Tapestry 2020 by Archmere Academy

Tapestry Tapestry 2020 2020

Ta p e s t r y 2020

ARCHMERE ACADEMYâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S LITERARY AND FINE ARTS MAGAZINE

Archmere Academy 3600 Philadelphia Pike Claymont, Delaware 19703 302-798-6632 www.archmereacademy.com

Ta p e s t r y 2 0 2 0 TABLE OF CONTENTS Illusion, digital photography, Lisa Zeng ‘20.................................................................cover Metamorphosis, digital photography, Anna Garcia ‘21.......................................................3 Aesthetics and Whatnot, Anne-Shirley Desjardains ‘22......................................................4 Always Wear a Side Ponytail, Kaitlyn Kaulback ‘22..........................................................7 Poison Ivy, ceramics, Sophie Moosberg ‘20 .......................................................................9 Live, Laugh, Love: More than a Mom’s Favorite Quote, Ava Passehl ‘22.......................10 A New Approach to Life, Abigail Kates ‘20......................................................................12 Running on Caffeine, charcoal, Rachel Sisson ‘21 ...........................................................13 Chick-fil-a, Sophia Liston ‘20............................................................................................14 Isabella, Isabella Gioffre ‘20..............................................................................................16 A Cast of Autumn, watercolor, Isabella Dayrit ‘22 ..........................................................17 Nights with Mom, Julia Freney ‘20...................................................................................18 Similar but not the Same, Stephen D’ Antonio ‘20............................................................19 Aunt Mimi Plays the Guzheng, Sophia Liston ‘20............................................................20 Una Naranja en un Vaso, digital photography, John Frankel ‘20 .....................................21 El Jardín de Berta, acrylics, Jocelyn Zavala-Garcia ‘22...................................................22 Mommom Meatballs, Isabella Gioffre ‘20........................................................................23 Hi Ahma, Phoebe Brinker ‘20............................................................................................24 Bird in Flight, digital photography, Rory Clarke ‘20.........................................................25 (Moments) Become Monuments, Mr. Brian Manelski.......................................................26 Behind the Color, digital photography, Amelia Kaiser ‘23 ...............................................27 Songwriting: A Poem, Jacob Meredith ‘20........................................................................28 Portrait of Adam Hartman, watercolor, Janae Hartman ‘21.............................................29 iChildhood, pastel drawing, Margaret Atkins ‘21..............................................................30 Roommate for Hire, Jacob Meredith ‘20...........................................................................31 Wind Poem, Jared Etzrodt ‘20...........................................................................................32 Wheel-thrown Stoneware Bowl, ceramics, Camron Kaiser ‘21........................................33 Feathered, ceramics, Joseph Marino ‘21...........................................................................34 Wingman, Lauren Raziano ‘20..........................................................................................35 Mochi, watercolor, Isabella Dayrit ‘22 .............................................................................36 The Woodpecker, Alexis Rendel ‘21..................................................................................37 Frozen, Sophie Moosberg ‘20............................................................................................40 Split Sides, digital art, Alexandra Williamson ‘20.............................................................41 Stop Throwing Out the Pink Crayons, Lauren Raziano ‘20..............................................42 The Tourist, acrylics, Lauren Wilson ‘20...........................................................................45 My Tie Dye Journey, Anh Ho ‘20......................................................................................46 Rory, digital photography, Grace Janvier ‘20...................................................................47 Under the Lab Table, Stephen D’ Antonio ‘20...................................................................48 The Flea Response, Isabella Ganfield ‘21.........................................................................51 Revenge of the Incredible Hulk, Melina Reilly ‘20...........................................................52 A Step in the Wrong Direction, digital art, Alexandra Williamson ‘20 .............................55 Crime, Ava Passehl ‘22......................................................................................................56

Control, digital art, Madison Downey ‘20.........................................................................57 Bekks’ Beautiful Heaven, Rebekkah Kehoe ‘20................................................................58 Heaven’s Stairway, digital photography, John Frankel ‘20...............................................59 A Street in Italy, mixed medium, Katie Yakovenko ‘21.....................................................60 Memories of 57th Street, Natalie Gildea ‘23....................................................................61 Out of Reach, adv. drawing, Kusha Malik ‘22 ..................................................................62 Quarantined, Ashley Heitzenroder ‘20...............................................................................63 Stop, Meghan Presta ‘20...................................................................................................63 Quarantine Chronicles, Bradley Kilicoglu ‘20..................................................................64 Day 27 of Quarantine, Melina Reilly ‘20...........................................................................66 Dragon Warrior, ceramics, Nicholas Friedman ‘20...........................................................67 When the World Ends, Ava Passehl ‘22............................................................................68

Metamorphosis

Anna Garcia ‘21

Aesthetics and Whatnot My aesthetic huh? I guess I can think of a few things. For me, it’s spending most of your days in your backyard yet being told you have a vitamin D deficiency. It’s opening the bright yellow door to the crazy 4-year-olds at the Ministry of Caring and smiling really widely when they run up and hug you. It’s helping your dogs get over their fear of thunderstorms by dragging them under the deck to look at the rain, holding them in your arms wrapped in their favorite blanket (the Canadian flag one of course) until they stop shaking. It’s lying in freezing, wet grass, then smiling when you finally get up and feel the warmth of the spot you were just in. It’s cheating the system in Animal Crossing when you and your sister keep exchanging bugs back and forth. It’s going to the basement closet every now and then to look at all of your old dance costumes, remembering how you and your friends played dress up with them at every sleepover. It’s feeling immense déjà vu when you get glitter-bombed by that one horrifying 7th grade lyrical costume. It’s getting to school extra early on days when it’s drizzling just to walk around. It’s hearing people ask you if you were “out in the rain again” when you make the agonizing decision to go back inside. It’s saying “maybe” with the biggest, dumbest smile on your face. It’s trying to be Switzerland in a world full of Germanys. It’s you and your friends singing the “Sleepover SongTM” to your mom at the community pool, using your enchanting powers of persuasion to convince her to let seven rowdy 10-year-olds trash her home. It’s January air and long stakeouts on your porch swing. It’s falling asleep literally anywhere, whether it’s face down on the

carpet, on the kitchen counter, or even on the ping pong table. Dave made fun of me for ages after that one. It’s feeling like a warrior every time a friend asks you to get rid of a bug, and feeling like a savior every time you bring it outside to fulfill the rest of its miraculous insecty life. It’s waking up at 9 on Saturday mornings but grasping onto those last few hours of drowsy half-sleep until 11. It’s yelling at the TV with your sister as you both watch 90 Day Fiancé, “hating” and loving people you don’t even know. It’s that perfect time of day when the sun is gone but the sky isn’t too dark of a blue yet. Abbie says it’s called dusk. It’s ranting about hockey things to “hockey friend” and laugh-crying when she makes fun of the Habs. It’s making references and getting way too excited when someone under stands one. It’s sweet car rides with your dad, knowing he took 15 minutes out of his day just to drive you somewhere. It’s learning a new recipe from your mom, then making it for her a few weeks later. It’s falling asleep in your aerial yoga hammock because you don’t feel like making the treacherous two-step journey to your bed. It’s that sound curtains make when you open them. It’s talking in French with your parents. Telling your mom to “passez les champignons” when you’re cooking together. It’s sitting in really big trees and calling every kid you meet “little dude.” It’s the friendly bus driver who walked you home when no one could pick you up. It’s ladybugs and green tea. No milk, no sugar, just delicious leafy water. It’s visiting the neighborhood horses to feed them carrots (it’s not against the rules if no one sees). It’s the intimate act of sharing your earbuds with someone. A seamless waltz. It’s waking up to eggs and Freddie Mercury. Not the actual person, though that would be a treat.

It’s over-highlighting books and smuggling your dog into parent-teacher conferences. Seriously, I have pictures. It’s reading a book and dying to know the end, yet feeling happy that it’s not over yet. It’s “Let it Be” by the Beatles. It’s giving yourself five middle names because you don’t even have one. It’s your first church program. October 20th, 2019. It’s knowing how to say “I love you” in fourteen different languages. It’s playing matchmaker to two lovable dummies. You may have a 0% success rate, but there’s still hope! It’s protecting the goaltender at all costs. It’s mismatched socks and forehead touches. It’s popcorn ceilings and lawn chairs. It’s big houses with tiny windows. It’s remembering someone’s name. It’s riding way too small Razor scooters down your driveway, waiting till the very last second to push the brakes because the wind feels so nice. It’s saying hello and not having to say goodbye. It’s having no regrets. Anne-Shirley Desjardains ‘22

Always Wear a Side Ponytail If I could go back in time and tell my middle-school self one thing, I would tell her to always wear a side ponytail. Stick with me here because my story is not as odd as this strange 80s hairstyle. But for you to understand the art of the side ponytail, I have to take you way back to the lovely world of eighth grade. *insert time travel sequence* Eighth grade year was an interesting time. While being the top of the middle school totem pole did have its perks, there was a fair share of people that really got under my skin. Normally, I just brush off whatever those mean people say, but this particular story haunted me for years. One night, I wanted to straighten my hair to add a little spice to my life. When I finished, I was really proud of the end product. I went into school the next day with my hair down and my head held high, but then I got really hot and put my hair into a ponytail. But I was still proud nonetheless. So I’m on my way to English class when I see my “friends” standing outside the door. I go up to them to say hi, and one of the girls has the nerve to say, “Is that your weak attempt at a side ponytail?” They walked away, and I just stood there, speechless. The hair that I worked really hard to straighten was being criticized as weak. From that point on, I never put my straight hair into a ponytail whenever I went to school in fear of judgement. That anxiety then spread to other aspects of my life. I can’t like doing this activity because no one else likes it. I can’t wear that shirt because everyone will think I’m weird. I can’t say that because it’s an unpopular opinion. I have to be like everyone else or otherwise I’m an outcast. It wasn’t until years later that I looked into the mirror to see how different I had become...how I looked like every other person, a manifestation of everyone else’s expectations. At that moment, I realized what needed to be done.

That is the art of the side ponytail: to not let anyone, but yourself, distinguish your dreams or wants. You only have one life. If youspend that time being what everyone else wants you to be, then you never get the chance to be yourself. Being yourself is doing what you love and are passionate about. You know that feeling when you’re doing something you love, and you feel a certain happiness, like you feel that you are exactly where you want to be. However, YOU have to be your own advocate for what you want to do in life. The people surrounding us can’t be the ones to tell you what you should do because nobody is you. Other people shouldn’t dictate what you want in life or who you should be. Everyone needs to follow their own passion (unless that passion involves murder, then you might not want to do that). I’m currently in high school and straighten my hair almost every single day. I participate in activities that make me happy without fear of judgement, including the winter musical. When I’m on the stage, I can be myself and let go of any anxieties and doubt. During those winter months, you can find me in the theater almost every single day after school. In rehearsal. Wearing a ponytail. You guessed it, to the side. Kaitlyn Kaulback ‘22

Poison Ivy

Sophie Moosberg â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Live, Laugh, Love: More than a Mom’s Favorite Quote I believe in a math class epiphany. It’s when I grasped the progress I’ve made, and the progress I have yet to make. Throughout childhood and into high school, I always displayed myself as a carefree, happy person. But in the loneliness of my head, I was a worrier who lacked confidence and felt little joy from her successes. My happiness fought for attention with my need to be concerned about anything and everything. Despite my parents’ encouragement to think positively, I refused to change my distressed outlook no matter how much my constant worrying got in my way. In geometry class weeks ago, I was yet again freaking out (as I tend to do). I was complaining to my friend Onyi that I barely understood triangle similarity. Halfway through my rant, I stopped. Something dawned on me. I put my frenzied hands down and took a deep breath. Turning to Onyi, I declared, “Well, I wouldn’t rather be any place else but here.” I’m sure she thought that was slightly weird. At that moment, I had a math class epiphany. Despite being preoccupied by worry, I reality-checked myself. I remembered what a blessed life I live. How incredible it was that I ended up sitting in this geometry classroom. At Archmere. In tenth grade. With Onyi. Struggling to solve math problems. I could’ve easily ended up someplace very different along the way. I remembered back a few months when, after years of anxiousness, I reluctantly began to consider my parents’ advice. Look at life as an endless opportunity, they said. Work through the rough spots with a smile, they said. Okay. I’ll give that a try. Fast forward to today, I’ve discovered how much I appreciate my life despite the troubles that come along with it. I cherish my friends, excel in soccer, and love school. I feel more fulfilled than ever. I wake up every morning slightly groggy but excited to smile and live life. Now, this essay is not meant to convince you I have found the key to a glorious life without stress. Anyone who hasn’t seen me worried

or upset over something probably hasn’t seen too much of me. However, the road of life cannot be perfectly paved; there are bound to be bumps along the way. I remind myself that whatever problem I face on my journey can’t be that bad. Someone else out there is always having a worse day than I. Coming back from my epiphany, I grinned at my math notes. I instantly understood how much I have grown to love each day for all its messy glory. My past struggles with worry and self doubt help me recognize all that I have and can accomplish. I silently promised myself that each day I’ll try my best to practice gratitude for the little joys I encounter. Am I a work in progress? Of course. Do I still concern myself over nonsense way too much? Definitely. But am I grateful for the newfound love I have for myself and others? More than anything. I know I sound like that mom who has “Live, Laugh, Love” plastered on her dining room wall, but I guess it’s true! I believe in appreciating all aspects of my day, good and bad. I believe that changing your mindset toward gratitude can change your life. So next time you want to stress over that one little thing, follow these directions: stop, breathe, reality check, and proceed with gratitude. Ava Passehl ‘22

A New Approach to Life

Run, lean, takeoff, hold, kick, and land: a high jumper’s thoughts throughout each attempt. I have always found myself interested in a multitude of clubs and teams, but I never had a true passion for them. After each game, concert, show, debate, or match, I ended with a feeling that I wanted more. At last, in the spring of seventh grade, my track coach introduced me to an event meant just for me and my strengths: the high jump. High jump demands all of my best qualities that I have acquired from each activity at which I was just average. As I walk up to begin my approach, I have to clear my mind and focus on myself and the bar. I love how in that one-minute time slot for each jump, I forget about all other stresses and am fully present in the moment. High jump requires the focus I received from being on the debate team, the competitiveness from my other sports, the flexibility from dance, the patience from theater, my faith given to me by my church choir, and the euphoria of my personality. As a perfectionist, I examine every last part of my jump. First comes the run, which starts with a “long and strong first push” as my coach calls it, followed by a slow to fast run and lean. Reflecting on high jump, I realize that this saying applies to all my life’s endeavors. I must start with a strong first push that will lead me to success as long as I keep moving forward. I found myself following this motto during Student Council elections. Freshman year, I ran for president and worked so hard on campaign posters and stickers, but when elections came around, I did not get elected president. I kept moving forward though, I ran again for sophomore class president and then again junior year. Neither year was I elected president, but I took my position as one of the class representatives very seriously, doing as much as possible. My classmates began to take notice of my hard work, and at the end of my junior year, I ran for the executive council and was elected Vice President. After the takeoff, I have to be patient on my rise, when I “say hello to Jesus.” My coach joked around when I kept kicking my legs too early and said, “while you are up there say hello to Jesus, ask him about his day.” Although a simple joke in an attempt to fix my form, it registered with me how in my daily life, I need to stop moving so fast and take time for my faith. One of my favorite parts of my school day is right before lunch where I go to Kenosis, a place for reflection on Bible readings. These five short minutes allow me to contemplate my blessings, thank God for all he has given me, and ask for guidance when necessary.

Finally comes the landing; falling to the mat seeing the bar still on the standards brings so much excitement of my success. I feel this same excitement in anything I succeed at, especially when it is something I have worked so hard for. Freshman year I tried out for Archmere’s highly acclaimed volleyball team. At the summer camp, I was by far the worst one there, but I focused on being the most positive and supportive. At tryouts, the coaches noticed my optimistic attitude and how I never gave up. Because “you can’t coach height,” I made the team but “rode the bench” for the entire year. I never let it get to me, and the summer before sophomore year I practiced every day, watched hundreds of videos, and earned my spot on the varsity team. Now, as a senior, I am a starter and a captain always making sure to have a positive attitude and to encourage the younger team members to never give up. High jump has become a metaphor for how I live each day but, just like any endeavor, sometimes high jump can lead to failure. Thankfully, there are always helpers to put the bar back up for me to try again. Abigail Kates ‘20

Running on Caffeine

Rachel Sisson ‘21 Scholastic Silver Key

Chick-fil-A Chick-fil-A, famous for its stellar service, seemed an ideal place to enter the workforce. It was also the only place in my area that would hire an inexperienced 15-year-old. So, when I landed my first job there, I was giddy. At 15, I had only recently realized that I was a lesbian. I was not yet a sophisticated political thinker, nor did I know that the company made donations to organizations that support practices like conversion therapy. When I worked at CFA, being a lesbian did not yet feel central to my identity. Few would have guessed my sexuality if I did not tell them: I looked traditionally feminine, I was private about my relationships, and I was (and still am) a church-goer. So, my sexuality went unnoticed at work, although that was never my conscious intent. Instead, I concentrated on helping coworkers, cleaning spaces for guests, and organizing the condiments bar so that exactly 53 ketchup packets stacked neatly into their designated spaces. My managers praised my work ethic and my personable attitude, and they frequently assigned me to work in the lobby to connect with guests while fulfilling their needs. I knew exactly what regulars like Mr. George would order (a Number 1 sandwich, a cobb salad with avocado-lime ranch dressing, and a large Dr. Pepper), and those guests noticed how I quietly hummed with the gospel music playing overhead. I found working at CFA truly fulfilling, and I loved the supportive, cooperative work culture. When I left before starting my sophomore year, I had thoughts of returning. After I became more conscious of CFAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s controversial stance on LGBTQ+ rights, I started to reconsider returning to work there. My pride in my identity and gratitude to CFA as an employer put me in an awkward situation. I realized in a new and highly personal way that my choices can have unintended consequences. Faith has been a big part of my life, and there were at least superficial similarities between some of the values of my church and those promoted by CFA. It was scary to think that my community and faith tradition might also share some of CFAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hurtful stances. In fact, I hesitated to come out in part because of that fear. I began to resolve my views about what it meant to be both a

Presbyterian and a lesbian, in part, by wrestling with the implications of having worked at CFA. Having grown more comfortable with myself, I have started to engage with the LGBTQ+ community. Throughout high school, I have participated in diversity-centric clubs and discussions, researched LGBTQ+ issues and faith with books and articles, walked in this year’s Philly Dyke March, and even dated for the first time. By the end of my junior year, my sexuality had become one of the major ways I define myself, and the new importance I placed on tolerance and inclusion informed many of my decisions and classroom discussions. I no longer felt that my sexuality conflicted with my values, but I realized that my values did conflict with CFA’s. So, when I had the opportunity to go back to CFA as a rising senior, my decision was a respectful but resolute “no.” I am happy that CFA recently announced it would stop donating to anti-LGBTQ+ groups in response to the criticism the company received. As the company grapples with the public’s reaction to its values, I will be curious to see what the company becomes. I am confident, however, in the kind of person I am becoming. Sophia Liston ‘20

Isabella (after Sandra Cisneros) My name is Isabella. My parents named me Isabella because they loved the name; there’s no creative story behind it. Isabella is about as basic as it gets, as 12,000 other mothers and fathers decided to name their kid that in 2002 as well. It’s the fourth most popular girl’s name in the world. Isabella, in the dictionary, is defined as either a wild vine or a grayish-yellow color. Isabella is like the 17th day of each month. Like another piece of the same dry chicken your mother has been cooking for a decade. Just nothing special about it. There is not one standout Isabella; no famous Isabella’s are winning Grammys or running for president. The most acclaimed Isabella is Isabella I of Castile, and no one my age is bringing her name up in a conversation about the dull history of Spain in 1450. While my name refers to a lackluster color and an uncommon plant, Isabella also means “pledged to God.” I’ve never read about one Isabella in the Bible. I wish Isabella showed up in the Bible as many times as Jesus or Moses did, and people around the world knew Isabella’s as people who were sacred figures. However, I’m not sure what Isabella’s are known for. As much as I follow my faith, I would not consider myself pledged to God, and I know my parents aren’t either. Isabella sounds like someone who would devote herself to God, maybe a nun even, something like Sister Isabella. But that isn’t me. The story about my name is simple. I didn’t like it. It had no real meaning to me. So, I changed my name to Izzy. Cute and short. Izzy was unique; it was different. Two Z’s and a Y, what other name offers that? I wasn’t the third Isabella to be called out while going through a class list, I was the first Izzy. I wonder if I would act any differently if I still went by Isabella. Would I act more mature, more put together if my name was still that common, religious name? It didn’t worry me much though. An Izzy would step on an Isabella for the spotlight. The top seed playing the sixteenth seed. She was completely unmatched. I used to go by Isabella or Izzy interchangeably because it didn’t really matter to me which one I was called. But in high school, I decided to go by Izzy, and Izzy only, to everyone. I was an Izzy, a to-the-point, fun kid. People always glanced unfamiliarly at me when my parents called me Isabella all throughout high school because that just wasn’t who I was

anymore. Izzy was effortless to call out during a sports game, quickest to write on a test, and easiest to remember. In the future, if friends or family meet a new Izzy, I hope they simply think back to the unique, spirited, and lively person I was growing up. Isabella Gioffre â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

A Cast of Autumn

Isabella Dayrit â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

Nights with Mom Every night around nine I sat with my mother. On the couch, we watched TV, Always in her matching pajama set, Always in my little girl nightgowns. I loved those nights. She would rub my head and stroke my hair. I often had headaches, she made them better, Always put me right to sleep. I loved sitting with her having our special time. With so many siblings itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard to connect. One specific night we watched my favorite movie While she held me in her arms. We fell asleep on the couch. How I miss those days of being a child with my mother. Julia Freney â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Similar but not the Same (after Sandra Cisneros) In English, my name means “that which surrounds.” In French, Stephen translates to Étienne, oftentimes confused by my peers as the English abbreviation ATM. This mixup is symbolic: the two sound similar, but are obviously different. I don’t dispense cash. It was my father’s name, Stephen, and now we share it. We have different middle names. Our names are similar, but they are also very different. My dad is a mechanic. He works long hours at his body shop, fixing engines and rotating tires, always putting the customers first. For example, one night, one of his customers and friends got into an accident just after he walked in the door from work, around 8 o’clock at night. Although exhausted, he turned around and walked right back out to help his friend. This is not the only time my father has done something like this, and these are the kinds of actions that define my father. I don’t share any interests with my dad. My knowledge of cars is limited to the right pedal means go, the left means stop. But I do share some similar values with my dad. I try to do for others as much as I can, whether it’s teaching the girls at the community how to spell and read or serving dinner to the customers at St. Francis Inn. I learned these qualities from my dad, and when I’m stuck in a situation, I consider how he would handle it. My dad and I are not the same. But we are not different. Stephen D’Antonio ‘20

Aunt Mimi Plays the Guzheng I didn’t know its name back then, just that it sounded like both a harp and a guitar and looked a bit like a loom. When Aunt Mimi played the guzheng, she plucked, pressed, strummed, and slid her clawed fingers across the strings, the tips as sharp as her elbows and wrists. When I heard her begin to play, I watched from behind. She never turned her head except to reach the board’s ends. A twang, a lift, and a glide into a high trill, the sound ripe with drama and emotion that stereotype cannot replicate. My mother says Aunt Mimi is bitter but I could never agree. How can I say bitter when she is hidden to me? I call her Mimi, like everyone does, or Gugu, as she is my mother’s aunt. I am Yueyi and my mother is Quan’an. But Aunt Mimi? I never knew her name, not now or back then.

I haven’t heard her play the guzheng since I was a child. but if she plucked the strings again, I would watch her face this time. Sophia Liston ‘20

Una Naranja en un Vaso John Frankel ‘20

El Jardín de Berta

Jocelyn Zavala-Garcia ‘22 Scholastic Gold Key

MomMom Meatballs There is nothing I value more in my life than my family’s traditions. Just as I value my family, my family values tradition, more specifically traditions surrounding food. I’ve grown up having dinner every night at my kitchen table surrounded by my four immediate family members, and dinner every Sunday surrounded by my nineteen cousins, aunts and uncles. We’ve learned a lot about each other around the table. My cousin announced her engagement at my grandmother’s kitchen table, my cousin told us he was going to medical school around my dining room table and I recently announced my college decision around the table as well. Shockingly enough, we affectionately called my great-grandmother “MomMom Meatball.” My great grandmother could cook meals for so many of us in one sitting, including her eighteen grandchildren and twenty-eight great-grandchildren. It was a talent few people could match; MomMom Meatball had family royalty. When she was in the kitchen, it was off-limits. I’ll always remember the sound of the rolling pin hitting each string of spaghetti dough, the smell of fresh basil being cut into the spaghetti sauce, and the delicious taste of her very own poppy-seed cake. MomMom Meatball passed in 2011, but her traditions live beside me every day. In fact, this past summer would’ve been her 100th birthday, so my family and I celebrated by cooking all the food in her cookbook that was put together by my cousin. I’m so grateful for my great-grandmother because she instilled in me so many values and truly showed me the importance of family and food. But the most valuable lesson I learned was not about the food, but the importance of being together and showing up to different events. Growing up at a table with a minimum of twenty Italians talking back and forth, it took me a few years to learn how to speak up and socialize with my relatives ranging at all different ages. I think we all have mastered the science behind telling a humorous and, more times than not, exaggerated story. I can remember always sitting at the kids’ table waiting for the day I could move up to the adults’ table and engage in a conversation. When the day finally arrived, I was ready to embrace my role as the next generation of continuing traditions. These traditions will always have a special place in my heart, and I plan on bringing them to generations to come. And as the traditions begin to change, pieces of my MomMom Meatball will always be in them. Even though she’s not around anymore, we make sure to say cheers to her before every family meal. Isabella Gioffre ‘20

Hi Ahma “That is exactly what Ahma would do!,” my mom exclaims as she catches me tiptoeing towards the refrigerator, ready to sneak the last lemon bar into my mouth. Or she shouts “Why do you have to be so much like my mother sometimes?” across the house after I snooze my alarm five times, refusing to face the world for another second. I have a single memory of my grandmother, Ahma, comforting me in her arms, attempting to mellow my whimpers. I can picture her gracious smile, yet once I make out her face the moment vanishes into the past. Animals deeply affect people; they make our jaws drop in awe, draw tears from our eyes, and force smiles onto our stress-filled faces. For my family, when we see a hawk gliding through the air, it generates emotions living deep inside our hearts as we commemorate my grandmother’s life. The hawk has become my family’s spirit animal, guiding us through life similarly to the way Ahma did. Hawks symbolize wisdom and intuition, values my grandmother embodied which I strive to live by. As I reflect upon the person I aspire to become, I turn towards the hawk for a reminder to honor the values my grandmother and I hold close to heart. As a professor, my grandmother embodied wisdom by instilling her students with knowledge to carry them beyond the classroom. To me, wisdom is having the courage to become a more informed version of myself. My favorite store has always been Barnes & Noble; I could spend hours scouring the aisles in search of the perfect book. Years ago, I remember begging my mom for Nancy Drew: The Secret of the Old Clock. Through quivering lips and a gentle smile, my mom explained the mystery story had been one of my grandmother’s favorite books, and that Ahma too spent hours scanning bookshelves for novels. The day I picked Nancy Drew off the bookshelf I did not just become an avid reader: I found commonality with my grandmother whom I did not know, yet I know she is with me. As a passionate golfer, my grandmother exhibited the intuitive nature the sport demands. By learning from Ahma to trust my intuition on the course, I make decisive decisions and always stay patient. Instead of feeling frustration after hitting a tee shot out of bounds, I channel my intuitive positivity, knowing that another hole lies ahead. I have learned

to love the spirit of competition and find confidence in my abilities, which I have worked diligently to develop. I cherish the passion I share with my grandmother, which to me is so much more than a sport. Whenever I am walking down the fairway hand in hand with my mom, she gives my palm two squeezes: one from her and one from my grandmother. It is this simple gesture that awakens my intuition, telling me Ahma is walking down the fairway with us, too. As I enter the next phase of my life, I will explore new passions while still living a life that honors my grandmother’s values. My spirit animal will always guide me to live a life I am proud of, and that I know Ahma would be proud of, too. Whenever I witness a lively, majestic hawk flying overhead, my heart feels full of my grandmother’s unconditional love as I mouth, “Hi Ahma.” Phoebe Brinker ‘20

Bird in Flight

Rory Clarke ‘20

(Moments) Become Monuments I had the most meaningful of [breathe in, ( ), breathe out]â&#x20AC;Ś Just now. (There are nothing but (moments.)) The amount of individual molecules in one droplet of water. The amount of droplets in one thunderstorm. The amount of droplets in one ocean. Maybe

thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not an ocean, but a massive amount of tears that poured from a ginormous stone tortoise named Samuel who in a

(moment)

lost a tooth and realized that the universe is not an endless playground but the end of class where youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve written nothing on your test

(a moment) not one second more. ((a moment)) none-the-less

that becomes forty-five minutes that becomes the week in the life of a that becomes the sixteenth anniversary of that becomes the sun beating down on a faded marble monument

like specks of sand dropping in the universe of (moments). Mr. Brian Manelski

Behind the Color Amelia Kaiser â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;23

Songwriting: A Poem Notes on my phone. Lyrics in my head. Trying to remember what words I just said. Pen to my paper. Ass to my chair. Writing my emotions and hoping people care. MIDI in my hand. Ideas in my mind. Searching for any inspiration I can find. Hours of my time. Tapping with my shoe. Twenty bad takes and one that might do. Send to my friends. Wait for replies. Wait for replies. Wait for replies. Everyone likes it but my mind is a mess. All they say is “amazing.” Could they have said any less? I point out my faults and the rhymes are all wrong, and the structure is off. Is this even a song? I doubt my own work and it all falls apart. I lose sight of my goal and don’t want to restart. But then a short message appears on my phone. “The words in your song, they don’t quite fit the tone.” I examine the message. I didn’t meet their standard. For some reason though, I felt happy, not angered.

Their honesty excites me. I pick myself up. I begin to rewrite. Eyes as happy as a pup. Return to my room. Pick up my pen. Prepare to revise and to start once again.

Finish my song. End of my plight. It is finally time to copyright. Jacob Meredith â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Portrait of Adam Hartman

Janae Hartman â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 Scholastic Silver Key

iChildhood: Growing up Pixelated

Margaret Atkins â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 Scholastic Gold Key

Roommate for Hire I love creative people, it’s their aura man. That’s what this stranger sent me In an Instagram DM. I was looking for a roommate. What’s up, bro? Me too. I saw your Facebook post. I wonder, what should I do? We talked for some time About music and the arts. Our tastes were similar. Whoever’s topping the charts. My music intrigued him. So why do you write? And what is your process? Do you talk about life? The conversation raged on. We were two hours in. Hey, I think I’m gonna go, It’s almost 6 am. Jacob Meredith ‘20

Wind Poem In the open air I felt a rush of a cold, rough across my face. I was dumbfounded: the sensation had become unfamiliar, my face too accustomed to the stale, consistent environment. A perplexing force rarely visible, except through its action and the results of its existence. Leaves forced from their homes, trees stoically resisting, though not always winning, as my eyes watered in discomfort. A force with limitless boundaries, one that creates so much discomfort, but acts on all things, indiscriminately. Jared Etzrodt â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Wheel-thrown Stoneware Bowl

Camron Kaiser â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 Scholastic Gold Key

Feathered

Joseph Marino â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

Wingman The birds awaken the sky As the colors burst Over the hills. I stare out the window, And see the clouds cover, The dark day that lies ahead When I see it: a fallen bird, A baby cries, hoping For another bird to help. I look away: I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to see its pain, All alone. Except it has the world, The protection of nature, Another comes to pick it up. Carried into the open air, The birds fly together, Chirping that today will be a good day. Lauren Raziano â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Mochi Isabella Dayrit â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

The Woodpecker A woodpecker picked a particularly hard piece of wood one day and suddenly wondered “why?” He never really understood why he got into the wood-pecking business in the first place, beyond the fact that his family had been doing it for generations. One night, while mulling over this thought at the dinner table, he suddenly stood up and announced, “I’m going to try something new!” His black eyes shone with excitement and joy at the promising prospect of starting a new chapter in his life. His father, however, was not so pleased with the notion of his only son and heir giving up the family business. His mother calmed the father down and explained that this was certainly just a phase. His sister just sat back and chirped with laughter, knowing her dear brother had no skills beyond wood pecking. The next day, the woodpecker met with a cardinal for guidance. Cardinals were known to have faith in all and wisdom similar to the owls because of their pious and contemplative nature. After reading over the woodpecker’s resume, the cardinal was confused as to why the woodpecker would want to leave his family’s business since he didn’t appear to have any other promising skills. Nevertheless, he suggested the woodpecker work with the seagulls, since they took care of the menial work for the community such as clean up, disposal, and mail delivery. The woodpecker accepted the job, excited to start his new chapter. The woodpecker showed up for his first day of work, anxious to meet new birds and learn his new trade. However, the seagulls were confused when he arrived as to why a woodpecker would take up such menial work with them. The seagulls crowded around him, squawking and cawing out all sorts of questions that by the end of the day, the woodpecker was more tired from responding to their curiosities than he was from working. In fact, he realized he hadn’t actually done any work since the seagulls worked fast and ended up spending the day chattering away anyway. Disheartened, but not ready to give up, the woodpecker flew over to the owls for some more advice and perhaps for some new perspective. The wise old owl inquired why the woodpecker would want to leave his pecking trade. He had the perfect physique for the job, and only woodpeckers could work in the pecking field. Why would he want to leave his

perfectly logical position? The woodpecker persisted and demanded to know if there were any job openings in a different trade. The owl relented and suggested he look into the hummingbirds’ sugar business. According to the owl, the woodpecker had a similar beak to hummingbirds, so it may work out. The woodpecker arrived at the hummingbird garden, bright eyed and hoping that this was the job for him, but immediately struggled to communicate with anyone. The hummingbirds worked so quickly and silently it was hard to spot or stop one to ask what they were even doing. The woodpecker decided to just watch, in awe of how the hummingbirds work as a team, though completely silent. He thought about how lonely he was pecking all alone back at his old job. Maybe all he really needed was a gang, a group of fellow birds ready to work together and communicate as a team. Leaving the garden and feeling a little lost, the woodpecker remembered the Blue Jays, a secretive group accused of all sorts of petty crimes, but they never were convicted of any. Although his conscience warned him otherwise, the woodpecker decided he had nothing to lose and took the risk to seek the infamous group out. It didn’t take long for the Blue Jays to surprisingly find him, since they were known for preying on lost and lonely birds. The woodpecker began to question his decisions as the imposing and nefarious looking gang circled him. He sought out the leader and explained his crisis. He needed a safe group of birds, and the Blue Jays assured him this was the place for him, commenting on how his sharp beak would be perfect for their line of work. Reassured, but still with some hesitation, the woodpecker joined up with the Blue Jays, more out of a need to be in a group than anything else. For a while, all they did was fly around the various forests, tweeting amongst each other and learning more about their strange new woodpecker friend. The leader explained to him the Blue Jay’s code of honor and how the Blue Jays always supported one another. The woodpecker beamed with joy at the idea of working with a team like the Blue Jays described themselves as. Suddenly, the scout jay called out about a potential job opportunity. The woodpecker looked down and noticed a baby sparrow lying on the ground, out of its nest, her food sitting idle. Great! The woodpecker

thought, we’re going to save the baby! However, one blue jay swooped down and swiped the baby’s food out of the nest. Another jay started picking twigs off the next and hoarding him for himself. A final jay flew down and kicked the other eggs out the nest, twittering with laughter as they fell to the ground. The woodpecker watched, wide-eyed with horror at the massacre he was witnessing. The leader called out for him to join in on the fun, claiming his pointy beak would be perfect for de-nesting, but the woodpecker just stood frozen with pure shock. He couldn’t believe the rumors were true about the gang that had just explained to him their code of honor. The woodpecker lingered for so long, just staring at the appalling scene before him, that the Blue Jays left him in the dust at the scene of the crime. He didn’t even realize when the hawks dived in to arrest the lone bird at the scene. While sitting in the tree hole cell, the woodpecker reflected on his experiences and occupational pursuit from the past week. The seagulls had been too loud and inquisitive, the hummingbirds worked too quickly and quietly, and the Blue Jays were flat out criminals. Alone with his thoughts, the woodpecker became overwhelmed with remorse for leaving his job at home. Although he worked alone, everyone he was close with were woodpeckers and they all worked and lived in the comfortable forest he called home. He felt ashamed for taking his old lifestyle for granted and that he was now stuck in an old rotting cell. Then it dawned on him, he was a woodpecker! He could just peck through the walls. It was what he was born to do! He pecked faster than he ever had before; he had to get out before the hawks returned to bring him to trial in front of the proud Emperor penguins. Finally, the fruits of his labor created a hole large enough for the woodpecker to escape and fly as fast as he could back to his home forest. He returned to the comforting smell of pine and evergreen, finally understanding that his talents were best suited at home. Alexis Rendel ‘21

Frozen Elsa intentionally sends an ice castle Shooting up into the air like a skyrocket. The ice is sharp like a blade And will pierce through human skin. Anna nearly drops dead when she approaches To rescue her sister whom she admires dearly. Else wants to take over Arendelle and Claim the throne ever so selfishly. Her ice power is completely within her control; She can turn it on whenever she pleases To freeze the hearts of her loved ones. She simply froze the hearts of her parents To inherit their wealth. Her innocent, precious sister Anna believed That she could truly not control her powers. But Elsa took pride in painlessly freezing Her younger sister to stone, So she could bathe in all the power. When things did not go her way, She activated her powers and turned innocent people To stone with a glow of ice encapsulating their body Until she got her desires. Sophie Moosberg â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Split Sides

Alexandra Williamson â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Stop Throwing Out the Pink Crayons “Stop throwing out the pink crayons,” I tell the boys. I yell across the table as the three kindergarten boys are mimicking the famous basketball player, shouting “Kobe! ” My eyes are following as my favorite Crayola crayon color, Razzmatazz, lands into the trash can. For some reason, I was forced to sit at the all-boys table; maybe it was because I was supposed to keep them calm, but today I was failing miserably. “Ew! Stop grabbing them out of the trash,” Eddie calls out. Eddie was the classic kindergarten boy, with messy hair, an untucked shirt with a blue paint smear, and half buttoned up pants, but he had one more unique feature. Just the week before, at his family’s annual Christmas party, he was jumping between couches when he slipped and fell, shattering the glass table below him. With his new stitches splitting his face in half, bandaged and bruised, he looked like a sewn-up doll. “If you don’t want them, I’ll take them,” I say back confidently while searching for the last pink crayon that is hiding under the snack wrappers at the bottom at the trashcan. Later in the day when we had to complete a color by number activity, the boys were all begging me to have their crayons back. Dressed in the Catholic girl uniform of a white polo shirt and a plaid skirt, all the girls looked the same. The only thing that set me apart was that I was a small girl, still in size T4 even though I was six years old. Our classroom consisted of twelve people, three boys and nine girls, each seated in a four person configuration like a square. The classroom was special, not only because it was the closest classroom to the playground, but also because it had a play loft. We played in an imaginary house with a kitchen and stuffed animals, used big foam blocks to make forts so we could see below, our imaginations allowing us to do anything we wanted. Today was a special day because we were learning how to use a needlepoint for cutting out a world map. The tools were like pencils with a pointing needle at the end, almost like wolverine claws. “To cut out shapes from worksheets,” the teacher instructed, “You have to pierce the paper with the tool, following the outline of the continents.” We went around in stations, each one having a specific color

sheet of paper that represented a different continent that we were supposed to cut out. The instructions: First, find Asia on the map and begin cutting the shape out following the outline on the sheet. Happily, I start by placing my needle tool through the blue paper, taking my time. I see that the boy across from me, Tony, is jabbing what looks like a jagged piece of paper. “That one is Africa, not Asia,” I point out. I’m quick to correct his mistakes. “No, this is Asia,” he says as he directs his finger at his paper, “YOU are cutting out Antarctica.” I stare across at him, stick out my tongue, and grab another piece of blue paper. This time I triple check my paper, and trace Asia. Before I’m finished, Eddie shouts across the table, “It’s my turn to use the tool!” Annoyed, I slid it across the table, just like I would any other crayon, but this time he did not catch the tool. Jerking his head back screaming, the needle point tool sticking straight up from his hand, I realized my mistake. “MY HAND!” My head was pounding with the ideas “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. What did I do?” “AAAAAAAAAAAAA!” everyone at the table screams as Eddie’s face turns pale. The teacher’s eyes dart over and her jaw drops as the worst thing that could’ve happened came true. Eddie has the needle poking out the side of his hand, the needle point no longer visible because it’s in his hand and I can only see the orange handle. This is like a scary nightmare. I know that if he takes the needle out from his hand, the blood might spew everywhere and my blue paper would get red icky blood all over it. GROSS! I see the blood, like a melting crayon, begin to slowly drip onto the activity table. Eddie looks like he’s about to faint. Though my tears I stutter, “ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I keep repeating it, hoping that it somehow makes him stop crying. “Don’t touch it,” Mrs. Persolio says as Eddie is wailing because he wants his mother. Mrs. Persolio sends my best friend, Amy, to go to the classroom next door to get Mrs. Carter to watch the class. I see Amy run across the hall into Mrs. Carter’s room shouting “ Eddie is dying! Mrs. Carter, come

quickly, we need your help!” Mrs. Persolio picks up Eddie and carries him out of the room and down the stairs to the nurse’s office, but I can still hear his shrieking in the distance. The fears of me getting in trouble by my teacher, the principal, my parents, and maybe the police scared me. What if I was gonna go to jail for hurting my friend? It was difficult to eat my lunch after witnessing my friend across from me bleeding out and it was all my fault. His seat remained empty for the rest of the day, a reminder of what I had done. I confronted my mother that night about what I had done. She was upset that I wasn’t being careful about what I was doing but she knew that it was a mistake and I wasn’t trying to be a bully. The teacher sent an email out that night explaining what had happened and that Eddie received some stitches in the side of his hand but he was home now. The next day when I saw him walk through the door I was so relieved that I gave him the biggest hug. All the kids in the classroom yelled “cooties!” but I didn’t care because it meant he was alive and I wasn’t going to go to jail for conspiracy to commit murder. Woo! “Can I have my pink crayon back?” he says across the table to me. Placing the crayon back into his bandaged hand I apologize, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” “That’s ok,” he mumbles, “My dad says I look like a ninja warrior and my brother is super jealous because my mom let me eat chocolate ice cream for dinner to make me feel better.” “Oh yeah you kinda do look like a pirate.” I say back to him and smile. I think we are friends again. I’m somewhat proud to say that my little mistake is just a scar on what is a nationally ranked high school baseball player. As of today, Eddie has received a full scholarship to George Washington University as a pitcher in baseball. And who knows, maybe he never thinks about his little scar on his hand, but this scarring memory is the only thing I remember about kindergarten. Lauren Raziano ‘20

The Tourist

Lauren Wilson â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 Scholastic Gold Key

My Tie Dye Journey You were once blank with so much potential. What colors would I blend? What shape will you become? Unique to your spiral, how clean will the lines be? Bound together by cheap elastic bands. Colors meshed together like yellow and blue, An ugly blend of green never intended. You embarrassed me, not even an ivy. I let you sit for hours, Anticipating, Waiting for the right moment to embrace the mess. A dirty bag of leftover dye, Hopefully you turn out nice. I cut your bands and wash away the dye you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t absorb. And let you sit to dry. Oh wait, the wonderful pattern, Unique like a snowflake, vibrant and brilliant. Trust the process, save money. I wear you with pride, You beautiful tie dye shirt! Ahn Ho â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Rory

Grace Janvier â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Under the Lab Table “Hide it under the table, Ciara! Don’t let Dr. Archer see it or we’ll get in trouble!” This wasn’t going to be any ordinary AP Chemistry lab. While learning about the truly intriguing unit of acids and bases, Dr. Archer announced “for tomorrow’s lab, talk to your lab partner and bring in your favorite acidic beverage.” Immediately, I turned to my lab partner (whom I of course sat next to) to talk about what interesting and unusual beverage we would choose. After some quick googling to figure out what kinds of beverages were acidic (I never said we understood what was going on in the class), we finally chose the most unique beverage that would be a true showstopper. After speeding down I-95 north to get home, I made a pit stop at the ShopRite to pick up our chosen beverage. After running through the store, I finally found the aisle of our prized possession. I FaceTimed Ciara in the middle of the store “Do we want the rosé, or just the white?” I asked, while reading the labels on the bottles. We chose the white. At school the next day, I patiently waited for Chem to come. This, I think, was the first, and only, time I was ever excited to go to Chem class. When the time finally arrived to go to class, I hid the bottle in my backpack. We couldn’t spoil the surprise. Dr. Archer went around the room asking everyone what beverage they brought in. While most people held up their 16oz Wawa Lemonade or Iced Tea they had just bought from the SLC, Ciara and I proudly whipped out our 1.5 L Sparkling White Apple Cider. The glass green bottle, in all its glory, towered over the others. This was the moment we had waited for. Not only we were excited to have the most comical beverage in the class, but also, knowing we would only be using a quarter of the bottle in the lab, we were eager to enjoy a nice drink of the sparkling cider after class. “Dr. Archer, what are we going to do with the leftover drinks? Can we take them back after the lab?,” a student asked. “No, I am going to keep them to show other classes examples of what they can bring!”

In a simple sentence, our plans were spoiled. We didn’t give up on our dreams, though. Rather, we became more determined. We would not let this perfectly good bottle of sparkling cider (and the $5 it cost) go to waste. During the lab, we devised a plan of how we would be able to sneak the sacred beverage out of the classroom. We needed a strategy, and it was all hands-on deck. We paid minimum attention to the lab while we devised our plan instead. We started brainstorming. Ciara was to tell Dr. Archer she needed a pencil and had to get it from her backpack. Instead of a pencil, she would bring her water bottle back to the lab station, hidden under her coat. After, we would wait until Dr. Archer was on the other side of the lab, helping another group. Then, we would pour part of the apple cider into Ciara’s water bottle. Obviously, we couldn’t do this out in the open: we couldn’t risk being seen by Dr. Archer or any other groups. So, we would hide it under the lab table. After the cider was in the water bottle, we would determine how much of the drink was left and how much we needed to finish the experiment. If there was still a good amount left, I would do the same, get my water bottle, and fill it up with cider. Our plan was full proof, so we decided to put it into action. We had to be quick and undetectable. Ciara came back from the front of the room. “Got it.” Dr. Archer moved to the front of the lab. “Allllriggghttt, everyone come up here I will show you what to do.” We panicked. Where would we put the bottle while we were gone? We hid it in the drawer, then we anxiously waited for Dr. Archer to finish the demonstration. The entire time, I was only focused on whether or not we would get caught. We moved back to our lab table. Now, it was time to pour. I bent down as if to tie my shoe, grabbed the water bottle, and began pouring. The cider reached the top of the bottle, I screwed the lid on, and stood up. Mission complete. But just when we thought we were in the safe zone, Dr. Archer came over. “How did you guys use all that cider?” In a moment of panic, I responded. “Uhh, it fizzed up and we spilled a little when we opened it.” She believed it and went along her way.

“That was close!” said Ciara, relieved. “Right, now, hide it under the table, Ciara! Don’t let Dr. Archer see it or we’ll get in trouble!,” I responded. Ciara’s water bottle was filled with cider by the end of the class, we had plenty left for the experiment, and we walked out with minimal waste. “Success!” we thought. We spoke too soon. Have you ever tried drinking a carbonated beverage through a straw in an air-tight container? We have. Finally, out of the classroom and in the middle of the quad, Ciara opened the straw of her water bottle to enjoy the first sip. Unexpectedly, after the straw was completely out, a stream of cider began to spew everywhere. Before I could say anything, my entire quarter zip was covered in sparkling apple cider. My situation wasn’t the worst, however. Poor Ciara, in excitement to drink the cider, ended up with it all over her face. Sparkling apple cider is sticky. Once the stream finished, we took the lid off to see how much we wasted. Realizing we still had a good bit left, we split the remaining juice in half and headed to Trigonometry. Ironically, we would learn about why this happened in the Gas Laws chapter, which was next in the book. While it may seem like nothing - a glass of sparkling apple cider - the rush behind it made it feel like much more. It was the sacred treasure that we worked so hard towards. It wasn’t an outwardly funny moment the whole class experienced. But between Ciara and I, we have never laughed so hard. No one knew why we were laughing so hard in the middle of a lab, or why we kept running back and forth to the front of the classroom. From the beginning of just googling what drink we were going to choose, to actually living out our plan, to the cider squirting everywhere, we found the entire experience comical. Inside jokes are the best kind of jokes. And at the end, we ended up getting a 92 on the lab. So, I guess we really did know what we were doing. Stephen D’ Antonio ‘20

The Flea Response (in reply to John Donne’s “The Flea”) You say that I deniest you, But how could that be possibly true If you’re the one who blatantly neglects My disregarded desire for respect? How dare you try to seduce me With your repulsive comparison to a flea; Leave be my innocence, my maidenhead, Alas, you just plot to put me in bed. Yes, my honor will be stained If your desires remain unrestrained. A trivial bug, a minute speck Cannot encompass the meaning of sex. The blood on which it happened to feed Gives you no liberty to take from me. This “mingling” you proclaim has deeper meaning Provokes my vexation and my dreaming Of a way to end your vile tale, And for you to finally treat females As if you are not their entitled possessor; We simply do not exist for your pleasure. Oh, please terminate this misguided speech, There is only one way to make it cease-To take this flea that you glorify Between my fingers and let it die. Now tell me why you still grin When I have killed the flea that is akin To our “marriage temple,” our sacred fusion? Of course! Now you tell me this was all an illusion. The flea all along had no significance, Only to fool me into giving away my innocence. Listen closely and put your trickery aside: I will visit the devil before ever becoming your bride. Isabella Ganfield ‘21

Revenge of the Incredible Hulk

“Oh crap.” We were at Universal Studios in Florida on our school band trip, four of my friends and I wandered around the Marvel Comics section of the park, meandering on our way back to meet our teacher at the designated meeting area. “No no no” Conor repeated louder as he began to realize what had just happened. Surprised by the sudden severity in his voice we all turned around to find him desperately digging in his backpack. A few of us asked what was wrong, others merely looked at him with the expectation of an explanation. “I think I lost my wristband,” Conor replied. Our band trip this year was to Disney World in Orlando, Florida, and in traditional consumerist culture, the tour group bought a package deal for students: stay at a Disney sponsored hotel, and get a discount on tickets. And with every aspect of travel jumping on the bandwagon of digitalization, the logistics of the trip were that every student would receive a wristband that acted as hotel room keys and tickets to the parks. We exchanged looks as if to ask each other what to do without actually having to verbalize the problem. Discomforted by the silence I began with “well…” hoping to find an idea as I spoke but nothing came to mind and the sentence trailed off. “Look,” Cam opened, using his hands to emphasize the punctuation of his words, “Where was the last place you remember having it?” Not at all consoled by the suggestion, Conor sarcastically barked back, “Oh, yeah let me just recall the exact location where I noticed that a small bracelet slipped off my wrist? Oh, that’s right, there’s no way to freaking remember that.” “No need to get upset,” Cam replied almost too nonchalantly. “No Cam, I can get upset cause I don’t want to be THAT freshman that lost their wristband on the second day of the trip.” “Well you are THAT freshman now,” Mike chimed in, to which Conor sourly responded, “Not helpful Mike!” The rest of us began listing off other solutions that were quickly ruled out.

we were, we were not about to spend 10 minutes aimlessly wandering around in the humidity, only to dig through a sad, smelly, and (somehow) sticky collect of hats, wallets, and cellphones. Not to mention, the wristband probably wouldn’t have made its way to lost and found. “If you just noticed you lost it, you probably lost it recently. We could retrace our steps for a bit?” This had potential, for a moment we saw a beacon of hope, but then, just as we began backtracking, we stopped in front of the Incredible Hulk Coaster. See, moments before, our group (except for me due to my dislike for roller coasters) had just got off the towering, twisting green coaster. “Oh no,” Conor reluctantly said, “it’s all the way up there.” In a moment of shame, we simultaneously turned our heads upward, gazing the net hanging just billow the tracks. The protective nettings acted as a showcase of stupidity, holding the objects that flew off careless travelers while riding the roller coaster. None of us could see the wristband for sure, we just stared at the small, unidentifiable objects that seemed to mock us. After a somber moment of silence for our lost device, Gabby chimed in as the voice of reason, “Look, you just got to talk to Mr. D and go with him to the hotel and ask them to replace it. I’m sure you’re not the first person to lose one.” “Oh no, THE HOTEL,” Conor exclaimed. With none of us following, Conor elaborated, “The wristband was our room key, we’re not gonna be able to get in!” Gabby, the voice of reason asked: “Well, just use Mike’s or Cam’s wristband to get into the room cause you guys are roommates so any of yours’ will work as a key.” “Well, here’s the thing…” Cam spoke through his hands covering his face, “Because we weren’t going to Disney today, we figured ‘Hey we don’t need our wristbands for tickets’ so we only had Conor bring his to get us back into the hotel room.” It was at this moment in the story when the wristband, or lack thereof, became less of an “us” problem and more of the “them” problem. Turning to go leave, Gabby told them “At this point, you have no other option but to go and talk to Mr. D and ask for a new wristband. How mad could he be?”

It wasn’t that Mr. D was scary, in fact, he was one of the funniest and easy-to-get-along-with teachers at Archmere. But there was that one time he yelled at someone in our class for forgetting their instrument. Plus, the deck was stacked against us from the beginning because of what had already happened on the trip: Cam lost his phone, Mike lost his plane ticket at the airport, and of course, we were freshman, so we had the confrontational confidence of toddlers. Gabby explained that they couldn’t just ignore the problem for the painfully obvious reasons that even if they slept in the lobby they would need to get their clothes and instruments out of their room. This was after all a band trip, and we were performing the next day. After the boys came to terms with their situation, we started making our way to the park entrance to meet up with the rest of the group. For a group of teenagers in what was supposed a really fun place, we looked like we were leading a funeral procession. And in our own way, we were - off to mourn what seemed like the inevitable death of Conor. Leaving the Marvel Comics section, we crossed through Seuss Landing and Simpsons Springfield, not at all cheered up by the bright colors and whimsical cartoon decorations. Eventually, we made our way to the front of the park, hesitating for a moment before continuing through the turnstile and leaving. We saw the big Universal Studios spinning globe peek over the horizon, a beacon of the meeting place where eventually the boys would have to own up to what they did. At this point, it was more than merely Conor’s fault for losing his wristband; although that’s what got them in this mess, it was a collective effort that took all of their stupidities. Among the first few students to show up, we sat on a ledge and waited for everyone else to arrive. “Where do I even start when I tell Mr. D what happened?” Conor asked. “Well, I would start off with ‘So did you go on the Incredible Hulk ride Mr. D?’ That way you can build up some camaraderie before you tell him what happened.” I’m not really sure if Cam was being sarcastic or sincere in that response but it didn’t matter much because soon after Mr. D showed up. After Mr. D had checked everyone in and we were walking to the

bus, Conor walked forward, to talk to him. We couldn’t hear what he said and didn’t have enough of a view to see his facial expressions, but after a couple of moments, Conor walked back to us. As a shock to us all, Conor was smiling. In fact, the kid looked like he had just won the lottery. We all asked what happened, a little confused since he just seemed like he was walking to his crucifixion. “Great news: some other kid lost his wristband too!” Melina Reilly ‘20

A Step in the Wrong Direction Alexandra Williamson ‘20

Crime Sometimes I want to take my mind Smash it Against a wall Watch it ooze Unravel Fleshy pale coils unfurling Drop With a squish On the floor. Stone cold. Dead. The perfect crime A murder scene Suspect: angsty teen Who just needed some quiet Maybe then I’d stop thinking Maybe then Thought would cease Maybe then I’d find some type of peace. Ava Passehl ‘22 Scholastic Silver Key

Control

Madison Downey â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 Scholastic Gold Key

Bekks’ Beautiful Heaven (after Zimmer) I sit with my back perched against the back wall of my house. My backyard gathers my attention as I contemplate the beauty of my crooked slide, As I turn to the next page of my love novel, I see someone glancing over the pages. Grandma asks me how many more pages I am going to read before I join the fun And I continue to persist that only a few more pages will do. Decoy, Remington, Burlap, and Grizzly all start howling at the curious squirrel on the phone line. I see Mr. Clendening and Mrs. Reed enter my backyard by the side gate. They discuss the beauty in the little things; Mr. Clendening’s pool filled with children & Mrs. Reed’s tattoo of Stitch on her ankle. Gladys Knight and Ben E. King join in melodies, Taking their “Midnight Train to Georgia” while they “Stand by Me.” Julia Roberts and Ansel Elgort put on a show, Stephen King and Albert Einstein discuss the mathematical probabilities of the number “e,” Anne Lamott critiques Philip Roth’s writing to be put into the ABDCE form. Kelley O’Hara signals for me to come play her in a “friendly” match of soccer, She dodges right then left with her quick footwork, I struggle to maintain my footing, as my eyes dart from side to side. I signal for my best friend, Kelly, to pull me back up to play In this arduous 1v1 soccer game, which now became a 2v1, As Kelly has joined my defensive stance. Everyone slowly turns to watch this intense matchup. The sun begins to descend into the horizon. My mom and aunt shout “Dinner is ready! Come and get it!” to the crowd. Everyone appears ravenous, almost like slithering boas that have not eaten in a few days. Then, as all of the guests move inside, I notice a bright gleam of light. It seems that nobody else has noticed this shooting light except myself. It is Him. God and I slowly march toward one another and I feel His Presence.

As we approach one another, he signals me to lean in, almost as if he has a secret to share with me. His words stick with me, “Look for the little things. They often slip by us without even a blink of an eye.” The laughter, the music, the smiles, the beautiful sun beaming on my back. Now more than ever do I see the little pieces of beauty in my life. Rebekkah Kehoe ‘20

Heaven’s Stairway

John Frankel ‘20

A Street in Italy

Katie Yakovenko â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 Scholastic Honorable Mention

Memories of 57th Street Today, the traffic-jammed avenue sheds what I viewed as imperfections, grows a little less lonely. It is in hindsight that I realize it held everything we had. It held sidewalks teeming with beating hearts and the deep thrumming of footsteps, drumming out a rhythm of bright-eyed dreams and hope. Each head peeking out from beneath an umbrella was home to someone who lived, who’d met joy, sorrow, envy, desperation. Now I call out to the pavement and silence echoes back. An eerie noise, a gaping void. My eyes come to rest on an empty skyline, a burnt-out flashlight, a midnight devoid of stars — and I yearn for that traffic-jammed avenue, for life. Natalie Gildea ‘23

Out of Reach Kusha Malik â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

Quarantined Home Insanely bored Resorting to baking Cake pops, cookies, cupcakes, more Slowly emptying the cabinets and shelves at home Inviting my sisters, just to fight again and make more of a mess Ashley Heitzenroder ‘20

Stop Sit. Do homework. Write something funny; Not what’s on your mind. You don’t want to make others sadder. Make the most of the time you’ve gained from the memories you’ll lose. You walked through fire, dropped your crown; you picked it up, and they grew higher so rise above it all again Meghan Presta ‘20

Quarantine Chronicles Chronicle 1: Day 1. The first day of online school. It isn’t too bad; I’ll have a lot of time to relax, sleep, and play video games. I imagine it will get boring eventually. I’ve thought about investing in the stock market with some of my own money. With COVID-19 making everything crash, it can’t hurt right? The weather for the week looks good, if I have time I’ll go for a drive at some point. My mother isn’t worried. She is kind of on the inside and knows what is going on because she sells all the cleaning chemicals to the super markets and even some of the hospitals in the surrounding area. My whole family thinks it’s mostly the media turning it into something to fear. Chronicle 2: This sucks. Day 3, and it is so terribly boring. Going to the grocery store was so entertaining. I bought the groceries all on my own. It was some adventure. It was eye-opening. At Acme there were empty shelves and it startled me. It really is here at our doorstep. Even if those people are panicking, it is a little scary. There is still food and the important supplies. My mom has said that companies like hers have done everything to keep the food on the shelves because if there’s no food, people will panic. Anyway, I think I’m going to get a bike in the coming days so I have some physical outlet. I’m not a fan of running all on my own, but the idea of biking sounds fun. Chronicle 3: Day 5 of Quarantine is a Friday. If we didn’t have school I would’ve lost track already. Today will be the first day I leave my house to go out with some friends. Still haven’t got the bike or invested in the stock market. I have played so many hours of video games that even I know it’s unhealthy. School is just kind of ‘meh’ at this point. It’s going to go week by week until we graduate on Zoom or Skype. My family is healthy, relatives and all. My cousin had her first baby like two weeks ago, so I can’t imagine she is having the best time. At least she is living in Florida. I never thought I’d miss going to school so much. This is just

so boring. If this is how my senior year of high school ends, so be it. At least I will be able to say I lived through textbook-worthy history and remembered it clearly. Chronicle 4: It’s been two months. I don’t know if things will ever go back to being what they were before this mess. And yet, there is still no end in sight. Everyone keeps saying this will be a great story to tell some time down the line, but I’m not sure they are better stories than the ones we would’ve had. But, we have to keep moving forward. Walt Disney’s famous quote. “Keep moving forward.” Prepare for what’s to come in the future and learn from our mistakes. In the meantime? I’m not certain of what exactly to do, but I’ll find something. Everything happens for a reason in my opinion, and this is no different. It will have effects across the globe like no other. I graduated high school from my own home! Only the class of 2020 can say that. The college graduates can say they graduated Zoom University. All jokes aside, we do have our whole lives ahead of us, and when this is over we will cherish what we may have missed during this time. We will value time spent together more than ever, and hopefully without a mask. Bradley Kilicoglu ‘20

Day 27 of Quarantine Every zoom class starts with teachers giving us a dopey-eyed look and asking “how are you doing?” What do they expect us to say? Do they actually want us to talk about our loneliness and misery, do they honestly expect us to expose our deepest sorrow and fear in a virtual classroom at 9 am with ten other teenagers? I get it, teachers want us to feel as though they care about us and know that they feel sorry about everything we’re missing. It’s not just teachers, it’s everyone. Parents, siblings, older friends, younger friends, almost anyone will look at a senior and say “I can’t imagine missing everything my senior year,” or “it must be so hard for you,” and try to console us with “I’ll be thinking about you.” Thanks, but I’m good. Save your comforting messages for people who actually need them. We served our time in the stages of grieving. Our optimistic hearts left the denial stage when Governor Carney declared a state of emergency. I’m sure our parents can testify to their relief when we shifted from the period of anger to bargaining, begging our parents to allow us to make the weekly trip to the grocery store. And yes, it has been sad. We grieved our lost spring sports, decision day celebrations, spring break trips, senior week trips, concerts, proms, graduations, and seeing our friends for the last time before we all leave. But now, after weeks of the shutdown and virus repercussions, we’ve progressed to acceptance and it barely even feels like we’re missing anything. To us, every thought we had about those events seems like a far-off dream. The memories of buying a prom dress and booking a house for senior week seem like a lifetime ago. We’re so accustomed to not having a normal senior year that it doesn’t feel like we’ve lost anything anymore. We didn’t lose our celebrations, we just never had them to begin with. It’s a coping mechanism, the numbness came as a result of the prolonged disappointment, a more pathetic version of the saying “It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” I think it’s oddly poetic for our class. We were born amid the country grieving 9/11, our education spanned the rise of school shootings, we began high school as politics become dangerously polarized, our generation kick-started a climate change movement, and now it’s strangely fitting that we graduate

in the midst of a devastating pandemic. We are the class that saw the world change. We are the class of 2020. Melina Reilly â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Dragon Warrior

Nicholas Friedman â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 Scholastic Silver Key

When the World Ends A poem for the less-than-happy parts of quarantine 2020 When the world ends heavenly chariots are supposed to come the four horsemen charging our sinful little word carried by God’s breath. When the world ends the purge makes its entrance a flat screen TV it’s all yours for free! as long as you battle your opponent to the death for it. But really When the world ends the unlikely culprit emerges with ferocious terror. No, it’s not nuclear war (sorry to disappoint) No, not an asteroid crash (which the dinosaurs know all too well) No, not an alien invasion (keep trying, N.A.S.A!) When the world ends every human trapped caged locked in their homes for weeks on end and no end in sight terrified of a virus named ‘corona’ Filing for unemployment and struggling for sanity Rationing food and donning a semi-professional hazmat suit to exit home

When the world ends the “I miss you” texts, calls, emails, facetimes mean something more than usual something so real, so breaking, so nostalgic you put down your phone- and go back to whatever nothing you were doing- just to tell yourself It’s not that bad. it’s only been seven weeks. But within, longing grows. Is it possible to miss what you hated a month ago? To be grateful for the dreaded 6 am Monday alarm? the surprise visit from your mom when there’s someplace you need to be? the endless practices for a game seeming decades in the future? Most of all, You miss humans. All humans. Hugs, kisses, high-fives, fist bumps, touch togetherness Sure, you can text people. Call them. Email them even. But virtual life will never replace the vitality of human connec tion. When the world ends your grandparents drive home from Florida careful not to stop at pandemic war zones (better known as rest stops) along the way and they pitstop at your house. You love your grandparents with every fiber of your being but you can’t touch them.

Pop’s immunocompromised the people he so dearly loves now landmines of little corona colonies ticking bombs of microscopic menaces So you can’t You won’t Be hugging Pop this visit. The grandparents’ CRV creeps backward out of your driveway on its final leg of the journey to the Empire State. Their signature scent of laundry soap and musty closet trails behind the car for a moment then quickly runs to catch up. And you didn’t even hug them good-bye. When the world ends life as we know it does too. When the world ends the connections. the closeness. the community. the companionship. We unknowingly enjoyed each day all become a distant mirage as quarantine end dates move like unwilling tenants, with all their emotional and physical baggage, into the next week. When the world ends, something human inside us ends for a little while, too. Ava Passehl ‘22

Ta p e s t r y 2 0 2 0 Editorial Staff Phoebe Brinker ‘20 Brian Carbajal ‘21 Sophia Liston ‘20 Ava Passehl ‘22 Alyssa Pierangeli ‘21 Alexis Rendel ‘21 Layout Phoebe Brinker ‘20 Copy Editor Sophia Liston ‘20 Faculty Advisor Mr. Stephen Klinge Thank you to... Mr. John Jordan ‘80, Mrs. Karen Linton and the Creative Writing Classes Ms. Jody Hoffman and the Art Department ...and all who submitted work to Tapestry 2020!