retail and more like performance art. Brazilian wine doesn’t apologize. It doesn’t need to.

Rating: 8.5/10—Worth the flight.

The conference will end. Delegates will go home and implement commitments with varying degrees of enthusiasm. We will go home having confirmed that good wine costs ten dollars if you’re willing to buy it somewhere other than Total Wine. The panels discussed renewable energy transitions and carbon neutrality with appropriate seriousness. The wine just was good, which turned out to be enough.

— Gabe Evenocheck & Ben Bugbee
Bureau of International Viticulture and Carbon Offset Studies

(For readers 21 and older. Our lawyers wanted us to clarify that means 21+ in the U.S., 18+ in Brazil, because apparently drinking ages vary and disclaimers should acknowledge this.)

So, about fashion! We can use Italy under Mussolini’s rule as an example. Fashion was used to construct the era’s “Italian identity,” which took inspiration from the country’s “great” period, the Roman empire. Mussolini realized that clothing was a means to exert control and an avenue for propaganda. So, the Italian mythical identity manifested itself in a fashion movement of massaie rurali, meaning “ladies of the field.” Rural Italian women were advised to wear traditional peasant clothes, and with this, praised for their motherhood over any other profession. This wasn’t the only fascist fashion movement. To “complement” the men’s black shirts of the paramilitary, women often wore white blouses and black skirts. Reminiscent to a military uniform, women’s clothes under this regime could also be boxy and sleek, with sharp lines and cuts.

If you know anything about the internet “trad wife” aesthetic, you may have thought to yourself reading this that it seems a bit familiar. Well, there certainly are similarities. And, as I mentioned, conservatism (associated with this trend) does not equal fascism, but it shares qualities. Anyways, if you haven’t seen this trend going around, it’s basically women on the internet who post mainly about their traditional, stay-at-home lifestyle. They show their daily routine of baking bread daily, gardening, cooking, take care of their kids, etc. They may show a clip of their husband arriving home from work. A central aspect of these content creators is their clothes. Cottagecore-esque, with blousy dresses and skirts (typically on the modest side) operate as the mode of the “traditional wife.” The outfits are typically vintage-inspired, and elegant, if not vaguely farm-wear reminiscent (plaid, button-up, etc.).

I want to make it clear that I DO NOT think if you are a woman and you participate in this trend, you are a fascist, or even a conservative. I AM ALSO NOT DISPARAGING women in any form for wearing these clothes and living this lifestyle. It is fulfilling for many women, and that’s wonderful. However, I am simply comparing the similarities between the two ideologies and their associated fashion. I do, however, disparage the idea that this lifestyle and ideology is what every woman should aspire to. I make this point because as conservatism rises, I keep seeing and reading and hearing things that sound as though this viewpoint is rising as well. It’s problematic to assume that any one group of people should be one certain thing. Like c’mon. We are all humans, and we all have our own aspirations and dreams of what our life can be, and those aren’t things to be forced upon anyone. Anyways, I think I got a little sidetracked from the fashion part itself, but I hope this was insightful in some shape or form! Ciao!