AR TIC U LATE aerie 2015 Vol 10
freedom high school
Art by Nicole McCroddan “Colorful Creation”
(verb)
ar tic u late freedomhighschoolaerie•2015 : vol. 10
: to express (something, such as an idea) in words : to say or pronounce (something, such as a word) in a way that can be clearly heard and understand
25450 Riding Center Drive South Riding, VA 20152
4-5 “Peephole” : Sydney Browe art by Kyle Van Fleet 6-7 “Heartbeat” : Yolani Martin art by Bilan Omar 8-9 “The Eternal Beauty of Life” : Paul Kim art by Sam Kim 10-11 “Mars and Juptier” : Tyler Pugh art by Jessica Parter 12-13 “Nappy” : Huwatu Davowah art by Arda Athman 14-15 “City of Lions” : Yolani Martin art by Nicole McCroddan 16-17 “Microcosm” : Tori Whelan
art by Emily Kim
20-21 “Gifts” : Amanda Duvall
art by Kyle Van Fleet
22-23 “Boxes” : Tori Whelan
art by Tori Whelan
24-25 “Flightless Bird” : Kat Sicat
art by Kyle Van Fleet
26-27 “Endless Symphony” : Arda Athman art by Madeline McCafferty back “Find X” : Amanda Duvall cover
art by Emily Kim
Art by Emily Kim “Park Here”
18-19 “On being Female” : Mira Lee art by Annmarie Brown
see what we see the following is the aerie staff 2015 who pieced together these words and images
mehr kumar billan omar emily kim jessica carter priyanka bitra kena anderson hawatu davowah sydney browe shreya chandramouli katheryn hans (adviser) articulate was created by gathering submissions over four weeks through email and hardcopy form. after reading all the writing submissions over spring break, the staff got together to compare their reactions, and whittle down the scant submissions to a select few. we then projected the images on a promethean board and looked for ones that not only fit the theme, but also fit the writing we had selected. the staff used Adobe Photoshop CC and Adobe Indesign CC to construct the pages. the digital book was created using issuu. a variety of fonts were used, but most notably orator on the cover and myriad pro on the title page. we also survived off of the yearbook staff’s leftover 3 candy and cookies.
On my front door there’s a peephole That looks across the hall I peep to see if anyone’s about But all I see’s the wall On it there’s another door Exactly like my own Standing tall and wide roughtly ten by four Painted smooth with dark green paint, the color of a tree And I wonder if they’re over there peeping back at me.
Peephole Poem by Sydney Browe
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Art by Kyle Van Fleet “Home”
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A heartbeat into the darkness can no longer be heard, lest tied to the constraints of the silent screams that crawl from the caverns of weathered throats yet an eye filmed over by these lucid cradles of thoughts too cannot batter at the silence whisking through hollow bones, so lets the vengeance of the world’s savages snarl creep over its iris and dip into a pool of blind madness.
Heart
Poem by Y
Alas, through the screeching symphony that moans against the snow of our withered loves, squirming in a dance of rebellion that has no fire to spark, simmers the bloodied fingers of a newborn dawn its airy tongue pawing for the first lap at the night’s breast for a trickle of a stranger’s warmth that beams softly through the curve of his flaking lips. And as the bundle of Tomorrow barely tickles the dusk, the sun returns to its throne to dictate the dust of winter crumbling to its knees, yanking a bloom out from its prenatal temple to scramble in the midst of its twilight to whip it bare of bare flesh, unknown to such bitter flames, until its shadow— shattered into shades of cadavers— is wrung into time’s callused hands. And for what? A silent echo that blisters into an infestation of frozen minds, idly glancing into eternity’s empty pool within the waves of a mirror where the only solace found are the tears caress the shell of a face, and a chaste kiss upon a mouth no longer seeking the bittersweet curves of the word: amour. 6
Art by Billan
tbeat
Yolani Martin
n Omar “Fire�
A tear into the darkness can no longer be found, unless sullied from the many drowning within each other until they pop. A breath into darkness can no longer be breathed, unless whisked into the rage of cries that no longer have a soul or name. A virtue into the darkness can no longer be be torn from sin unless unearthed among the rabble of diamond skeletons who greedily pierce into the mind to be true. An embrace into the darkness can no longer be felt as a haven from nightmares unless the hollow thrum of heat pillowing a weary head is only to flee into ashen flakes of crib. Until dawn flounders amongst a sea of dreams bringing such tears onto the fountain that springs from the parched hollow of its pen; crafting fragile little smiles peering down from lanterns within the night sky upon the paint squelching within palms to let a creature of a species extinct bleed its wails across pages banned from books that will pillage the stone marbleizing artificial psychosis, uprooting its truths from the bloodstains petrified from silence to unlock the snowflake beaten by ice and sail upon its wings into the kingdom ruled by the creature whose hopes know no bounds— the human who feels the human who loves the human who no longer fears the curse of human. Yet, until the day that dawn is found until the day that dawn is ours until the day that dawn becomes the morrow a heartbeat into the darkness will forever go unheard 7
8
ity” Art by Sam Kim “Ambigu
l Bea uty of Li fe
Poem by Paul Kim
Leaves gliding through the day, Wind howling through the night.
Flower petals being swept away,
Waves crashing at the dawn of light.
Heavy rain drops pound to the ground.
radiant rainbows start to shine.
Fish that glide without a sound,
Et ern a
Stars spread out across the sky aligned.
Purified snow drifting along, Sound of waterfalls echoing in the distance.
Festive shadows dancing to a song.
e
h T
View of the moon coming into existence
And a single leaf is seen gliding through the day.
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Mars
and
Jupiter Tyler Pugh
Have you ever wondered Why Mars and Jupiter ever split apart If they broke it off, or if it was fate that sent The belt of rocks between them.
If they were friends befor If they even knew the n Solar System that they c Rotating around a big b
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Art by Jessica Carter “Don’t Look Too Close”
And I imagine that maybe the rocks heard this Maybe they came to Jupiter’s aid Protecting him from the harsh words But they were still there They still hurt They were still felt
And maybe that is why There is a big red hole Right where the heart should be Cause some things Just never heal
And that the moons he had just weren’t enough The world wasn’t big enough for him To find another System and leave this one alone
But I imagine one day When something wasn’t going right for Mars He started talking about Jupiter And how he was too big And too brown
re the collision name of the called home ball of gases
What if the moons in their pull weren’t Enough to fill the void in them If the stars didn’t twinkle bright enough To prepare them for the heavens If the sun didn’t shine bright enough To allow them to see each other
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Nappy Poem by Hawatu Davowah
A strand of my hair is my great grandmother. My brother. My friend. My mother. My lover. If it looks like my hair is competing with the air, It very likely is. My strands fight for space to comfortably lie, As bondaged men and women would before they died, Crammed into corners of merchant ships, And packaged across the Atlantic. Each tangle I sport? A resilient embrace, Between the remnants of a broken race. Do you not know that each strand was once enslaved? Forced to behave? Manipulated, Altered, until it faltered, Until all the fight it once had was gone? Until it shone in its own natural light, Until it was a force to be reckoned with? See, when my hair stands tall: when it refuses to fall flat against my back as I once told it to; When my hair is in its natural, untamed, grand state, It sings a silent song of uprising. Breaking free of the bonds, the chains: Of hot combs, relaxers, unacceptance, and shame. It reaches to freedom for those before me. In the hopes that one day, we’ll truly be free. 12
“Umoja ni nguvu.�
Art by Arda Athman “Branches“
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Art by Nicole McCroddan “Pause.”
city of
LIONS
Poem by Yolani Martin
As the rumbling gears of the world screech to a halt next to the flickering copper of the dying lamppost, you awake into the realm where only nightmares reign and only the hunters become prey
Here you find the crown of all melted into the manes of gore who breed chaos into cubicles within castles of glass until the sky weeps the toxins that ravaged its core where cowards are the masterminds, plucking the strings of kings Through the towering jungle of skyscrapers where the queen and knight bleed their sins in broad daylight, that devour the sky yet even daylight doesn’t exist in this world and the vines of red districts strung behind shadows lie the lonely eyes of the lions who Here the innocent are shattered by the weight of colors stalk through the night, whisking around them gulping down the fire sparkled by the fear invaded by the state of animalistic hunger treading down down your spine, that lies in every human and as they burn into you, beckoning you where boys are the only men into the hearth of of their gaze, where girls are bred to be emperors they gently drag their nails down the sweat pooled where splintering glass dances wickedly under the glare of within your palms, emerald and crimson lights for they know where the only villain that prowls starving in the streets, they know what you are, who hangs the carnage spilled among their beds and lays and with a flick of their tail that sounds the alarm bones among their windows the games erupt and the countdown finally strikes is staring right at you through your mirror
Here in the wasteland of dreams where you scavenge for a shred of meat to call your own you find corners crawling with Hydes as they spew the acid of illusion across the ground, you find walls stained in crimson graffiti that tattoos your twisting brain under the films of artificial starlight you find yourself not even in your mind as you dig fangs —you never knew you had— into those with bones of diamond while you scrub your skin raw, trying to wash the shadows etched onto your flesh when the sun has turned its back on you
And his mirror and her mirror and our mirror this is our city now Here the bittersweet taste of smoke that wisps from the end of your cigarette is permanently etched onto your tongue even though the flare of the lighter never touched its end still sets fire to yours, so years from now when the storm is sated by its hunger of despair doused in stale cognac we’ll run into each in our forgotten bar, untouched by the black rain, and as we touch ends of our cigars to keep the crumbling embers alive we’ll listen to the rumbling gears of the world screeching to halt And as we stop leaning against the dying lamppost and watch the battered Welcome sign become devoured by chalked dust we’ll finally become lions and learn how to roar
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Art by Emily Kim “Frozen”
Microcosm Poem by Tori Whelan
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If you ever go walking, alone, silent in the hush of the night, everything seems to be in the midst of a very long sigh as if the earth, in its womb inside the amnios of the atmosphere, is deciding whether to keep gestating or be born at dawn. The Milky Way snakes like a backbone the hazy vertebrae of this creature of a world. I wonder where the earth’s heartbeat is, and its soul. The kite moon holds the tides on a string and tugs along the inhales and exhales, the yin and yang, of the body of water.
maybe this creature earth is already dead, rather than pending birth, and these sounds we make are echoes in a cavern. Maybe these river currents and seasons are simply the blood settling in a decomposing body that has only just been shot, and sleeps for a second, in the span of our existence. Maybe this earth will be born someday. Perhaps it is living. Perhaps it is a stillborn. It’s all faith, thought one spec to herself, On this marble floating within an ocean.
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on being female. poem by mira lee
i was raised to be submissive, had silence and humility instilled in me so much that when i dream of uttering a syllable, i’m reminded that my words could never be more beautiful than the gaping silence as these virtues rattle my bones and scream at me (though softly enough to not dare disturb anyone) i come from a long line of the unremarkable, faceless, and unassertive, a feminine ancestry filled of broken hearts from the adoration of only others, broken nails from the hard work for only others, broken minds from the thoughts for only others. because you are taught that it’s never okay to be greedy or prideful, that it must always be passive you, aggressive them.
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but no more. i will not teach my growing daughter to cut her own petals off in the attempt to soothe mere weeds, never tell her she must only do the work of a female like cooking, cleaning, and sewing her mouth shut. I will never stand by again and allow myself or anyone to come after me to erase herself from history enough that it is truly only his-story when it should also be herstory. mystory. ourstory.
Art by Annmarie Brown “Conscious�
19
Gifts
Poem by Amanda Duvall
If you plucked the stars from the sky, Strung them all together On a spider’s silver thread, And sent them to me in a small satin box, My eyes would call them lovely But my heart would call them ugly. I you wrote me ten thousand songs, With words as sweet as summer rain, Melodies as gentle as the breeze, And sang them to me in the voice of the sea, My ears would hear But my heart would not listen. If you gathered up all the Earth’s flowers, Wrapped them in laughter And a ribbon of moonlight, And left them on my front step My heart and my door would not move. You could give me the world But the world would give me nothing. Diamonds are cold-hearted companions, Flowers make for fair weather friends, And words will fail us until the end of forever, But I would be happy With just a little Of your heart And your time. 20
Art by Kyle Van Fleet “Halcyon Days”
Boxes Tori Whelan
There are moments when I wake in the morning, the palpable seconds between opening my eyes and the next hearbeat, when I am a blank slate and I don’t remember who I am. Because I am undefined for a breath, I am infinite. Then I have the first thought of the day and the ocean of the familiar floods back and envelopes me, giving the shapes in the room names and definite uses. Sometimes I wish we could remain in that state of undefined infinity, untethered and free, not sinking under the weight of description, anchors chained to chests in straitjackets. Children are told they can be anything they want to be, but year by year, we are cataloged, compartmentalized, and stuffed into boxes. Endless potential is confined within walls that become so familiar, we do not feel that we exist outside of their corners. So maybe we stop attempting to escape, and instead give our boxes roofs to turn them into homes. We settle in because it is impossible to entirely escape. The names and the words are buried into bones, like teeth sunken in, branded into skin, and people breathe out labels like smoke. It clogs our throats and sticks to our clothes, our flesh, our bones, and they can’t be washed out, the words. They have become sewn into the fabric of our very being, and we are left to pull out stitches as we go but we can never be as whole as we were before they became part of us.
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Where do I begin? Where do their words end? We become each other, left to wonder who we would be without them, inextricable, ensnared, tangled. I dream of a world where people who are told they are different are not marked as wrong and held to some standard of right. I dream of a place where everyone is embraced instead of judged, because we can be anything when we are not limited and categorized as something. These distinctions ingrained into us only divide us. They limit us to living in fragmented groups, rather than as a collective society, compassionate towards everyone on the basis of their humanity. We all will eventually be gone and the world will move along, but while you are here, while you are still thinking and dreaming and being, look over the walls of your box and see that we can be more than splintered pieces sorted into stacks, stamped and packed. Look beyond what who you are told you are, and what you are told to be. Look past the limits and boundaries you were given. Look through the illusion of a them; there is only an us. We are the human, the unique and the diverse, united in our differences. Only together, rather than apart, can we truly be
infinite.
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Flightles
s Bird
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Poem by K athrine Sica t
Art by Kyle Van Fleet “All That Goes Up Must Come Down”
Weary bird with fleeting breaths and stumbling steps; your wings twisted with your disposition as you fell through tree tops and met me in this collision. Once singing dulcet songs that resonated throughout the skies; sparking envy in those who were grounded, not yet found, utterly dead inside and out. But your spirit is damaged now and you’ve fallen from that cloud. My fragile bird, stay close behind as I help you rediscover the euphoria that was once so divine. Your wings are finally healing as my heart is suddenly bursting.
I cannot bear to see your leave, but I must accept your new found wings. After all, a bird that is meant to be set free is not keen to the idea of captivity. I’ve disposed of your cage and keep a feather you’ve left as a reminder of the beginning of my coming of age. I wonder if you’ve found the life that you seek. If it is so, would I be distraught or filled with glee? My uncertainty causes nothing but a frustrated sigh. I look up to regain bliss in the sight of the clear sky, but instead catch a glimpse of you soaring by effortlessly; perfectly fine. My flightless bird has learned to fly.
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Endless Symphony Poem by Arda Athman
ss the night sky ro ac s le b am sh It y the shores of m It crashes upon dreams ss my mind It screams acro verie Like a soulful re 26
of my feeling It makes up all It’s my passion My sun oices of my It guides the ch being Without it I’m undone
s It’s playful tune l sonata Or the sorrowfu me That are within arn imagination ye That makes my years Yearn for more of notes ny Years made up ndless sympho e an e ak m at ht Notes th gs me to the lig rin b ly al tu n ve e That
In the aria e ac e p I am at The concerto re o in D sc w e n a f o w sque to Canon e e b an ra t The dawn A Se To ce ra its own g arth all my friends e ends of the e ith It’s beauty, it has th W y To jo e m g o r to brin e way I d It has the powe a sunset’s gleam ay Who all feel th To aw y jo at th ke ta come falling And the tears to It’s incredulous Oh till the skies its own light azing moon shines in e am s th It’ il ‘T is my all to tears And though it It can bring me feel the same as p this dream My everything That others can ‘Til the day I sto whole e day I don’t feel e m My being th il ‘T fears in others ems the exact same ith I can see it with W ‘Till then so it se n y soul g io in at al lv e h sa y is m g d cease within m And that feelin Oh I have foun This music will 27
Art by Madeline McCafferty “Stability in Motion”
Find X
poem by Amanda Duvall
who cares about x, the answer to questions four, six and two? x is nothing. teacher, i’m afraid i don’t quite understand. x is the dark curtain that shy numbers go hide behind, playing cold games of hide and seek with us. i thought that x was more than an empty box filled with numbers. what is the value of our empty letter x? what is the value of x, twenty-fourth letter, third from the end of our really long Latin alphabet, the first in “xylophone,” half of an ox, silent in french, essential for exams, a perfect score of ten, symbol for “No!” and a quick kiss, eyes of a dead cartoon, the mark of hidden gold, greek letter chi. sir, i think you’ve miscalcuated the
Value of x.
art by emily kim “Oxygen”