Tapestry 2021 by Archmere Academy

Tapestry 2021

ARCHMERE ACADEMY’S LITERARY AND FINE ARTS MAGAZINE

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

Fade Away Gabriella Gildea ‘21

Tapestry 2021

TABLE OF CONTENTS Steeple’s Wings, digital photography, Drew Tamassia ‘21...............................................................cover Fade Away, digital art, Gabriella Gildea ‘21...........................................................................................4 From a Child’s Eyes, Amelia Gattuso ‘23...............................................................................................6 Working Immigrant, digital art, Jocelyn Zavala-Garcia ‘22...................................................................7 This I Believe, Jessica Lattanzi ‘23.........................................................................................................8 I Found Body Glitter, digital art, Ava Passehl ‘22...................................................................................9 These Moments, Anne-Shirley Desjardins ‘22......................................................................................10 Nightclub, mixed media, Helen Qi ‘24..................................................................................................12 Divorced at Six, Marissa Quercetti ‘21.................................................................................................13 Hansel and Gretel: A Revised Version, Sophia Chen ‘24......................................................................14 A Piece of Cake, acrylic on canvas, Reid Shields ‘23............................................................................17 Diagonals, photography, Camilo Alvarez ‘24........................................................................................18 Asteroid, Owen Phillips ‘21...................................................................................................................19 The Fake Birds, Alexander Bogey ‘24...................................................................................................20 Upsides of a Covid Thanksgiving, Grace Koch ‘24..............................................................................24 Blue Medium, acrylic on canvas, Mandy Jiang ‘22..............................................................................25 A Response to Andrew Marvell’s ‘To His Coy Mistress’, Isabella Dayrit ‘22.....................................26 Vulnerability, watercolor, Isabella Dayrit ‘22.......................................................................................27 Elizabeth Grace, Elizabeth Sills ‘21.......................................................................................................28 Imposter Syndrome, mixed media, Margaret Atkins ‘21.......................................................................29 Father Wind / Mother Lightning, Grace Koch ‘24................................................................................30 Daylight Moon / Midnight Sun, Jessica Lattanzi ‘23............................................................................32 Anchored, ceramics and glass, Camron Kaiser ‘21...............................................................................33 If I could give you the moon, Amelia Gattuso ‘23.................................................................................34 Hybrid, digital art, Jillian Bale ‘21........................................................................................................35 Living Room, Alexis Rendel ‘21............................................................................................................36 Dysphoria, acrylic on canvas, Helen Qi ‘24..........................................................................................38 The Sapphire Necklace, Natalie Gildea ‘23..........................................................................................39 Pressed Flowers, Jessica Lattanzi ‘23...................................................................................................40 Dancing Daisies, scratchboard drawing, Jane Chen ‘24.......................................................................41 Fever Dream, Tyler Allison ‘21..............................................................................................................42 Virtual Learning, chalk pastel, Margaret Atkins ‘21..............................................................................45 China’s Economic Crisis, Alexander Chen ‘23......................................................................................46 Scorpion, ceramics, Adam Hartman ‘23................................................................................................52 Of Death in a Global Pandemic, Alexis Rendel ‘21...............................................................................53 Conviviality, mixed media, Carsten Kaiser ‘24....................................................................................55 I Can Make as Many Claims as I Want, Sophia Chen ‘24.....................................................................56 Self-Acceptance, watercolor and gouache, Isabella Dayrit ‘22............................................................56 The Good Old Days, Roisin Liew ‘23....................................................................................................57 Compromised Numbers, linocut print, Beyonce Hu ‘22........................................................................60 I Didn’t Mean to Think of You Today, Sophia Chen ‘24.......................................................................61 Stairway to Heaven, digital photography, Natalie Sheets‘22.................................................................64

From a Child’s Eyes I told momma, you look lonely Last night when I saw your grave It was beaten down And gray and sad And small, the top concave The grass around you dirtied The color’d gone away You’d said you wanted Time with me So why didn’t you stay? You must have let it slip your mind To breathe in through your lungs I’ll teach you when you Come back up! We’ll play a game of tongues! No, momma says you’ve risen But I know that she is wrong I saw you right there! In the dirt! So come up, let’s sing a song! You used to sing me lullabies You swayed and held me close Said, “Poppa’s always Here for you!” And buttoned up my coats You used to make me sandwiches You cut them into squares It’s not the same now Without you The house is big and bare

Amelia Gattuso ‘24

Working Immigrant Jocelyn Zavala-Garcia ‘22

This I Believe I believe in sea glass. Specifically, the sea glass that fills the five crystal vases artfully scattered around my little beach abode. The vases are organized by color: one for blues, one for greens, one for browns, one for whites, and one for miscellaneous. We must give a home to hundreds of those little pieces of glass from over 15 years of collection. Ever since I can remember, my Mom and I have walked the beach in search of this treasure. Each time a glint of sparkling color caught our eye, it was procedure to stop and pocket the new beach jewel. We’ve scavenged through all seasons of life. Sometimes we were crying, sometimes laughing, sometimes just walking in silence. But after every walk, we invariably returned with a new piece of sea glass. My mom first started collecting sea glass soon after I was born. Being the ultimate beach bum, she had plenty of opportunities to walk the beach and gather it. But not because she saw it as a treasure. She saw the sharp, jagged shards as an accident waiting to happen. She saw it as trash. Just fragments of a broken liquor bottle from a crazy drunkard lost at sea. She must have cast hundreds of pieces of sea glass into the dumpster. To think, this beautiful treasure sitting in rotting filth alongside molding bread and rotten banana peels. She didn’t see its worth until she entered a local jewelry store one balmy July afternoon. Upon entering, a beautiful necklace caught her eye. It had a shiny silver chain complete with dazzling aqua stones. The woman behind the counter mentioned that it was made from sea glass found locally. Mom was astonished. The glass she had haphazardly thrown out actually held great value? Since that fateful day, she has seen sea glass in a whole new light. Now, it is her favorite beach treasure. To make up for the hundreds of pieces that she threw away, we collected twice as many. We bought sea glass jewelry, wind chimes, and even a wreath. It has become a pivotal part of our home and will forever serve as a symbol of my love for the beach. So, why the change? What separates something from being a worthless piece of junk to a valuable treasure? The answer lies within you. In the few things we can control, the little choices we make every day. The actions are simple. Is the glass half empty? Or half full? Is this moment meaningless? Or purposeful? Do you see life as sea glass? Or broken shards of glass washed to shore by chance? We can dictate the way we view reality simply by changing our perspective. I am eternally grateful for the little lessons my Mom has taught me, whether she realized she was doing it or not. I choose to see the random anecdotes of her life’s adventures as meaningful parables that will guide my steps into the future. Her day-to-day attitude is a perfect reflection of the very lesson I derived from this sea glass story. My mom never throws pity parties. She is known for her notoriously loud laugh and bubbly

personality. And she is always the first person to remind me how wonderful my life is when I’m quick to complain. She helps me to see beauty out of the most onyx ashes of life; the sea glass of life. Well then. What’ll it be? Today, I choose to believe in sea glass. Jessica Lattanzi ‘23

I Found Body Glitter Ava Passehl ’22 Scholastic Silver Key

These Moments

And when I touch you

No hearts or promises Flowers or lightning strikes No pens, no swords, no words The moment is all I need.

I feel happy inside

Kiss the sand, chase the wind Seldom nostalgic for a time that isn’t over yet. The past is now, no memories of your hip, Let it unfurl.

It’s such a feelin’ that my love

Breathing isn’t life but breathing in you is. June to my Johnny Girl in the yellow stripes I’m Yours. Right now.

I can’t hide.

Let’s make a new world Fewer limits, bigger skies With golden seas and lemon trees, I want a world with you.

Yeah, you got that somethin’

Distraction to distraction, you were my favorite What are we distracted from? Lest life be a seamless waltz If not an annihilating masquerade

I think you’ll understand

Gone. But you’re never gone. Am I still here? Who let go first?

When I say that somethin’

Tick. Tick. Tick. Bleak smile, hidden eyes, mine or yours? Leave your breath at the door, but I’ll never forget When it was just me and you and the moment

I want to hold your hand

Anne-Shirley Desjardins ‘22

Nightclub Helen Qi ‘24 Scholastic Silver Key

Divorced at Six My kindergarten class was fairly small and had one of each kind of kid. A class clown, a dancer, a protege, an athlete, every kid had a role. I was the shy kid for sure. I barely talked, played by myself, and was absolutely terrified of the class troublemaker. His name was Joey. Joey was always getting in trouble with teachers and having to go to the principal’s office. He was rarely allowed out for recess and had to lay by himself on the opposite side of the room during nap time. On a day that Joey behaved and was allowed outside for recess, I saw him sprinting, making a beeline for me. I completely froze, thinking he would do something horrible or mean but, the minute he reached me, he placed a bouquet of freshly picked dandelions into my hand and ran away. I was pretty stunned at first but completely flattered. After recess, we went in for naptime. The teacher would put on a movie during naptime for the kids who couldn’t sleep, which that day happened to be Joey and me. He came over and sat next to me while we watched the movie, and after a little bit, he asked me to be his wife. My kindergarten brain thought that sounded so fun and ‘grown-up,’ so of course, I said yes! I was six years old, and I was a bride. For the rest of naptime, he held my hand while I clutched my dandelions in the other. The next day in school, I went up to my husband’s desk to wish him a good morning. It was then that Joey pulled out the most beautiful ring I had ever seen and told me that since I’m his wife, I have to wear it. I was so excited to put it on. It was a little big on my tiny finger, but I didn’t care; it was so sparkly and shiny I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. After the first bell, my teacher came over to my desk and took my ring away. I was devastated and confused as to why she would take my ring that my husband had given to me. When Joey found out that my ring was gone, he told me he no longer wanted to be with me. So, there I was, six, divorced, confused, and sad. For the longest time, I had no idea where Joey had gotten such a beautiful ring, until about a decade later, when I was in high school, and my mom told me the whole story. The ring given to me was Joey’s mom’s engagement ring. He took it from her jewelry box, brought it to school, and bestowed it upon his wife. When his mother realized her ring was gone, she alerted our teacher, who then informed Joey’s mom of our nuptials. The two connected the dots that the ring on my tiny finger was her engagement ring, so my teacher took it away and held onto it until pickup. I’m still sad my first marriage was a failure but relieved to know our separation was not my fault. Marissa Quercetti ‘21

Hansel and Gretel: A Revised Version

“I’m hungry, Hansel,” Gretel complained. She and her brother were walking along the path into the woods. Though their cheeks were still full, Hansel nodded his head, swallowed, and said, “Yes. Hungry.” Hansel always agreed with his sister. The moment he finished talking, Hansel reached into his bag and shoved some grayish crackers (chips?) into his mouth. He wasn’t very careful; the two dripped crumbs as they walked. “I want more to eat,” said Gretel, though she had so much food layered on in pouches all over her body that she waddled like a penguin. As she spoke, she pulled a stale dinner roll (or maybe a very gray potato?) out of a pouch, twisted it into her hair, and gulped it down in a bite. “More,” her brother agreed, shoving something burnt and blackened into his mouth. Gretel looked distastefully at the trees, bushes, and flowers growing on the sides of the road. “Too much green,” she said. “Like vegetables.” “Vegetables. Yuck.” said her brother. “Need more food. Good food,” said Gretel, small sharp greedy eyes scanning their surroundings. “Yes! Food!” said Hansel. “We need house!” Gretel glared at her brother. She didn’t like it when he said something she didn’t already say. Unfortunately, he was right. The two children needed a house so they could be full. The nearest house was about a mile from where the siblings were on the path. In the bright, cheery kitchen, a nice little old lady hummed as she wiped vomit off of the floor. Then she went and took a shower to get all the blood out of her hair. Hmmm. Maybe she’s not so nice after all. Anyways, when Hansel and Gretel got to the house, their mouth watered just from the sight. It was built of real brick, not those fake things you see nowadays. It had not one but two stories and one of those quaint garden benches that just begged to be eaten--I mean sat on. The sun gleamed off the tiles and the window panes. The twin’s eyes grew wide and glassy as they walked towards the shimmering house as if in a trance. They could taste it already, smell the luscious scent of mortar and cement, feel the wonderful crunch of roof tiles. They descended upon the building like ravenous wolves and started to eat to their heart’s content. Oh, how wonderful it tasted! Their steel, twisted teeth sank into the walls of the house like a knife through butter. They crunched and snapped their way through half a wall and a window before the old lady came out, horrified. “What are you--are you eating my house?” she asked. Hansel and Gretel didn’t even bother to reply. They were too busy chewing through the walls like they were gingerbread. The wall and part of the roof were demolished by now.

“Wow, and I thought my eating habits were weird,” said the lady as she watched them scarf down cement. She ran into the house for a second and mixed up two drinks. On a last-second thought, she crunched some rocks into it and half a brick. “Oh, children,” she called, waving the drinks around. The appetizing sound of rocks clunking into each other caused Hansel and Gretel to pause. Raw material was great, sure, but they hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in years. The twins came hankering over--their pouches lay by the wall, forgotten. They reached for the drinks like eager puppies. The woman gave them a smile that verged on insanity and handed them the cups. “Drink up,” she said, just as they both took a sip and keeled over, unconscious. Cackling now, the lady slung them both into a burlap bag and took them into the house (or what was left of it). Once inside, she flung them into two ready cages with thick steel bars and five padlocks each. She was about to start the oven right then and there, but then she noticed that without the pouches, both Hansel and Gretel were so thin you could count their ribs. Frowning, she tapped her chin. She had just eaten a meal, so she wasn’t very hungry, and these two would be gone in an instant anyway. What she needed was for them to get fatter. Sighing, she walked to the counter and ordered some concrete. When the twins woke up, Gretel groaned loudly. “Food,” she said. “Yes. Food,” said her brother. The old lady smirked. “Not too intelligent, are we?” she asked. “Don’t worry, none of the others were either.” She stopped them from chewing on the bars of the cage and gave them the concrete. She ordered a steady supply to feed them but ended up having to drug them a good deal of the time as the moment they finished the concrete shipment of the day, they started eyeing the padlocks hungrily. This repeated on and on for weeks, but to the old lady’s frustration, the twins seemed no fatter than they were before, no matter how or what she fed them. Finally, she gave up and started heating the oven anyway. The old lady was starving, and the twins weren’t getting any fatter anyway. She bent over to check the oven. It just so happens that Hansel and Gretel woke up at that time. Perhaps, in her old age, the lady had accidentally misjudged the dose, or perhaps she just forgot to set the alarm. Either way, when Hansel and Gretel saw they had no food, they grew ferociously angry. They had already been deprived, and now they were hungrier than ever. They gnawed through the steel bars in a flash then turned their attention to the old lady. “Hate her,” Gretel said. “She why we no food.” “Yes. No food bad,” said Hansel. The old lady turned around too late. With smug, insane grins, the twins pushed her into the oven, slammed the door and turned up the heat.

In the oven, the old lady cursed at herself for not just killing those kids in the first place. The temperature rose, and she groaned, her head pounding. Kids were just so annoying. She couldn’t stand them, not even her granddaughter. So, she got rid of them and got some nutrients in the process. She was doing a service to humanity. And what did she get for it? Being locked in an oven! An oven that was steadily getting hotter, too. Perspiration beaded along her brow. Her back ached from sitting in her cramped position. Her stomach raged in turmoil as she moaned and closed her eyes. She was being cooked alive--her blood would boil, her skin would melt, and yet, because of the longevity potion she took, she would not die until her body was completely destroyed. She would watch as her skin fused and her fingernails dropped off. Her eyeballs would pop like grapes, and her bones would crack. Just kill me now, she thought as her hair blackened and crumbled. The oven got hotter. Meanwhile, Hansel and Gretel were eating the house from the inside out. They guzzled and chomped, crackled and chewed, gnawed and devoured. The lady’s china collection disappeared into their mouths like popping candy. They slurped up electric wires like noodles and crunched them into light bulbs. They noshed on dresses, consumed porcelain by the mouthful, and swallowed paintings whole. They polished off the sink, made short work of the bed, and absolutely inhaled the staircase. They scarfed down curtains, gulped down books, and wolfed down tables. As they ate, they packed. They had retrieved their pouches and dumped various materials in them, scraping off chips of grayish concrete, plopping in potato-shaped chunks of stone, and dragging charred pieces of wood from the fireplace into their bags until they bulged at the seams. When they were done, they went back to the path, rejuvenated. Behind them, where the house once stood, was nothing but a patch of dirt; not even the oven had been spared. The rocks from the garden and the gnome statues lying around had been obliterated. It was like nothing had ever been there in the first place. Hansel and Gretel, though, were very happy. The house had almost appeased their appetite. After so many days of starvation, it was refreshing to finally eat again. They were in very high spirits. However, some things do not last. As the euphoria of food slowly drained away, emptiness quickly replaced the satisfying feeling in the twin’s stomachs. Doomed to roam the woods, looking for sustenance, the siblings wandered toward the sunset. “I’m hungry, Hansel,” Gretel complained. Sophia Chen ‘24 Scholastic Honorable Mention

A Piece of Cake Reid Shields ‘23

Diagonals Camilo Alvarez ‘24

Asteroid Ice lays married with rock on your surface it does not shine but reflects million year light into the billion year sky and yet, so unbothered you seem. Perhaps you harbor great riches elements unknown to man mysterious life whose archaic past stretches beyond the light into the dark cryptic expanse. Are you a mystery even to yourself? Owen Phillips ‘21

The Fake Birds

“The birds are fake.” “What did you say?” “Everything you know is a lie.” Many questions were raised by this statement, but Larry was indeed a complicated man. I only saw him as part of my night school, but he may have been the smartest and most academically pushed person I have ever met. “Most birds are dangerous metal machines. They fly around and listen to whatever conversations they need, completely fooling the main population. Listen, I don’t have much time, but I must tell you about the truth.” Larry looked up in the sky with awe, or was it fright? “You are not making any sense, Larry.” “The idea to spy on the masses has sprung up with every great civilization, and this free country is no different. The president used to ponder on what could be the best way to spy without causing any suspicion. So, they killed off the national bird population. My friend, the American government, has tirelessly persecuted every last one of them and has replaced them with smart drones with high-definition cameras and miniature trackers. No one could stand up to the enemy.” I was the closest thing that he had to a friend, even though I never saw him outside of our night school that we were forced to attend. He always seemed to be missing something, something deep down in his heart. He would always politely decline any attempt to meet up, not even for a beer. It is weird because the government has been pushing alcohol lately due to it being healthy and having good effects on behavior and brain development. The bars were now all government-owned, and the money goes to all the tax goals they promise. It is weird to drink alone. Lately, his facial expression started to show signs of despair, and he seemed to become more distant and colder to his surroundings. He seemed to be going through a phase, and now he seemed almost possessed by his stupid theories. “Mass genocide against flocks of all kinds were committed. These led to the deaths of many, like the extinction of the mighty cassowary, the strong goose, the beautiful bird of paradise, the intelligent flamingo...” I started to laugh; this was simply ridiculous. There was no way he took this joke so seriously. “You find this funny, don’t you? I can’t believe how naive you are.” He pulled out a cigarette. Hold on. Larry never smoked; he never did. It hit me he was not playing around. “Larry, I found a dead hawk by the road to the station. Surely that could not be fake.”

“They kept the corpses of the massacred, which they leave in random places so no one would get suspicious.” “What about those nature documentaries about penguins and seagulls we see at school.” “The government controls all animal shows and media, of course, and has the birds represented as fake illusions.” “What about chickens, Larry! I ate one last night!” “Fortunately, the chicken, turkey, and duck population were spared, but we now persecute them for their meat and their eggs, which is essential for the economy.” “What is going on! Have you gone insane!” “No, I am just enlightened. I am not expecting you to understand all of this at once, but you will soon see the truth. You will see what is behind all those lies.” “What do you think this is! Tell me!” Larry threw his cigarette on the sidewalk, stomped it, and walked out into the night. I hoped his midlife crisis would be over soon. He disappeared after his mindless ramble, and I sat at my desk a week later, missing his presence. My mind wandered over different things, bouncing across thoughts here and there. His humble state was a key part of the classroom, but no one had questioned his removed presence. Was he chasing his theories? I chuckled to myself, but then my mind drifted to deep worries I held for him. Was he really all right? The teacher pointed at me, “What is the 54th amendment?” “The right to watch and read things only by the government.” “And why is this so?” “So, everything we learn must be monitored and edited so we can only see information that is right and true.” The bell rang, and I started packing my things. “All right class, heil the land of the free, the rightful conqueror of the world.” I was the last to go, and I heard the camera shut off when I left the room. I went for one of the many trains, of course heading home to the cubicle complex. When I got home, a package was lying on my mat. That was weird. I never ordered such a package, and you could only get so many each year. I spotted a note on the side. From: Larry Larry! My heart raced. I couldn’t believe this. Could this be the answer to why he was gone? Was it a gift? How did he sneak it in here? I opened it up. I burst out in laughter. A metal bird was in there. He really has gone insane! Oh, wait, that is not good. Where did he get the skeleton from anyway? There was a button. I picked up the robot and pressed it. The bird’s eyes lit up, and a hologram came out of the beak and projected its way to the middle of my quarters. A unique logo popped up and was replaced by the face of a shaken woman. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe how ignorant I was. No one

questions the birds, no one! I am documenting this as part of my joining the leading factories that are making the world’s drones. I forget how I came here, but I must record my account in case if anyone finds me. I can safely say that there are three types of drones/robots. The first is the Class A drones, whose job is to look over the people and act naturally. Such drones are pigeons and geese, which should be avoided. Class B would naturally be for defense. Such birds are vultures and owls, which are controlled to attack and order hits on enemies of the state. The third naturally are realistic animatronics made to mimic real birds for pets, which are so good at their job that they can trick anyone gullible enough. There are so many lies; my mind cannot take it. I had to show the world this, but how? Please, if you see this, do something to fight back!” I was shocked. What was happening? This was too much. Have I been lied to my whole life? No, that is not possible. All the years of learning science and common sense prove otherwise, but there was no way this message is a prank! I know people like Larry and me could not afford anything of this proportion. So is it real? No, but maybe? Why! WHY! I lay on my mat. I had to do something, anything at all. I arrived at my office building, unhinged. I felt tired as I walked through the double doors. When I arrived at my section, I slowly analyzed the place. My coworkers were sitting down in their stations. I passed by one to see him lying face down. I ran around, and the next person was in the same position. I checked, no one was moving across the whole office. Except for my supervisor, who zombied his way out of his office. I tried to free him from his state, and I shook him as hard as I could. Then he just died. Oh no, oh no. Then I saw it; the windows were open. Class B drones charged into the office in the shape of hawks, and one drone did its job on the designated person. They tore up their chests and killed every last one of them, and then they went for me. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t! Then there was darkness, and I fell through the building. Metal birds filled the sky, laying waste to the ground below. I screamed. I woke up in my room. That is weird; the dream processor is usually shut off by default. There was no way I actually dreamed. I took the sleep cord out of my neck and left for another day of hard labor. “Look who woke up.” I jumped, and after looking around, I could not find Larry. That was his voice, right? “Get outside, and meet me behind the street.” I hustled out, and there was Larry, in his trench coat smoking a cigar. “I know, this is shocking. Well, you have learned a lot.” “How did you talk to me from so far away.” “Your information chip in your brain.” “But those things open your mind.”

“Open it up to how the birds are fake, right?” “All right, the thing about the birds.” “What about them?” “It is true, right?” “I am afraid so, and I happen to be one of the last left.” “Last of what?” “The owl race. I am a shapeshifter.” Larry had told me a lot, so I just accepted it. The message he was telling me started to make sense, even though it was very absurd. I then accepted it, even if it was ridiculous. He was the only one I could trust. “We hacked the chip, and we are slowly opening it up to lose control. That is why you are starting to believe. These new hacking-proof systems are a pain. Anyhow, the birds that are still alive have evolved into deadlier and smarter beings. The reason for this mass extinction is that humans knew we were strong, and they would not let anyone be above the superior species. So, we fled to the heavens, wherein secret we have been planning. Please, will you help me with the resistance’s final mission?” Alexander Bogey ‘24 Scholastic Honorable Mention

Upsides of a COVID Thanksgiving As we all know, Thanksgiving is the only time where whoever eats the most wins (I am usually the winner). This year may have looked a little different, but I wanted to focus on the upsides. For high school students, Thanksgiving with extended family is really an interrogation of the never-ending questions: Do you have a boyfriend? Where are you going to college? What are you going to do with your life? If you’re a vegetarian, why are you starving yourself? This year, you avoided all of that. You put off going through the utter terror of bringing your boyfriend to meet the extended family (and he didn’t have to get cross-examined by scary Uncle Rudy). You didn’t have to weasel out of uncomfortable conversations with creepy Uncle Larry, and you didn’t have to abide by Aunt Alice’s strict dress code, which means you avoided the embarrassing unbuttoning of the pants maneuver under the table. Since you weren’t under Grandma’s watchful eye, you were free to throw food with reckless abandon and smash a pie in someone’s face (both of which are regular occurrences in my house). You escaped the four hours of fighting with your siblings in the car while starving and really needing to use the restroom. You said goodbye to the chaos that follows feuding family football. This year, there were no eggshells to walk on. You didn’t have to go through the checklist of family-friendly topics and what not to say: For example, why doesn’t Cousin Tom have a job yet, and why is he still living in Aunt Susan’s basement; and boy, Aunt Peggy’s really packed on pounds. You got more dessert to yourself, didn’t have to eat food you don’t like, and, most importantly, you didn’t have to pretend to eat a piece of Grandpa’s mystery dessert. There were fewer dishes, which meant a happier Mom, and you got to bypass pretending that Uncle Lou wasn’t totally hammered. All joking aside, we needed to take safety precautions to stay safe last Thanksgiving. As per Governor Carney’s November press release, you should have made sure to only have ten people gathering in any given place at one time. If the pandemic continues and you choose to hold family gatherings next year, I have some advice for ways to do so in a safe, fun fashion.

**Disclaimer: The following advice is not scientific, nor is it meant to be taken as actual safety advice. ● If you’re having extended family over, don’t forget to put your mask on in between bites and install your plexiglass barrier down the middle of your Thanksgiving table. ● Maybe consider giving everyone their own individually wrapped apple pie.

● If it’s a buffet-style affair, make sure to hold your breath while you fill your plates! ● And if you have to sneeze… hold it.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone; I hope you won at eating! Grace Koch ‘24

Blue Medium Mandy Jiang ‘22

A Response to Andrew Marvell’s ‘To His Coy Mistress’ My so-called “coyness,” which thou say Crime because I won’t give my time of day If thou could, thou would, and thou can Give me all the love thou so call “plan” To boldly state thine hypothetical claims No plan of mine to play along with thine games Stating eternal love for me Vainly composing flowery pleas Describing a love greater than time and distance A fabricated amour, your annoying insistence Thine vegetable love, so full of disease Guilt and attention, thou try to seize Claiming thine love through adoring my body Disgusting, shallow, perversion thou embody No matter how many centuries thou claim thou would spend Reality is those words thou bend I do indeed deserve the best I am no fool knowing this is all mere jest Instead, thou obsess, obsess and obsess Trying to put me in a state of distress Concerning time, my mortality, and thine too Objectifying women, the trash you spew No need for my beauty to be adored Or affirmed by scum like thou accord My beauty, my body, my choice Pathetic of thou to use thine voice To define my honor, it is mine, my own Meaningless thine lust turns to stone Sure, the worms may get me first But, I prefer the worms to thou, the accursed May there be no embrace in the grave But, death do me first; my heart engraves

How vain, pompous, conceited of thou To believe your words will prompt my vow Rather than spending my precious youth with you

Don’t you think I have other things to do? Relaxing, sporting, enjoying other pleasures Devouring my time according to my own measures Arrogant are thou attempting seduction Recoil, I do resulting in thine obstruction Proud I am “coy” too That’s end of thine lust’s debut Though I cannot make my own sun I do not need thou to make him run. Isabella Dayrit ‘22

Vulnerability Isabella Dayrit ‘22

Imposter Syndrome Margaret Atkins ‘21

Elizabeth Grace (After Cisneros) I’d be lying if I said I had any clue where my name came from, and I’d be lying if I said I liked my name in the slightest. Too many syllables, not enough personality. Elizabeth Grace Sills. A pretty standard, run-of-the-mill name. Two of the most common middle names plus my not-as-common last name. When I was younger, I tried to carry out the elegance and eloquence that my name held. I wore dresses and high socks with Mary Janes and a matching headband, cardigan, or bow, respectively. My room also exuded whatever my five-year-old self-thought was reminiscent of Queen Elizabeth. I had my beloved chandelier-shaped night light and blue and gold embroidered bedding on a massive canopy bed that I needed a step stool to get into. That wasn’t me though, and as I grew, it became increasingly obvious and more difficult to maintain such a high standard of living as a literal child. A few years after this, I started coming into my own. I remember on a trip to Colorado with some family friends, one of the moms started writing “Lizzie” on all of my disposable cups. I fell in love with Lizzie. That name represented the loud and rambunctious person I really was, rather than the mask I put on to try to mold myself into my real name. I immediately adopted my new nickname and requested that all of my closest friends call me as such. At first, Lizzie was reserved for only my closest friends. It felt like a barrier between me and adults or people I didn’t like, and something that tied me tighter to those I loved. My room changed again, too. Night Lights were out, and brown and pink stick-on polka dots all over the walls were in. When I hit my tweenage years, I started introducing myself as Lizzie. Teachers and parents still knew me as Elizabeth, but Lizzie was now open for anyone to use. Thank. God. I slowly but surely let go of this “superior being” expectation I had created for myself and started heavily leaning into my Lizzie alter ego. By high school, all of my teachers and friends, plus their parents, knew me as Lizzie. Elizabeth was finally gone. Even now, my name is still evolving with me. Most recently, I’ve noticed more people starting to call me “Liz.” An older, slightly more sophisticated and timeless version of “Lizzie” that’s ready to be packed away for college. Regardless, I think if you were to ask anyone who knows me or even knows of me, they could tell you that Elizabeth is not Lizzie or Liz. Elizabeth Sills ‘21

Father Wind / Mother Lightning Father Wind, I take you for granted. You keep me cool on hot summer days, Conversing with me when I feel alone. You kiss my face and play with my hair, Always reminding me of home. Father Wind, I fear you. Your anger wreaks destruction. Buildings fall, and oceans flood. You howl at me, whipping my hair back and forth, Back and forth. Father Wind, I envy you. You travel ‘round the world With an eagle’s sight. You never take a moment’s rest, Blowing day and night. Your strength has blown through centuries Filling me with wonder and delight. Father Wind, I need you. You give me ocean waves and crisp autumn days, Breathing for the world. You nip at my heels, push me through fear And will never lead me astray. Father Wind, I appreciate you. Mother Lightning, beauty beyond compare, Flashes of white, blue, and purple fill the static air. Within you, a power So strong and full of wonder, Yet you wreak destruction.

Forests on fire, Trees ablaze, Is there no end To your destructive rage?

And yet, there’s hope. You light up the night, The ominous, looming clouds, You flash, “Do not fear. You are not alone, For I am here.” Through the destruction comes beauty. The magical effect When you strike the sand, Turning it to glass By your daring hand. Mother lighting, We see your beauty, Your beacon of hope; We hear your call. You are not forgotten; Not at all. Grace Koch ‘24

Daylight Moon Who will be Your daylight moon In winter mornings And summer afternoons Who’s ever glowing Beneath the surface Even when the sun Consumes Midnight Sun Who will be Your midnight sun In placid waters It boasts in front Who’s ever glowing Just to please Even when its day Is done Jessica Lattanzi ‘23

Anchored Camron Kaiser ‘21 Scholastic Silver Medal

If I Could Give You the Moon If I could give you the moon Lace it into your veins Would it heal all your scars? Return you to this place? If I bathed you in starlight Brought yūgen to the earth Poured it into your eyes Would it heal your hurt? If I gathered the planets That your eyes are fixed on And collected them, tender-Held them tight in my palm And I offered my hand Sent a lifeline-- Return Would you come back to earth Leave your astral sojourn? If I stole you the Cosmos Let them burn in our hearth If I offered you All From my desperate heart And if I gave you my life In exchange for your breath Would you please come back home? Would you leave behind death? Amelia Gattuso ‘23

Hybrid Jillian Bale ‘21

Living Room

An electric fire crackles underneath the droning voice of a newscaster reporting the same story from the night before. In front, the battle between green and beige plastic rages on a shaggy tan plain as a young soon-to-be general calls out orders under his breath, bringing the men alarmingly close to the dooming heat just as he did the night before. The amber hue of dimmed lamps illuminates the close corners of the room but fails to reach the top of the cathedral ceiling, creating a bubble of warmth for just the living space. A worn blue leather couch rests against the wall, and its sister armchair rests against the stair’s banister. The Father lounges, laid out like a cat, on the armchair and matching footstool, popping nuts into his mouth like candy and mindlessly scoffing at the same annoyances on the screen from the night before. Three curled female figures sit relaxed on three sections of couch cushions. The Mother tucks her legs neatly underneath her, scrolling through her tablet and drinking the same tea as the night before. Ears perked up like a horse, she cringes at the crunch of every nut Father munches on, glaring him down and hoping that her cold, hard stare will catch his attention. Leaning on Mother, Daughter One rests her head and looks up at the dark, empty white ceiling, hoping that her unspoken questions will be answered by an intangible force, not yet described. Her fingers brush up and down the phone she’s desperately trying not to unlock. She looks forlorn and puzzled, definitely questioning a deep thought but in such a way that the thought seems to cause her agony. Of course, if someone asked if she was ok, she’s fine. Of course, she was fine the night before. On the opposite end of the couch, pushed into the deep corner as if trying to conceal her presence from the rest of the room, Daughter Two curls up in a ball of determined stress, her thoughts far away from the room. Her computer, humming with effort, balances on her shaking knees, and a pair of glasses rests on the bridge of her nose, trying desperately not to tip off. The crinkle in her eyebrows and creases on her eyes signal the effort and strain she’s putting into a task night after night which will eventually be irrelevant in only a few months. Yet the strain and the stress continue, and the computer will hum for another hour or so as the glasses cling to the clip of her nose for dear life just as they did the night before. The television speaks, the Father chews, the Mother scrolls, the Daughter stares, and the Daughter strains. As if frozen in action, these figures pose in a tableau, unwilling and uninterested in motion. Only the commander-general disrupts the stagnant energy of the room, running around like a child in a museum watched by frowning spectators. Every so often, a brief shift, a sudden unwelcomed breeze, changes the feeling in the room. The tableau breaks just for a second. The Mother looks at the kitchen across the open space, frowning at the leftover dishes, food, and trash from dinner earlier. The Father peaks up at the son (the young commander-general, excuse me) and opens his mouth slightly as if to warn him about the danger his army faces as their commander-general leads them closer and closer to the blazing heat. Daughter glances at her phone’s

screen, checking once, twice, pause, then once again at the empty notifications, wishing someone would text. Daughter Two sighs, still staring at her screen, hoping that a stroke of inspiration will come down from the empty, white ceiling and provide her the ability to finish the work, which takes up all her brain-power. No one utters a word, ordered not by the young warlord rolling on the floor but by the looming, unfinished description of their situation, their position. There was so much to say at the dinner table. They had recollections of workdays, jokes shared from friends, and brief comments about the lack of salt on the chicken. Perfect smiles and exuberant laughter lit up the room, already completely illuminated in every corner. Energy at the dinner table burst out of the kitchen, into the dimmed living room, up the stairs to the dark bedrooms, almost reaching out the windows on the pitchblack street. Now that energy lives with the mangled chicken bones, the stains of ketchup and the scattered plates on the cluttered kitchen table. The mixed air above the diminished living glow and dark empty ceiling captures the unspoken words, keeping them in a foreboding holding cell filled with unresolved sentiments, and the unfinished description of their existence. The family sits like Greek figures in motion, resigned to repeat the same tasks dutifully, resting in amber for now but destined to ascend from the living glow into the dark upstairs. Father coughs. Everyone startles. Mother’s eyes narrow. Daughters turn their heads. The unaware commander-general continues his siege. The clouds dangling above begin to churn and thunder as the previously stagnant figures begin to break positions. Cracks emerge in the amber and marble protecting the peace and civility of the tableau. Eyes remained fixed on Father. Father takes a sip of his water, picks another cashew from the bowl, and chews with his jaws smacking against each other, just as he did the night before. The seemingly picture-perfect scene resumes, now with clear cracks and crevices marred on the statues forever. The bedrooms remain dark, the street is still pitch black, and the rosy hue of the living room dims the joyous camaraderie once shared between the people now living separately, strangely around the room. Father chews and scoffs. Mother scrolls on her tablet. Daughter One questions wordlessly, staring into the empty abyss. Daughter Two frowns at a blank screen. The commander-general ends his battle and runs upstairs, leaving the cracked statues in amber and the dying glow of the living room behind, escaping to the bedrooms just as he did the night before. Alexis Rendel ‘21 Scholastic Gold Key

Dysphoria Helen Qi ‘23 Scholastic Gold Key

The Sapphire Necklace When all this has dissolved into dust, only one image will unfailingly poke through the rubble in my memory: her sapphire necklace. That’s not to say that the gemstone she wore was by any means as lavish as an authentic sapphire—she’d scoff at such an extravagant investment—rather, it is the only word that suffices to describe the majestic blue bit of treasure perpetually dangling from her neck. My earliest memories of her all revolve around that necklace. I’d stand transfixed while my eyes traced its movements during one of her dances or followed its languid sway while she paced the kitchen—and I’d think, It’s as big as the ocean. The same simple phrase reverberating in my mind each time I’d stare into the sapphire’s depths, the same basic truth. Everything inside that tiny jewel swirled together to form an endless murky brilliance on its surface, somehow seeming to guard all the sea’s secrets for those who had the valor to unearth them. It was as big as the ocean, but I was always more content to watch the waves tumble in than to fight through them into uncharted waters. So, I devoted myself to memorizing the gem’s divinely designed lineaments and its delicate edges instead. Sometimes, she’d toss her head back in a radiant ripple of laughter, maybe over some trivial remark a distant friend made or some “simply absurd” idea that had arisen in a conversation, and a sliver of that sapphire would capture the light for the slimmest fraction of a second. A tiny star would seem to shimmer on the surface, having the whole universe for itself, and with a wink, it would retreat back into the midnight blue haze before most could even catch a glimpse of it. One transient moment of glory, but simply a speck in comparison to the grandeur and wonder contained in that gemstone. And, invariably, that necklace would snag, just like any other. It would flutter against some unrelenting wind and tangle in the unkempt tresses of her hair or latch itself onto an intricate bit of lace on her collar. And, invariably, I would fish it out from whatever knot or button or loop it clung to, stealing a minute to lose myself in the gem’s eternal mystery while I refastened it around her neck. With my aid, it seemed, the necklace would continue entrancing the hearts of all the dreamers she encountered—so, it would continue to survive. I sometimes contemplate, neither with hope nor dread, the day when nobody will live to dig up her necklace from whatever predicament it loses itself in. I envision the night when she stumbles into a seat on some evening train and the clasp snaps for the final time when she abandons that luminous refuge of all the universe’s secrets, unaware as she disembarks. And I think of every necklace chain breaking apart one day, all drifting through a world bereft of any of that mystique, all dragging their infinite gemstones to no end. Natalie Gildea ‘23

Pressed Flowers I place your pressed flowers Under my pillow So the memories they froze Might visit my dreams. I hold your pressed flowers Close to my chest So their last drops of strength Will coat my fears in gold. I weave your pressed flowers Into my hair So they can remind me of my beauty When I fail to see it. I beg your pressed flowers For one last instruction; How to learn To go on Without you. Jessica Lattanzi ‘23

Dancing Daisies Jane Chen ‘24 Scholastic Gold Key

Fever Dream

The boy wakes up tired and with a mild headache. He didn’t get much sleep the night before. He considered going to a doctor because of his constant sleep deprivation, possibly caused by insomnia, but deep down, he knew that part of the problem was his crazy amount of schoolwork. He went to school, talked to his friends, and came home. He would say “hi” to his parents and then go straight upstairs to bury himself in his laptop. He had always thought that he didn’t pay his parents enough attention, but he had to get his work done. He had to. There was no way to succeed other than working hard; that was what he was raised to believe. He had to be successful and to do this, he would work and study, and work and study. He would go out with friends when he could, and he loved to play video games, but he was almost always in his room when he was home. Seclusion didn’t bother him whatsoever; it almost felt normal. It was his life. After doing whatever he was doing, whether that be work or games, he would try to fall asleep. When he would eventually get down for the night, he wouldn’t dream. His brain was too overworked for such imagination. Eventually, and for no reason, he would wake up in the middle of the night. He would always wonder why he couldn’t sleep but he knew that it was because of what he was doing to himself during the day, both physically and emotionally. Even though this jarring experience was happening every night, he did nothing to change his lifestyle because it was just normal to him now. The constant sleep deprivation and headaches were just part of his life. Fogginess clouded his mind, making it hard to look outside of his current situation, but his thoughts were just clear enough to read the article that his teacher had assigned for that night or take that quiz that seemed so crucial at the time. It was almost like he was trapped in a daydream, but it seemed so real. His schoolwork was just piling up and no matter how long he spent on it, the flow of papers, projects, and tests would just never stop. Even when summer came he would still be working on school. AP work, summer reading, and clubs that were meant only to boost his resumé consumed his vacations. This never-ending cycle was just a part of who he was and how his life seemed to be. He did not question it, he didn’t even understand why he put up with it. He just did. It seemed like life to him, preparing for a future that seemed so unrealistic and far away that it became second nature and not thought out desire. He thought back to when he was sick earlier that year. He had the flu and remembered how vivid and realistic his dreams were. He ran a fever every night that he had one of these dreams. The waking up in the middle of the night did not cease. Time felt like it was standing still when he would wake up the next morning, yet it would continue. He would do the same routine, get dressed, brush his teeth, try to stay off his phone as much as possible, drive to school. Every morning this is what happened. Without even a second

thought it was the same routes, the same steps. Sometimes if you looked hard enough, you could see the imprints on the floor where he would walk every morning. The same footsteps, the same tasks, the same day? The boy looked at the footprints in the old oak floor. “How long would it take for these to be ingrained into the wood?” he said. He went about his day and completely forgot about the encounter with what seemed to be a glimpse of reality. He had only partially woken up the night before at 2 am. He started to get more and more sleep, slipping in and out this state of unconscious self-distraction, only for short periods of time. He would notice people he knew were in the same cycle but then promptly forget when returning to what seemed like an ongoing. Why was this happening? What was happening? He went to history class as he normally would. He didn’t stop to talk to his friends; he didn’t get a drink, he didn’t change his facial expression the entire way to the classroom. His strides seemed calculated, each the same distance and same speed as the last. As the days and weeks passed, he would get more sleep. He woke up fewer times and for less time, and before he knew it, he would stay conscious and out of the dream state, the fever dream, for more than two minutes at a time. He wouldn’t know what to do most of the time, so he just kept on working or doing what he was doing. He would forget what had happened, about being conscious once he returned to the cycle, to the disease. That is one thing he did notice. It was a disease. His friends, his classmates, even his brother were all sucked into the same thing. They were all so focused on their work, on their careers, on things that didn’t make them happy. It just had to be done. That’s what they would tell themselves. It just had to be done, right? Stepping in and out of full consciousness, more and more began to give him the ability to remember, to retain his experiences. After a long time, the boy was able to piece together certain thoughts, certain ideas. He became aware of the disease, of the fever dream. What was it? What was going on? He went to bed. He woke up again just like he had every other day, tired. Dazed and confused he walked down the hallway stepping in the footprints left in the old oak floor. He went to school, came home, noticed his eyes were dilated, did his homework, went to bed. Woke up, went to school, looked and saw his eyes were dilated, came home, did his homework, went to bed. Woke up, went to school, saw his friends had dilated eyes, came home, did his homework, went to bed. Woke up, went to school, came home, and looked at his dad. Recently he hadn’t looked at his dad too closely; he just seemed to always just be there. “God his hair is greying,” the boy would think to himself. He noticed the dilation in his eyes as well. He went to his mom and decided that he might want to cook dinner so that she doesn’t have to. “She had a hard day at work. She could use a break” the boy thought to himself. She looked stressed, tired with bloodshot eyes. “Man, she does look older” he

thought. He noticed the bags under her eyes and slightly wrinkled cheeks. He hadn’t noticed her age in a long time. At least he never paid attention to it. This sight saddened him, so he went upstairs like he normally did to melt into his screens after dinner. His brother came into his room to play on the console that was in the boy’s room. He didn’t have actual conversations with his brother, even though he had ample to talk with him. He drove him to school, they ate dinner together, they even did homework in the same room sometimes, but they never really talked. He wanted to bring up his findings, his observations but couldn’t find the words. The fever dream seemed to still have a hold on how he thought, what he said. As he approached his brother, he looked into his eyes to speak. Dilation. The boy jumped back from his brother, scared and confused. His brother had just recently started his freshman year of high school. He had definitely matured over the summer, gotten taller, gotten smarter. He seemed more focused on his school work too. What changed about him? “That’s it! The dilation of the eyes is a tell-tale sign of the fever dream… what was I just saying?” The boy slips back into the trance. He went to bed. Tyler Allison ‘21

Virtual Learning Margaret Atkins ‘21 Scholastic Gold Key

China’s Economic Crisis (An Excerpt)

Recent decades have been characterized by the slowly declining influence of the United States and the long-anticipated rise of China to superpower status. China’s rapid economic growth since the enactment of market-oriented reforms in 1978 has lifted more than 850 million Chinese out of extreme poverty, built an enormous export-oriented economy, and driven average Chinese incomes up (World Bank). Yet recent drops in GDP (Gross Domestic Product) growth point towards a slowing export sector and an unfavorable geopolitical situation (World Bank). Rising wages and a severe demographic crisis are putting immense pressure on China’s export-oriented economy, which relies heavily on cheap labor. External pressures are also mounting on China’s economy; now more than ever, the West sees China’s growth as a threat. The Chinese export economy suffers from renewed hostility, trade wars, and even suspicion over the COVID-19 pandemic’s origin. All of these discouraging factors beg the question: what can China do about its economy? The reality is that the country has only one option: to place emphasis on domestic consumption and to shrink the export industries. This would transition the country’s economy closer to those of wealthy importers, such as the United States. However, increasing domestic consumption necessitates a stronger, wealthier middle class and more support for businesses; it requires freer financial institutions. Lastly, China needs a cutting-edge innovation sector that can compete with other global producers. Yet China’s authoritarian system, which suffers from wasteful government spending, corrupt elite interests, and impediments to technological growth, will most likely prevent all endeavors from transitioning to a domestic consumption economy. The Decline of the Export Economy China’s economic model is extremely unique. The term that describes China best, ‘state capitalism,’ appears to be an oxymoron. The authoritarian central government coexists with a thriving market economy, a combination that appears to possess the best of two worlds: capitalist productivity and authoritarian supervision. Instead of following the Western liberal model, China believes that it has carved a new path to success. Furthermore, the country markets its state capitalism as a viable and attractive alternative to democratic capitalism. The only proof China needs is its existence: it is one of the world’s largest economies, and its sphere of influence grows as each day passes. The Chinese Communist Party, or the CCP, has virtually complete control of the Chinese government. The CCP maintains its legitimacy by ensuring economic growth, which placates the Chinese population to some extent. Therefore, one of the CCP’s highest priorities is to continue economic growth and to avoid stagnation. However, in recent years China’s economy has experienced a notable slowdown. China’s GDP growth had averaged about 10 percent for many decades; in past years, annual GDP growth has slowed from a peak of 14 percent in 2004 to a low of just 6 percent in 2019 (World Bank).

This significant drop can be attributed to the now outdated export model on which China built its fortune.Three reasons stand out for why the Chinese export sector is in decline: an incoming demographic crisis, rising wages, and external hostility. The availability of cheap labor in China decreases every year due to negative demographic trends that have plagued the country since the notorious ‘One-Child Policy.’ The policy limited the number of children a couple could legally have to just one. Even after Beijing reversed the policy in late 2015, many families chose not to have a second child due to economic concerns, and rising prices around the country have left swaths of Chinese couples behind. The country’s overall birth rate declined dramatically after the enactment of the one-child policy, and the current Chinese fertility rate in 2020 is approximately 1.69 children per woman. Experts predict that annual Chinese population growth will continue to decline in the next few decades to the point that there soon will not be enough workers to support the aging population (Myers et al.). Also, China’s economic boom has rapidly increased worker wages, and as a consequence, many companies are outsourcing to cheaper locations such as Sri Lanka. Finally, more countries in the U.S.-led coalition are taking a harder stance on China. Notably, the ongoing trade war with the U.S. adds the extra burden of tariffs on imported Chinese goods. The only remedy to a declining export economy is to transition to an economy driven by internal consumption and innovation. Recognizing the necessity of this transition, the CCP has recently unveiled a new ‘dual circulation’ economic strategy which is part of the party’s 14th Five-Year-Plan. The plan emphasizes the transition to a domestic consumption economy aimed to boost the growing middle class of roughly 400 million Chinese. More concretely, the CCP wants to lessen dependence on imports and raise per-capita GDP to match moderately developed countries such as South Korea or Israel. The plan also highlights domestic technological development as an important objective (Sutter et al.). However, the feasibility of this strategy should be called into question. Given the political environment and authoritarianism prevalent in China, the plan’s ambitious goals to transition the economy will most likely never come to fruition. Authoritarian Barriers: Wasteful spending, SOEs, and the Elite Officialdom To transition to a domestic consumption economy, the CCP must emphasize domestic growth by allocating resources towards productive businesses and beneficial developments. However, the inefficient authoritarian nature of the CCP and its stateowned enterprises (SOEs) could impede any effort to transition. Effective resource allocation is not one of the CCP’s strengths; the party has a long record of wasteful expenditures. Although the CCP has attempted to stimulate domestic consumption and productivity by increasing internal spending, much of that spending has been wasted on useless infrastructure and clunky SOEs rather than private enterprises and the middle class (Fisher).Structural overinvestment plagues Chinese housing and infrastructure developments. Most ghost towns formed when people moved out, but China’s ghost

cities formed when no one moved in. A nationwide study in 2017 based on the China Household Finance Survey found that approximately 22.4 percent of homes in China are unoccupied; in comparison, the U.S. home vacancy rate in the same year was just 12.7 percent (Blazyte). Regional airports and highways are also underutilized, and many Chinese provinces that borrowed huge sums of money to pay for these projects are now in severe debt (Buckley). We can look towards China’s fragile real estate bubble as a partial explanation for the high vacancy rate; government-led property developers in China believe that the demand will keep going up, which will certainly not be true once the bubble bursts. The government-driven housing bubble severely hurts the average Chinese consumer. Recently, economists at Moody’s Analytics pointed out that Chinese disposable income has grown at about 10 percent annually for the past six years while household debt has grown at about double the rate, and much of that debt is related to housing. The low disposable income suggests that even if Beijing transitioned China to a domestic consumption economy, consumers would not have enough to spend. China’s excessive infrastructure construction vastly increases debt every year; Chris Buckley from the New York Times writes that “the cost-benefit ratio of each new mile of asphalt drops sharply.” Even worse, Oxford professor Atif Ansar examined 65 Chinese highway and rail projects in a study and found that less than a third were productive (Buckley). Most of these projects are supervised on the local level, meaning that local officials have the largest stake in infrastructure. Why would officials take the risk to fund projects that are not worth their price tag? Three reasons stand out. First, officials can receive millions of dollars in various benefits for giving out contracts to certain companies, also known as bribery. They get away undetected because China possesses neither a financial disclosure system nor an effective anti-corruption practice (W. Chen). Second, officials can receive career benefits for building large projects, even if the projects are not economical. Third, government backing ensures that the construction companies and the local government will not default nor go bankrupt even when they are deeply in debt (Buckley). Simple economics shows us that supplying a service does not ensure demand. Rather than boost the middle class and businesses, the CCP wastes money on largely useless infrastructure, proving its incompetence in transitioning to a domestic consumption economy. The CCP also controls Chinese SOEs, which are a distinctive part of the Chinese economy (Guluzade). Although SOEs have brought many jobs to the country, they are undoubtedly inefficient. SOEs, by definition, are led by the CCP, and their top priority is to serve the party. This means that they have to operate under special policy burdens, which can lead to contradicting objectives, hiring of redundant workers, and other wasteful consequences. Even worse, SOEs have a ‘soft budget,’ meaning that the government will bail them out through fiscal subsidies and tax cuts (Asia Dialogue). Because of this

financial security, they lose the drive to become ‘leaner and meaner’ that private sector companies possess. Also, banks tend to loan to SOEs more often than private companies because SOEs have government backing; this pushes the balance in favor of state control rather than private control, creating an unfair playing ground. The data shows that SOEs are much less productive than their private counterparts. They account for a huge portion of non-financial corporate debt and are heavily reliant on government funding (Asia Dialogue). Studies comparing thousands of firms have repeatedly shown that SOEs are, on average, less profitable than private companies (Thi et al.). Even though the CCP has attempted to reform SOEs, Chinese SOE reforms are widely regarded as unsuccessful, and in some cases, completely failing (Asia Dialogue). Finally, the interests of the elite may be the greatest obstacle that the CCP faces to transition to a domestic consumption economy. In China, the line between officialdom and business interests is practically nonexistent. Many corrupt government officials have earned their private fortunes through political positions and powerful SOEs. These officials tend to be regional party members that greatly benefit from SOEs and the export economy. Also, because local officials have a certain degree of autonomy from Beijing, they can diverge from the national policy if they think it is in their interest to do so. This means that the Chinese officialdom could easily resist changes that harm their interests. A new domestic market driven by middle-class consumers would require a transfer of wealth from SOEs and the elite to the middle class, and Beijing would certainly face tremendous opposition if it attempts to transition to a domestic consumption economy (Fisher). Systemic Impediments to Technological Growth Without a doubt, technology forms the backbone of productivity growth. Robust innovation drives countries forward and boosts production. For China to transition to a domestic consumer economy, it needs to become a global leader in technology and nurture a thriving education and innovation environment. The CCP has tried to encourage technological growth, yet fundamental issues with authoritarianism and inefficient fund allocation continue to stifle the Chinese technology sector. The first impediment lies with the infamous Chinese Great Firewall. Named the ‘Golden Shield,’ this massive government firewall not only restricts dissent but also Chinese researchers’ access to outside information. The firewall blocks sites commonly found in the U.S., such as YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, and Gmail (vpnMentor). Important web resources such as Google Scholar are also blocked. The result is that Chinese researchers and scholars are not able to easily access foreign research, which could otherwise aid them greatly. In addition, the Golden Shield, as an anonymous Chinese astronomer said, makes “international collaboration difficult and damages the reputation and competitiveness of Chinese science institutes” (Normile).

Secondly, China’s patent incentive system requires extensive reform. The country claims the title of most new patents annually, but in 2018, Bloomberg reported that according to JZMC Patent and Trademark data, about 91 percent of five-year-old Chinese patents produced in 2013 were discarded by 2018 (WIPO). The Bloomberg article goes on to note two key points. First, U.S. patents are still of considerably better quality than their Chinese counterparts; because the CCP rewards innovation based on patent filings, many research institutions choose to create useless patents to appear highly productive so that they can receive funding. The second point, as stated in the article, is that “the high disposal rates mean China still has a long way to go till it becomes the technologically sophisticated nation it aspires to be” (L. Chen). To compensate for the lack of internal innovation, the CCP heavily utilizes technology theft. However, an increasingly hostile international environment suggests that it will not be able to sustain this theft nor easily acquire foreign technology for long. FBI Director Christopher Wray recently stated that the bureau currently had about 1,000 open investigations of technology theft related to China (Wray). Although the CCP claims to be pushing for technological autonomy, it continues to leech technology from other nations. For example, the CCP’s Thousand Talents Program entices top scientists and engineers in numerous Western countries with lucrative financial incentives. In return, many participants inappropriately share their research and technology with Chinese entities, costing affected enterprises and organizations billions of dollars (Wray). However, recent U.S. crackdowns on suspected technology theft and restrictions on student/scholar visas point towards a future where China won’t be able to sustain technological growth by stealing other nations’ ideas. The CCP wants to turn China into a technological powerhouse capable of competing with cutting-edge, developed nations. However, the productive and independent technology ecosystem necessary to achieve this goal requires foundational changes in the current Chinese technology regime at the legal and societal levels. Wired Magazine’s Geremie Barme and Sang Ye observed that “the technology China needs to build the most powerful country on Earth in the 21st century threatens to undermine the institutions that rule the nation” (Barme et al.). Without a thriving, independent technology sector, China’s path to a domestic consumption economy will remain unclear. Conclusion In short, a massive ideological contradiction impedes the CCP’s ability to transition China to a domestic consumption economy. The CCP is an authoritarian entity that maintains order and stability with top-down control, unlike liberal democracies that are open to criticism and bottom-up change. The government needs to provide more resources to true innovators and the private sector, but SOEs and inefficient fund distribution block the path. It must provide more power to the growing middle class to create domestic growth, but then the reluctant party and its ruling elite would have to lessen some of their power.

The heart of the contradiction lies in the very nature of China’s government. It is simply impossible for the CCP to build and reform the institutions needed to transition its economy while placating party officials and maintaining its dominion over the Chinese people. Finally, although China’s troublesome transition is a critical issue, the CCP faces an even greater threat to its continued reign: the people of China appear to have recognized the CCP’s unequal and oppressive nature. Social unrest cases in China have become more frequent every year since the 1990s, but the CCP continues to employ a ruthless combination of stringent online censorship, heavy surveillance, and police repression to stop activism and discontent at its source (Slaten). Accounts of Chinese human rights activists ‘disappearing’ have startled both the international community and everyday Chinese citizens. Ever since the economic reforms four decades prior, inequality has skyrocketed and will likely get worse. If the CCP cannot transition China’s economy and continues supporting the wealthy elite over the common people, then severe social instability is certain to follow. And as scholars of history know, the collapse of a society often begins with its people. Alexander Chen ‘23 Scholastic American Voices Winner To read the full essay with works cited page, visit the National Scholastics Art and Writing Awards website.

Scorpion Adam Hartman ‘23 Scholastic Gold Key and American Vision Award

Of Death in a Global Pandemic “Men fear death, as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other.” - Francis Bacon “Of Death” Most children don’t fear death because the concept is so foreign to them. As described, their fear rests in natural, seemingly insignificant things such as the dark or clowns - fears they haven’t quite come to understand yet. Physical fears often diminish with age, paving the way for more abstract, intangible fears to grow in their place. Deep-rooted fears, previously buried under the quickly melting iceberg of innocence, such as failure, embarrassment, or death, bubble up to the surface, muting mundane fears until they are no more than slight discomfort. As life goes on, death draws nearer and nearer until it finally shakes hands with us. The unlucky ones greet death prematurely, taking an early ride on death’s unmerciful and unstoppable carriage. Once death makes its cold, definitive choice, it condemns a person to their last living appointment. Accepting this truth, death may grow into an intangible fear or remain as undisputed truth, helping us live relatively unaffected. Those who’ve surpassed half a century in age often accept death with only a bit of chagrin, while those barely into two decades of life are worried their natural proximity to death has started showing on their visage. As the individual ability to deal with fear varies based on age or nature, our emotional responses to both death and fear are compatible. We fear death for our loved ones just as we fear death for ourselves. Dealing with death is a universal experience; we handle it separately but together, mourning individually while surrounded by those closest to us. Contemporary society has recognized death as a singular yet unifying force resulting in modern portrayals of death no longer remaining consistently grotesque, horrid, or simply sorrowful. Compared to the Renaissance or even a few decades ago, we’ve learned to accept death as we learn to accept our fears. Living in fear of death is not truly living. Expecting that final appointment before experiencing any pre-existing symptoms prevents us from ever having a real shot of acceptance or a friendly acquaintance with death. These acquaintances with death are prevalent on a newly consistent worldly scale. Very rarely does the globe harmoniously comprehend a similar fear of death; in war, civil unrest, famine, and pandemic. In these times, death no longer remains an appointment but rather evolves into a devastating cloud looming over all heads. In this recent pandemic, death pollutes an aspect of life everyone thought was safe: air. Rather than penetrating in multiple, inconceivable occurrences, death now comes in a singular method, though still affecting everyone differently. Skeptics hold little regard for this new precipice of death, appearing headstrong and brave until death’s friend and often helper greets them at their door. On the other hand, those overly worried or superstitious forget to live. They’re safe,

and although mocked by skeptics, they remain secluded, protected but in hiding from death, friends, and family, dealing only with an illness growing in their mind. The middle section is quite broad or expansive. Some take risks: staying safe except for a few momentary lapses in judgment. Some focus on seclusion with bouts of life: moving outside, maintaining interactions without immediate fear. Some stay in the dead middle, which in reality, is a vast gray area. The gray area takes risks to experience some semblance of normalcy and life, yet understands and more importantly accepts the consequences of the currently indefinite yet coming finite normal with responsibility and courage. Additionally, those with reigning power suddenly harness some control over the spread of death during these times. In war, the casualties are on their conscience. In a pandemic, the spread remains in their control. A few leaders believe they are mini Napoleons considering they are the few who take bold risks, but their actions work at the expense of others. Even when death came knocking at their doors or one of death’s companions said “Hello,” these supposed champions of their people remained resistant. For better or for worse, these leaders must protect the world from a pandemic, providing death and friends with a new sparring mate. In the end, however, death will find victory somewhere. Leaders can, will, and have failed in their unnatural battles against death. Global citizens fight alone while living in fear as the friend of death illness turns right around the corner. It is established that no one can conquer death in fiction, taught that death is often inevitable in science, and accepted by those who are up there in years. Throughout this all, it is a universal truth that living in fear of death will not save us from it. It is our choices that urge us closer to death while simultaneously urging us further into a fuller life. Alexis Rendel ‘21 Scholastic Silver Medal

Conviviality Carsten Kaiser ‘24 Scholastic Honorable Mention

I Can Make as Many Claims as I Want. i can make as many claims as i want. i can say that fire is cold, and peppermints will turn your skin blue. i can tell you i hate you, i love you, i wish i’d never met you, that the sky will never be gray again, that the trains will never not run again, that rocks are soft, and water is dry, and tomorrow is the end of the world. i could tell you that birds dance and flowers sing, that the land cries and trees weep, that a child can never be cruel. and you could never refute these things, because they were never meant to be true. Sophia Chen ‘24

Self-Acceptance Isabella Dayrit ‘22

The Good Old Days The thundering booms of the midnight tap dance sent reverberations of drops, brushes, and steps across the Irish countryside. Joe O’Dillon snuck to the secret underground meeting office, his coal pants dirtied by the mud from the day’s rebellious rain. His deep black hair, which had unfortunately fallen upon his eyes, made his struggles to see through the smoke of war and dewy mist ever more difficult. Distant gunshots and yells of pain and terror and revenge heard from miles away became a wrenching idiosyncrasy, and soon, a regularity, of the 1920s. “Ionsaímid Dé Domhnaigh!1” proclaimed Chief General of the Catholic Irish Republican Army, Cathal Bradigan. Lieutenant Seán O’Brian arrived late but heard it all. “Farr te sake ohff goodt Jeanie Mac2, Ah’f been readeh te go te war wid dem wazzies3 of peopul! Well stited, Mister Bradigan.” General Bradigan quickly reclaimed order. “On tat note, O’Dillon, Yare at de frohnt. Wa’ve preparedt mustard gas bombs far them Narthenars, ain’t weh, b’ys? Chaers to de Cath’lics!” “Sure ye know!4 Chaers, b’ys! God bey with us, and with ye langer5 ladts!” Joe toasted. In reaction, they all hurrahed and drank to the ever-famous “Black stuff6” of Southern Ireland. Roars of guffaws channeled throughout the candlelit bricks, especially from the truly drunk of the bunch, Brendan and Fergal. They clinked to County Cork’s hero, Joseph O’Dillon, with bottles and bottles of Jameson till the wee hours of the morning, when the sun traversed the grass like the sweeping flame of a match head; but for now, the celebration had just begun. Blasts of cigarette smoke and laughter erupted from their sweaty mouths as ideas of Northern Protestant defeat circulated the room throughout the evening. In the middle of the night, a rather loud whisper came from a langer friend who had passed out next to Joe. “Joe, b’y, Ah lohve you bohdt, go kick them Narthenars bohtts till de cows cohme home.7 Will ye do tat far meh, Joe? Think off mey while yare out tare, ‘kay bohdt?” “Fergal, what ya naed, a slap in de face, bohdt? Carse Ah’d do that far ye. Now go back to sleep, Ah’m tired, ladt.” The morning flames of dawn hit them only when the chugs of a beating train rumbled the men awake. Joe and General Bradigan opened their eyes to melted candles and 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Ionsaimid Dé Domhaigh: We attack on Sunday. Jeanie Mac: Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and “All the holy Martyrs” as to not take the Lord’s name in vain. Wazzies: wasps Sure ye know: term of agreement Langer: drunk Black stuff: Guiness Beer till the cows come home: for an indefinitely long time

disheveled chairs and tables, bottles of whiskey thrown across the sooty gravel, and ashy remnants of smoldered cigarette butts. They climbed the rusty ladder to the blinding surface and watched the clouds tarry and puff in the sky. The two of them lied down on the soft, prickly grass. Joe was thinking; thinking hard. “How ‘bout ye?” Bradigan could just feel Joe’s tensity for the coming day’s revolutionary events. “A bit warried ovar bohmbin’ Narthern ladts. Boht Ah know Ah’m readeh. The look on their faces when tey see we’re winnin’. Priceless, b’y.” “Beat tat in two trows!8 Dat’s de spirit Joe, b’y! Remembare to be doggeh wide, though.9 Don’t let tem follow ye back, boht don’t warry, bohdt. Go ou tare, and give ‘em what we got. Wa’re winnars bodht, noht loozers. Wa’re countin’ ohn ye, bring home the money, ladt. Then we’ll tahk.” The day and night went by with jitters filling his shoes, weighing him down but exciting him to the greatest. 4:30 a.m. The time had come. “Tohp off de marnin’ to yuh Joe10. Geh tup bohddy, toyme’s a-ti-ckin, ladt. You beher get a move ohn.” “Gen’ral Bradigan, sare, tain’t it a wee bit ‘arly, bodht?” Joe, tired with “sleep” crusting his eyes over, leaped up with a leaky flask of gin in his hand. So he got up and headed to the Border, a mere two-mile walk. 4:45 a.m. Iron balls of impending fury exchanged clunks of gusto and pep inside his leather bag. Their weight struck Joe’s hip bones with eagerness as he dove behind the silver hay barrels of the beaming moon. The battlefield stretched openly until it hit a wall of blockades - men and their wooden lodges. Bradigan had hung back a mile now; it was all up to O’Dillon. 5:00 a.m. “Ye bastards, wa’re the winners today, ladts! Watch dis, ye dart-y scom!” At that, Joseph pulled out his one-by-two matchbook, which he mostly used for cigars with the crew, and ripped that match head against his book. The head ignited with the fire of a new era, and he set it to one of the balls’ fuses. Not a single bone of his frame was shaken with fear. Never. His father had taught him to wind up his arm “with the might of God!” when they played catch years ago. It was just the same. Kind of. So he wound up his arm “with the might of God” and threw. Threw like a rainstorm had just snatched him away, and that was his last action on land. Nine balls rang through the air. The fiery fuses hit the deathly gunpowder and cracked the earth into two, or so it seemed. The quiet light of the previous day and the clouds of serenity were gone. The power of a thousand suns hit the

8 9 10

Beat tat in two trows! (Beat that in two throws!): an exclaimation of agreement Remembare to be doggeh wide, though (Remember to be doggy wide.): stay alert Top of the mornin’ to you: Good morning

blockades-men, the clouds a heated blast of destruction, the lodges a shamble burnt to oblivion. Fireworks of orange, blazing embers rained down on monochrome ashes, falling like burning white orchids singed on a Soft Old Day11. “SHINNER12! After ‘im brothars! Get at it!” At that, the Northern Protestants charged with a rising fleet of spontaneous field runners. Joe had bolted into the sheltered side woods in an effort to escape the whirlwind speeds of the aggravated soldiers. To his dismay, they had already spotted his nimble shadow. The feeling of running for his life could not be matched with any other. Alas, he returned to General Bradigan. The Northerners had been lost. When he returned, it was decided that he must leave Ireland. News crossed the border that Joseph O’Dillon was “the one” (and that wasn’t a good thing). Within two days, a fisherman of Sinn Féin13 collected Joe on his dainty tugboat. “Joe, b’y, this is it, ain’t it? I never thought it would end lahk this, but haer we aer. So long bodht, haer’s a bot’le of meh fav’rite beer. Take care, ladt.” Fergal teared up a little, which may have as well been a result of his emotional drunkenness, but he meant what he said. A good pat on the back and Joe was off. “So long Joe, b’y. We’re winnars, wae’ll always bey. We’re the locky ones!” General Bradigan shifted away until he became a faint figure standing at the shore. For a moment, Joe thought he heard a few stifled sniffles from him. Joe sailed to the cold waves of Canada, where he met his first lover. Tom O’Dillon was the product, but he felt the conditions were too unstable to live in such a world. He fled to New York, Rochester to be precise. There he met Ruth. Ruth, Ruth, Ruth. She was gorgeous, and her eyes fluttered like the rhythm of a poem that never ceased to end. They had three children together, two girls and a boy. The boy, Thomas, grew up to be a successful businessman, and Patricia and Danni became the aunts, sweet as candy, to his daughter, Shannon Dillon. Soon enough, Shannon had a daughter and talented son of her own, in whom the match of life flickers their grandiose existences brightly, and their joys emanate in light of love. And so, dear ones, as Joe’s brilliant wings radiate love into the core of their souls, they look up to the heavens to see him standing there, guarding over them…Their eyes simply watch Joe, watch God. Roisin Liew ‘23

11 12 13

Soft Old Day: a truly rainy day Shinner: a derogatory term for a Southerner, a supporter of Sinn Féin Sinn Féin: democratic socialist political party of the Irish Republican Army beginning in 1905

Compromised Numbers Beyonce Hu ‘22

I Didn’t Mean to Think of You Today i didn’t mean to think of you today, but i did i was in the drive-thru of some fast-food place nothing special, same as usual but the car in front of me was a bright neon lime green and it reminded me of the hat you had on when we first met back in college on the subway you were laughing and everyone else was gawking at you and your long curls and your gleaming skin and your bright clothes and i thought, i want to be her friend because you were the exciting foreignity of a new delicacy and you were the gem in the apex of the crown and you were the thrill of anticipation at the top of a rollercoaster extraordinarily fantastic when i walked up to you you greeted me like an old friend and the sound of your voice was the fizz of bubbles in a carbonated drink and the whirr of a hummingbird’s wings i got home today clutching my bag of food wounded by past regrets and i saw someone walk by with white sneakers that reminded me of the pair i bought when i didn’t realize that the rainbow ones were the trend

i wanted to buy a new pair but you told me we’ll fill in the colors together you were always like that, you know diving in headfirst while i’m still double-checking the life jacket your enthusiasm was the flood that washed away my insecurities your smile was the pied piper of leading away doubt and you loved to ask me what’s the worst that could happen? even though we both knew the answer i found today the album we made in junior year with that one song where we both sang the wrong note at the same time and i wanted to re-do it but you said, let’s keep it and you were right because that is the only song i still know all the words to there were bad days, too days where being around you was like being deep underwater hardly seen and barely heard days where i wasn’t sure if i deserved to be your friend because i was colorless compared to your rainbow but you could wave away any worries with your expressive eyes and your loud actions and pull me out of my reverie and back into the present like a wave carrying a surfboard back to the beach you were a cool sip of water in the desert whenever i ran dry and you had dreams, too, that stretched across the sea

that reflected off the light of microscopes and collected like sand in an African desert and you would tell me to join you but you were born to stray from the path and i was not you were too wild for my predictable life and i was too tame for yours you were fireworks, an explosion of light: beautiful, fascinating, but ultimately unattainable and impermanent i don’t know who stopped calling first all i know is that one day i realized i had not heard from you in six months those months turned into years and those years turned into gaps that my memory can’t be bothered to fill in lifeless as it is compared to your vivacity bleak as it is compared to you and i would send you an email but the same fear that held me back from joining you is the same one keeping this from reaching you so i just wanted you to know that i hope you’re doing well and that i didn’t mean to think of you today but i am glad that i did Sophia Chen ‘24

Stairway to Heaven Natalie Sheets ‘22

Tapestry 2021 Editors Alyssa Pierangeli ‘21 Alexis Rendel ‘21

Editorial Staff Raphael Coronel ‘23 Sophia Chen ‘24 Alicia Chu ‘24 Madelyn Dayrit ‘23 Natalie Gildea ‘23 Drew Hermes ‘22 Grace Koch ‘24 Roisin Liew ‘23 Elizabeth Maher ‘24 Ava Passehl ‘22 Jacob Poplawski ‘23 Layout Alexis Rendel ‘21 Copy Editor Alyssa Pierangeli ‘21 Faculty Advisor Mr. Stephen Klinge Thank you to... Mrs. Stephanie Silverman and the Art Department Mrs. Karen Linton and the Creative Writing class ...and all who submitted work to Tapestry 2021!

Tapestry 2021

Articles inside

The Good Old Days, Roisin Liew ‘23

I Didn’t Mean to Think of You Today, Sophia Chen ‘24

Of Death in a Global Pandemic, Alexis Rendel ‘21

Fever Dream, Tyler Allison ‘21

China’s Economic Crisis, Alexander Chen ‘23

Pressed Flowers, Jessica Lattanzi ‘23

The Sapphire Necklace, Natalie Gildea ‘23

Living Room, Alexis Rendel ‘21

If I could give you the moon, Sophia Chen ‘24

Father Wind / Mother Lightning, Grace Koch ‘24

Daylight Moon / Midnight Sun, Jessica Lattanzi ‘23

Imposter Syndrome, mixed media, Margaret Atkins ‘21

Asteroid, Owen Phillips ‘21

Upsides of a Covid Thanksgiving, Grace Koch ‘24

This I Believe, Jessica Lattanzi ‘23

The Fake Birds, Alexander Bogey ‘24

Hansel and Gretel: A Revised Version, Sophia Chen ‘24

Divorced at Six, Marissa Quercetti ‘21

A Response to Andrew Marvell’s ‘To His Coy Mistress’, Isabella Dayrit ‘22

From a Child’s Eyes, Amelia Gattuso ‘23