Dear Friends,
I want to write about maple syrup.
As a child growing up in Vermont, I romped around the not-quite-winter-not-quite-spring woods with my next-door neighbor, carrying tin pails and singing “The Yellow Submarine.” It was the onset of “mud season;” it was maple syrup making season. And Vermont—a hippyish, mountainous state of near overwhelming rurality—provided excellent forests. We looked for the trees already tapped; we knew exactly where they stood on the grounds, as trees were landmarks. How the bark crawled up the trunk, how the bow quirked like an elbow—it all became familiar, once I wandered the same grounds enough. We watched the sap drip through the maple tap spouts, these stainless steel spiles, down into our pails. Tree to tree, pails held up to the trunk one at a time. And carefully so as not to spill, we climbed a muddy hill to a small cabin we called the “Sugar Shack.” Here, we boiled the sap into syrup (with some supervision). The water evaporated, and we were left with sugar. I remember sticking my face into the steam; how sweet and arduous such a process can be!
Apparently, making maple syrup, or “sugaring,” (not to be confused with the waxing technique) became a pandemic pastime. I can see why it became popular. The activity is manual, purposeful, and demands engagement. I suspect sugaring became an anchor for some during lockdown; it can be done in the backyard. It can be mindful. It can be grounding. The funny thing is, flowing sap is an early sign of spring in New England. An omen of re-emergence. If the rise in sugaring was a way to mentally survive the pandemic, then I suppose the syrup has begun to make its way into the pantry. Mud season is over.
We are in the world again.
Writing or editing, to me, are a bit like sugaring. They both require gathering raw material and evaporating the excess to reveal its best, most delectable form. It’s a process of beautiful, sticky, transformative creation. Stories can be anchors just like sugaring: in the form of sweet escapism or, conversely, a deeper connection with the world.
During my time at 12th Street, I have seen the journal transform from an “in-person” project into a solely digital experience, and finally (after sugaring that experience to the best we could make of it) back into an “in-person” endeavor; one that we, the editorial staff, take on with grateful veracity, now sitting less than six feet apart from one another. I have learned, over the past few years, how special creation and collaboration is while face-to-face. This year, 12th Street was able to create two zines, both crafted while we sat on the floor and collaged together until the pizza ran out. I tracked glitter all over my commute home.
In the fall of 2022, 12th Street went on hiatus for the duration of the strike at The New School. We stood in solidarity with the part-time faculty in their pursuit of equitable employment. Perhaps the strike was also a bit like sugaring; just like it takes buckets and buckets of sap to make a bottle of syrup, the strike required massive amounts of organization and negotiation to reach its conclusion.
Despite this pause, we were able to publish a multitude of fantastic pieces. A few in particular come to mind, like “This is Not a Place of Honor” by Erin Appenzellar, a story told from the perspective of a forest mouse living in a dystopian world. The piece asks, what comes next? What—and who—will survive us? And how? And in the lyrical and immersive “Last Call,” Chelsea M. Carney questions both change and the lack of change in her depiction of behavioral patterns, self-awareness, and the intention of personal growth. Jack Brown’s poem “Less So For You, More So For Me” intimately explores sexual identity in an epistolary form. Centered around the tradition of Cotillion, it probes the mother-son dynamic and gender roles, ultimately embracing the redefinition of interpersonal relationships. Finally, Luna Van Arsdale’s elegant and heart-moving essay, “Metamorphosis,” features artist Christina Bothwell’s work, experience, and philosophy surrounding birth, death, and regeneration. Each of these pieces includes a subtextual element of re-emergence or the subversion of it. They reflect the journal’s commitment to publishing work consistent with our ethos of authenticity and democracy.
To our authors and contributors: thank you for trusting us with your art. 12th Street has been both lucky and privileged to publish your voices.
To the 12th Street team: thank you for your hard work and dedication to the editorial process and craft of writing. It has been a pleasure and an honor working with you.
And finally, to our TNS community: let the sap flow from the spile of your soul. Maybe hum something sweet. Stick your face in the steam. I wish you all the maple syrup in the world.
Cheers,
Riley Dole
Editor-in-Chief
2022 – 2023