IE - 2020-2021

Cover Art: Fire, Ana Ziebarth ‘21, Collage

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In Other Words...

A magazine featuring the creative work of the students of LREI 2020-2021 A reminder to families: This magazine’s content reflects the thoughts and experiences of seventh through twelfth grade students at LREI. We ask that you keep that fact in mind as you consider sharing it with younger children.

- Phil Kassen, Director

Little Red School House & Elisabeth Irwin High School

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Table of Contents

In Other Words...

The creative magazine of LREI

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Studio Art

EDITORS Allison Byrne

Cassidy Moskowitz

Dylan Steel

Finn Byrne

Lilyblue Prince-Ramus

Tilda Sutter

Betty Fox

Avery Rice

Tenzin Tsepak

Piper Jassem

Ruby Rosenblatt

Cecily Wizner

Madeleine Louisell

Kate Rotundo

Lola Yang

37 Short Stories, Essays & Poetry 79 Photography

EDITORIAL ADVISOR Jacqueline Baker

103 3D Art

ARTS ADVISORS Shauna Finn James French Stephen MacGillivray Susan Now

121 Film

PRINCIPALS Allison Isbell Margaret Paul Ana Chaney HEAD OF SCHOOL Phil Kassen

125 Middle School Art Lucas Ritchie-Shatz ‘21, mixed media

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Acknowledgements 1

Cover Ana Ziebarth ‘21 1 Lucas Ritchie-Shatz ‘21

Mixed media

6 Amelia Langton ‘22, Lindsay O’Brien ‘21

Mixed Media Acrylic on canvas

7 Io Weintraub ‘22

Oil pastel

Ayanna Mitchell ‘23

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Collage

Watercolor

8 Isabella Marcellino ‘21

Watercolor and sharpie

9 Zane Walker ‘22 Cate Woolsey

Graphite Acrylic on masonite

10 Luke Cameron ‘21

Acrylic on canvas

11 Mae Tigay ‘22

Acrylic on masonite

12 Tatsuya King ‘23 Dylan Knoll ‘24 Maia Cooper ‘23

Digital art Digital art Mixed media

13 Oni Thornell ‘22

Watercolor

14 Cosima Dovan ‘21 Gwen Raffo ‘21

Sharpie on red paper Sharpie on red paper

15 Margaret MacGillivray ‘22 Sophia Gregoire ‘23 Isabella Marcellino ‘21

Sharpie on red paper Sharpie on red paper Sharpie on red paper

16 Zane Walker ‘22 Lindsay O’Brien ‘21

Sharpie on red paper Sharpie on red paper

17 Alexa Kennedy ‘21 Leah Maathey ‘23

Sharpie on red paper Sharpie on red paper

18 Meadow Magee ‘22 Solomon Karpati ‘21

Colored pencil Acrylic on masonite

19 Meadow Magee ‘22

Ballpoint pen

20 Io Weintraub ‘22 Zane Walker ‘22 Margaret Macgillivray ‘22

Oil pastel Graphite Acrylic on masonite

21 Daniel Olusheki ‘25 Alexa Kennedy ‘21 Gwen Raffo ‘21 Ava Yang ‘22

Graphite Acrylic on canvas Ballpoint pen White Charcoal

22 Daniel Olusheki ‘25 Mae Tigay ‘22 Charlie Thackway ‘21

Colored pencil Mixed media Acrylic on canvas

23 Zane Walker ‘22 Yannik Finkelstein ‘21

Graphite Acrylic on canvas

24 Solomon Karpati ‘21 Leanne Daley ‘22

Acrylic on masonite Watercolor

25 Lulu Fleming-Benite ‘21

Acrylic on canvas

26 Maia Cooper ‘23

Mixed media

27 Ruby Rosenblatt ‘22 Sophia Gregoire ‘23 Ava Basile ‘23 Nina Gerzema ‘21

Colored pencil Colored pencil Colored pencil Colored pencil

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4

28 Lulu-Fleming Benite ‘21

Colored pencil

29 Isabella Marcellino ‘21 Dana Katz ‘21 Meadow Magee ‘22 Mae Tigay ‘22

White charcoal Watercolor White charcoal White charcoal

30 Alexa Kennedy ‘21 Margaret MacGillivray ‘22

Ballpoint pen Acrylic on canvas

31 Gus Dotson ‘22 Oni Thornell ‘22 Cate Woolsey ‘21

White charcoal Collage Acrylic on masonite

32 Kate Startsev ‘21 Rei Weintraub ‘21

Mixed Media Mixed media

33 Cayla Robbins ‘21

Watercolor

34 Solomon Karpati ‘21 Zane Walker ‘22 Gus Dotson ‘22

White charcoal Colored pencil Mixed Media

35 Cate Woolsey ‘21

Collage

Studio Art

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6

Ayanna Mitchell, ‘23, watercolor

Lindsay O’Brien ‘21, acrylic on canvas

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Io Weintraub ‘22, oil pastel

Amelia Langton ‘22, mixed media

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Cate Woolsey ‘21, acrylic on masonite

Isabella Marcellino ‘21, watercolor and sharpie

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Zane Walker ‘22, graphite

Luke Cameron ‘21, acrylic on canvas 10

Mae Tigay ‘22, acrylic on masonite 11

Dylan Knoll ‘24, digital art

Maia Cooper ‘23, mixed media

Tatsuya King ‘23, digital art

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Oni Thornell ‘22, watercolor 13

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Isabella Marcellino, ‘21, sharpie on red paper

Gwen Raffo ‘21, sharpie on red paper

Cosima Dovan ‘21, sharpie on red paper

Margaret MacGillivray ‘22, sharpie on red paper Sophia Gregoire ‘23, sharpie on red paper

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Lindsay O’Brien ‘21, sharpie on red paper

Leah Maathey ‘23, sharpie on red paper

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Alexa Kennedy ‘21, sharpie on red paper

Zane Walker ‘22, sharpie on red paper

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Solomon Karpati ‘21, acrylic on masonite

Meadow Magee ‘22, ballpoint pen 19

Meadow Magee ‘22, colored pencil

Daniel Olusheki ‘25, graphite

Zane Walker ‘22, graphite Margaret MacGillivray ‘22, acrylic on masonite

Io Weintraub ‘22, oil pastel

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Gwen Raffo ‘21, ballpoint pen

Alexa Kennedy ‘21, acrylic on canvas

Ava Yang ‘22, white charcoal

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22

Mae Tigay ‘22, mixed media Zane Walker ‘22, graphite

Charlie Thackway ‘21, acrylic on canvas

Yannik Finkelstein ‘21, acrylic on canvas

Daniel Olusheki ‘25, colored pencil

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24

Lulu Fleming-Benite ‘21, acrylic on canvas

Leanne Daley ‘22, watercolor

25

Solomon Karpati ‘21, acrylic on masonite

Maia Cooper ‘23, mixed media

Ruby Rosenblatt ‘22, colored pencil Sophia Gregoire ‘23, colored pencil

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Ava Basile ‘23, colored pencil

Nina Gerzema ‘21, colored pencil

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Lulu Fleming-Benite ‘21, colored pencil

Isabella Marcellino ‘21, white charcoal

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Meadow Magee ‘22, white charcoal

Dana Katz ‘21, watercolor

Mae Tigay ‘22, white charcoal

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Cate Woolsey ‘21, acrylic on masonite

Margaret MacGillivray ‘22, acrylic on canvas

Alexa Kennedy ‘21, ballpoint pen

Gus Dotson ‘22, white charcoal Oni Thornell ‘22, collage

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Rei Weintraub ‘21, mixed media

Cayla Robbins ‘21, watercolor 33

Kate Startsev ‘21, mixed media

Gus Dotson ‘22, mixed media

Solomon Karpati ‘21, white charcoal

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Zane Walker ‘22, colored pencil

Cate Woolsey ‘21, collage 35

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38 Ava Yang ‘22

Mrs. Hall’s Last Day

39 Rue Wexler ‘22

Daisy

40 Marcus Moise ‘21

Epistolary Meditation on Race

44 Sophia Gregoire ‘23 Ronaldo Tineo ‘22

The Little House Intimate Encounter

47 Alice Kresberg ‘22

Where I’m From

48 Gus Dotson ‘22

Funny Family Traits

49 Samantha Ramirez ‘25

The Dissection

50 Elijah Meltzer ‘22

A Peculiar Shadow

54 Z Fluger ‘22

Love Diary

58 Emma Diamond ‘22

Friend

60 Margot Story ‘25

As It Always Had Been

67 Kate Deming ‘24

Returning Home

68 Beckett Leslie-Jones ‘25

Gone

69 Ezra Mundy ‘25

The Wing

71 Emma Brunner ‘22

Living Inbetween

76 Ana Ziebarth ‘21

The Train That Never Came

Short Stories, Essays, & Poems

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Mrs. Hall’s Last Day Ava Yang ‘22

It is a mild morning as she pushes the

boat from the shoreline. It has been over a decade since Mrs. Hall has ridden in a boat, and uneasiness stirs in the pit of her stomach as she pictures herself alone upon the water.

All worry dissipates when the boat releases into the lake and she reaches for the oars.

Sometimes she forgets she’s become old. She now wishes she could see the world through the eyes of a child, or perhaps meet a younger self, something she felt so fleetingly when she held her own daughter in her arms. The water is a pale and soupy green. She has no more strength to row, so it is the wind that gently carries her out to the middle of the lake.

Swans make rounds in the water, blurred little ghosts dancing upon the surface. She fumbles for her glasses, but they’re tangled in the fabric strap around her neck and it takes her a moment to free them. When she lifts them to her eyes, she stares into the expanse, at a loss for words. She is drifting in a blanket of sewage as far as the eye can see, her swans merely plastic take-out bags flailing in the breeze. A soup can clings to one of the paddles. The trash spins in clumps and settles against the boat, bobbing against 38

the wood with soft clacks. A breeze picks up and lifts strands of hair into her face.

What would Lilly think of her right now?

The thought alone causes her mouth to go dry. She would be so worried. But of course Lilly is not here. Mrs. Hall thinks back to their last exchange, two weeks ago. Her daughter’s eyes had been closed, face drawn and sallow. She had watched her chest rise and fall ever so slightly, the afternoon sun glazing the curtains with an amber sheen.

That day they would have their final argument, one of many after her refusal to go to the hospital, the countless rebuttals until Lilly had been too weak to shout. Then the plea came. “Will you do it for me?” The very question had made Mrs. Hall recoil, but they’d both known Lilly wasn’t going to recover. The bottle was small, and it had only taken a few tablespoons before the room fell still aside from the faint, swaying light from the window.

She spent sleepless nights haunted by the most terrible decision she had ever made.

Watching her own hands shake as Lilly’s head had lolled against her pillow. The water is pleasantly warm, and she only realizes it once it has seeped past her ankles and up upon her dress. She cries out softly in alarm, reaching for the edge of the boat, rocking it slightly. Her hand slips and comes away with red splinters of paint. She feels her mind begin to freeze up. Silty water spills in through a small opening that splits the rotting wood

in two. No one will hear her from this far out on the lake. Instead of panicking, Mrs. Hall takes a deep breath and sits back down on the bench, folding her hands in her lap.

She closes her eyes and pictures the sunlit room with an empty bed. The boat heaves and begins to sink.

Daisy Rue Wexler ‘22

It started out small, a little moment here

or there. First she complained about stiffness in her leg. Well, it was not really complaining, she would only mention it when someone asked why she was walking funny.

The most interesting part, throughout the whole thing, was that Daisy never made a fuss. She had every right to, but she didn’t.

She was always the sweetest little girl. I think on some level she didn’t want to worry us, though I could hear her crying in the room next to mine. She still loved to swim and run, climb trees and lay in a field of flowers under the sunlight to feel the warmth on her rosy cheeks.

Soon the snow came, howling winds and frost burrowing in every crack. Daisy still smiled, she never stopped really; though now the smile didn’t extend to her eyes. Her little hand would clench around the soft rabbit toy she carried as she walked, holding it so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Winter made everything worse, and sometimes I felt that it was my fault. I let her go to play in the snow, and when she came back coughing, my heart sank. She couldn’t leave her bed after that, the pain was gone, but I don’t think the alternative was any better.

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When summer came again and she asked if she could go running in the field of flowers, again my heart broke. I didn’t want to see her cry, I couldn’t, so I lied. I told her another day, but today she needed to rest. She looked at me with a hopeful smile, and my heart was ripped from my body and torn apart. A few weeks later she lay in the field of flowers she loved so much, that hopeful smile still on her face. Though her rosy cheeks were pale and not even the sun could warm them again.

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Epistolary Meditation on Race Marcus Moise ‘21 “Your potential is bittersweet.”

Kendrick Lamar, TPAB

Cousin David,

I don’t know how to write this letter. I’m more equipped with the experience of my traumas than I am equipped with knowledge. And yet I find myself addressing you in this letter. You’re approaching a certain age where your body is no longer yours.

Your life will become merely another doll in the claw machine, a mere object to be taken by someone bigger than yourself.

As a black educated male who has already shown signs of resistance to authority, I painfully admit that your life is in danger.

In a world where the black of your body is both a target and a weapon, you will never be seen as a person. You’ve been born into the curse of being victimized. As with Trayvon Martin, any human error you commit will be seen as felon activity. Your face on the news will be your mug shot, but your face on the T-shirt will be a smile, and that will be one of the realities of the world after your death. I cannot come to you with the love and compassion of Baldwin, nor can I

address you with the tone of Coates. Your youth brings me fear because you’ve seen more black deaths than black leaders.

You will be held to a different standard in this world. Every step you take, every breath you exhale, will be monitored. You will be constantly screened for negativity in hopes that the destruction of your body can be justified. That is what it means to be Black in America. We are the coal that will form diamonds under the pressure of police brutality, systemic oppression, and racism. You must be twice as good even though this guarantees nothing. You must be twice as patient and not allow justified anger to consume you. You must be their better half without ever being their worst.

And I apologize because already I have failed you. Despite my readings and the knowledge at hand, I must still hold you to the dominant, oppressive white standard. Despite being a man, your blackness is considered first. In this white patriarchy, even white women stand atop the backs of black men. Black men have gone from 3⁄5 of a man to being considered ½ of one. This, of course, is not progress. It is a failure of America to be true to its claim that All men are Created Equal. Our precious lives are taken as payment for this failure. We die before we even have a chance to live. As Ta-Nehisi Coates said, “The robbery of time is not measured in lifespans but in moments. It is in the last bottle of wine that

you have just uncorked but do not have time to drink. It is the kiss that you do not have time to share, before she walks out of your life. It is the raft of second chances for them, and the twenty-three-hour days for us.”

What does it mean to us as black men that we are held to a white standard? Does it mean we may never succeed? Does it mean we may never actually progress in America? The answer to this question is both yes and no. As with Leo Africanus all the way to the modern-day Black man, blackness is removed as one comes closer to success.

When one is held to a white standard of success, it only makes sense that “success” is whiteness. Assimilation to the extreme.

America has shown us that one can be a successful person who happens to be black, but never the other way around.

That is the irony of racism. Despite being taught that blackness is irrelevant when one achieves success, it is a weapon of mass destruction when we do not achieve it. Time and time again, you will be held to the standard of Obama, of Oprah, of Tyler Perry, of Denzel, of Lebron, and of Black people to come. It is the standard within the standard.

You are held to a standard of black success based on those who were held to a standard of white success. It furthers the narrative of black inferiority, and for now, it is the reality of your life. Your blackness is your bullseye that you will forever walk with. And

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for now, there is nothing you may do about it. Your existence is your participation, and your compliance does not matter to the system. And this is the way of the world.

Your blackness is something to be proud of, David. It is a symbol of resistance, durability, swag, soul, and originality. It is the blueprint of all humanity, and it is the sun’s kiss. You are beautiful, as is your history.

You come from two families that represent resistance and durability. Your African American family comes from a race of Americans who were given nothing but dirt, wood, steel, and seeds and created one of the most bomb cultures of all time. So much so that the original oppressors now envy us. Your Haitian family comes from a race of slaves who fought to become the first free black nation, battling their oppressors and showing us all what’s possible. It is in your blood to stand up, fight on, and succeed regardless of the many dimensions of hardship on your shoulders. As James Baldwin once said, “I know how bad it looks today, for you. It looked bad that day, too, yes we were trembling. We have not stopped trembling yet, but if we had not loved each other none of us would have survived”. I may not have stopped trembling inside, but nothing makes me happier than being myself. I would not trade my blackness, my culture, my soul, my-one-of-a-kindness, my sense of family-based solely on not being the only black person in the room, my

breakfast, dinner, or lunch, my history, my underdog story, for anything.

Look at your own family and see what I was raised on, and what you too will be raised on. I’m sorry you feel left out sometimes, and that your constant traveling around makes it hard for you to create these bonds. I have grown with these people and we have shaped each other, shown each other how beautiful black can be, defying colorism, and defying sexism. We were all equals in each other’s eyes, and it’s something I hope you too can experience.

I already see hints of hatred in you that are pushed onto you by broken people. Do not become broken like them. Find individuality in a solid community.

It is in this community of cousins and friends in the neighborhood that I discovered black issues. I recall days where I had to leave places early or hide in a room for fear that my blackness was a target. And I’ve begun to realize that while we try to fix the world, one person, at a time, people

are also corrupted one person at a time. It is this equilibrium of one step forward one step back that breeds this feeling of hopelessness, because your efforts do not create change. I wanted to scream “FUCK!!” at the top of my lungs, but my breath would fall short because an absence of people never truly meant being alone. It is not something that you can see, but I carry you and all of my younger cousins with me at all times.

And perhaps it is me holding myself to the standard of black people held to the standard. Maybe I want a new standard for you.

I’m torn between letting you see the world as it truly is or living in this bubble of black role models. But regardless of the choice I make I will watch you in pain, and I will

see you weak. And I’m not sure if I should focus on preparing myself for that moment, or focus on you.

I refuse to let you grow into the hateful and toxic man I once was. As I tell you of all these great men and their accomplishments, I urge you to educate yourself. How will you educate yourself and your peers past the point of being stuck in this dream of chasing mythical whiteness and white success? Again, I urge you to never stop educating yourself. Because it is in the comfort of your own knowledge that you will find yourself ignorant.

With love and fear, Marcus

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The Little House Sophia Gregoire ‘23

A house sits between a tornado and a

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thunderstorm. Whirling winds on the left.

Crashing thunder on the right.

The little house that sits between the two, its old paint peeling, the shingles on the roof slowly falling off, the trees uprooted, lost the old mailbox to the tornado and the chimney to the lightning, but the house is old, aged; it’s dealt with more than a little bit of wind and some rain.

Bolts of lightning stretch across the angry gray sky like scars; the thunder is simply its screams and cries for help, and the rain its tears. The house grew a field of flowers and strawberries, each time the tears fall down in buckets the garden grows bigger and more beautiful than it was before. The clouds have sad faces, never letting the sun shine through, as the weeping faces don’t know the stars are only just above them.

A whirlwind of torture is held within the tornado, it screams with the wind as it twirls inside its cage of whipping air, picking up trees, skateboards and small bits of thought, allowing it all to spiral along with it. The house never resisted the tornado, never built a fence or closed its blinds. The tornado could scoop it up into the sky if it

wanted to, and the house and the howling wind could try and heal together, but the tornado simply turns in a circle, hurling rocks into the sky when the hurt grows too heavy.

Once in a blue moon the raging weather fades for a day, allowing the clouds to turn white and the celestial beings in the stars to shine their light.

Intimate Encounter Ronaldo Tineo ‘22

The doors opened and a group of peo-

ple, including me, swarmed into the first car of the A train. Once inside, I looked to the right and saw a man lying down on three seats, seemingly sleeping. No seats being available, I walked further into the middle of the train car, grabbing a pole and making sure my hand did not awkwardly touch

someone else’s. I pulled out my phone from my back pocket so that I could skip the song that was playing. My phone no longer had service and I do not have Spotify premium. So, to my disappointment, the music stopped playing once I pressed the “skip” button. Feeling irritated because I usually find train rides without music boring, I put my phone back in my pocket, although my Airpods remained in my ears. The train ride felt silent. I quickly glanced to the right, and noticed that the man who was sleeping before had woken up. Since he was now sitting upright, it was easier for me to see what he looked like. He was wearing a black puffer coat, as well as a grey hoodie. He was frantically looking around the train car as if trying to find a chest full of gold. There was something off about him. He looked in my direction and made direct eye contact with me. I immediately looked away and pulled out my phone again, the way you do when you are trying to pretend that you are not looking at someone and that you are instead texting all of your amazing friends about your amazing life. I swiped aimlessly through Instagram and Twitter for a few minutes, hoping that would allow me to go unnoticed by the man in the grey hoodie. I looked to the right again, and the man was looking at me. I quickly realized he was not wearing a mask once I saw his smile.

His grin looked like what would be the signature feature of a monster in a horror

movie. I looked away once again, feeling very creeped out. The train ride felt like a fever dream.

I had no idea the train ride would soon start to feel like a nightmare.

I was still waiting for my phone to receive service. Having nothing to do, I started to mindlessly look around the train car, observing the faces that surrounded me.

However, the man in the grey hoodie soon caught my attention. He was now standing up. His blue jeans were lowered all the way down to his knees, exposing his grey boxers, as well as an erection. I did not realize what he was going to do until it was too late.

He walked up to a woman who was grabbing onto a pole, using her phone and facing away from him. She was wearing white jeans, a hoodie, and a navy blue Kånken backpack. Once the man in the grey hoodie was close enough to her, he grabbed her behind. Alarmed and afraid, the woman leapt forward, turned around and looked at the man in the grey hoodie. His smile became even bigger. I imagine that, when he was a little boy, he used to steal candy from other kids’ bags during Halloween. The difference is that he was not dressed as a monster; he was one. The woman quickly walked away from the man in the grey hoodie as he went back to sit down in his seat. The woman had placed her phone agains her chest, as if it would help calm her racing heart.

Silence.

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The train car was filled with silence.

I like my room to be silent when I do homework. The teacher tells the students who have finished their quizzes to “be quiet!” because there are people still taking the quiz. Silence is supposed to be comforting.

Silence is supposed to be relaxing. So why did the silence in this train car feel like sweating while wearing a winter coat?

The man in the grey hoodie got off the train at the next stop. The woman looked around the train car, obviously in shock.

The silence was broken when a man who witnessed what happened went over to her and started talking to her. While I could not hear what the two were talking about, the man’s hand on the woman’s shoulder made it evident that he was trying to console her.

Once the train stopped at 34th Street Penn Station, the man who was talking to the woman got off the train, but his left hand remained pressed against the doors so that they would not close. He looked around the train station, seemingly trying to find a

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police officer or anyone who could help the woman. Unfortunately, he did not find anyone. He released the door and walked away from the train. The train was filled with silence once again. At the next stop, a seat next to the woman became available. Since I had been standing up for a while, my legs were tired. I decided to go to sit next to the woman. Once seated, I told the woman that I was really sorry about what happened to her. She replied with a “thank you,” but she was very distraught. She got off the train at the next stop. I noticed her white jeans were stained as she walked off the train.

That day, silence was not comforting.

Silence was not relaxing. Silence was cruel. Silence was inconsiderate. On that day, silence meant complicity. All of us on that train car, who did nothing to help her, who did nothing to catch the man in the grey hoodie, were complicit.

That day, we were all kids who stole candy on Halloween night.

Where I’m From Alice Kresberg ‘22

Bustling streets surrounded by neon lights,

The foreign language is music to my ears, Harsh and soft sounds mixed together, coming fluently from people’s mouths as they dodge others and make their way down the streets.

Stand owners calling out to you with friendly shouts, Socks sold for only 50 cents each, A slight fishy smell mixed with spiciness lingers in the air.

The stares and whispers, The awkward moments of silence, not knowing which language to speak, The shame I feel when I can’t understand something that’s said to me.

A place I’ve been to two times - both very different experiences, Once a carefree, unattached girl seeing her birth country for the first time, Another time, an insecure girl desperate to get closer to her culture.

A place I wish to explore, A place I wish I could have had another life to have grown up in, A place which makes me cry, A place I can barely call home, Seoul, South Korea.

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Funny Family Traits Gus Dotson ‘22

“Mmm, whatcha cookin?” I ask as

I stumble into the kitchen still half asleep.

“I found this new way of cooking eggs and bacon,” my dad responds, folding his newspaper and picking up his coffee.

“Huh, what is it?”

“Instead of cooking them in a pan you just use a baking tray and put them in the oven.”

“Won’t the eggs just end up all weird and dry?”

“Nope. It’s the same idea as when you fry them in a pan but the tops don’t stay all raw and slimy.”

I walk over to the oven and gaze at the two eggs and bacon sizzling in the tray.

“That doesn’t look like very much. Are you not having any?”

“No, I already ate,” replies my dad, “I made more earlier for everyone else before you woke up, because most people wake up before eleven.”

I hold back the wish to retort with any number of defenses for my sleeping habits and a few moments later, the eggs and bacon are ready. So, I sit down to eat. Hot sauce in one hand and a fork in the other, I am prepared. Without hesitation, I dig in 48

with the hunger of someone who hasn’t eaten since dinner the night before.

“So how is it?” he asks.

“Mmm. This is really good,” I mumble as I wolf down the first half of an egg and a slice of bacon “You were right about the eggs.”

And then he strikes.

“Could I get just a little bite?” he asks as a fork seems to materialize in his hand.

“Sure,” I respond, “just don’t eat it all” “ I promise I won’t take much.”

The second I hand over the plate I know I have made a mistake. I watch in pain as the second half of my egg disappears, and then the second piece of bacon, then the first half of the next egg.

“I thought you already ate?” I say.

“Yeah I just wanted to try yours to see if I cooked it right,” he responds.

It is the response I can’t argue with because, after all, he was the one who made me breakfast.

“I’m gonna make myself some more, do you want some?” I say already knowing the answer.

“No,” he responds, “I’m not really that hungry.”

The Dissection Samantha Ramirez ‘25

It was Saturday, the summer of 2019,

and I was attending a summer science program at The Trinity School in Manhattan.

I peeked through the glass door frame to see if anyone was in the lab. Empty. My heavy backpack, weighing a ton, full of textbooks, hung from my achy shoulders.

I entered and walked over to sit down on a small chair attached to a triangular desk.

The clock ticked impatiently, mocking me.

I had been waiting for this moment, this science class, for months. My classmates arrived to class and we conversed about the assignment. Just then, the teacher walked into the classroom with thick white packets of paper. Brown curly hair bounced on her shoulders. She handed the papers to students after licking the tip of her index finger to get a better grip on the paper. We worked in partnerships. My partner, Sayeda, made a disgusted look. She wanted this to be over.

I tried to ignore it by focusing on the task.

“The paper that I handed to you is what you will be using today. Turn to page 5.”

I turned the page, the white background with the small black lettering explained each step. I turned the page, and there in front of me was the diagram of a fetal pig. I

tapped my feet under my desk, impatiently.

Ms. Dennis led us to the conjoining room, showing us these fetal pigs in bags with some unknown fluid. She gave us a kit and told us what each instrument was.

“You will have to cut the bag with these scissors,” she explained, holding up a pair of grey scissors.

Sayeda, disgusted by the idea of dissecting, whispered, “You’re gonna be doing all the work.” If she doesn’t want to do this, then I’ll gladly do it myself, I thought.

We headed towards the large dissecting tables with black tops. I grabbed a pair of small blue latex gloves and put them on.

I held the scissors with my right hand and positioned the pig-bag with my left hand, leaning against the table for support. I took the first snip of the plastic bag. The smell went from bad to horrible with the overwhelming formaldehyde odor coming from the preserved specimen. It reminded me of dead fish. We carefully removed the fetal pig from the clear plastic bag and placed it on a rusted metallic bin with dirty remains from past projects. The pig looked at us with blank eyes.

I held the pig down against the tray with my left hand, and the scalpel with my right hand. I felt the cold body, observed the very pale pink color. The wrinkles around the face looked like an old man.

There were small little hairs all around the body. My index finger moved to the top of

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the scalpel. The rest of my fingers wrapped firmly around the teal handle of the scalpel. I stared intently at the sharp tip of the scalpel. I placed the tip of the blade in the middle of the pig’s chest. I applied pressure continuously, making the first incision. The first cut. I did it! I actually did it!

At that moment I didn’t care what anyone thought about me. If they thought I was weird for liking this. At that moment I was proud of myself. I was who I wanted to be in the future. I was the ‘next big surgeon’ in my mind. I was finally me!

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A Peculiar Shadow Elijah Meltzer ‘22

It was my freshman year of high school

that we got the elephant. I didn’t ask for an elephant, I didn’t want an elephant, none of the other kids in my school had elephants, but this didn’t seem to matter. We’ve never quite figured out how the elephant came to be, frankly, I don’t think the elephant knows, itself. But however we happened to stumble upon the elephant, it was ours now and there was nothing we could do about it.

It’s not easy to care for an elephant; an elephant needs to be fed, an elephant needs to be washed, an elephant needs to be kept company. Our elephant didn’t come with an instruction manual, there was no training seminar. Mom was great with the elephant, she took on the bulk of the load, and I did what I could. But an elephant was too hard for just the two of us, and we needed help.

People came to help with the elephant while I was in school and Mom was working. I didn’t like having elephant helpers, but it was better than spending all my time cleaning up after the elephant so I learned to live with them.

A house with an elephant is a crowded one. From its first day, the elephant parked itself in the center of the house, trumpeting from 8 AM to 9 PM. It didn’t take the elephant more than a few weeks to smash its

elephant footprints through all the doors of the house, and it wasn’t much long after that when the elephant squashed our kitchen table. I had always liked that table, it was resilient. It had survived two toddlers: spilt milk, scratches, crayons, even bite marks. But it didn’t survive the elephant. It was only as I gathered the splinters from its remains that I realized that nothing was safe from the elephant’s wrath.

The elephant may have been bulky and spastic, but it was sneaky. Its effects went unnoticed to the untrained eye “That’s so exciting!”;“I’ll bet you’re happy you don’t have to go to the zoo anymore, you’ve got it right in your house!”; “I hope the elephant training goes well!” These responses made me sick. I couldn’t tell any of my friends about the elephant, none of them had ever had an elephant, they wouldn’t understand.

Elliot slammed his journal shut. He hated this. Writing about the elephant was supposed to help, but the trumpets from the front were just as noisy, the hole in his door was just as big, and the heaping pile of elephant droppings he had cleaned earlier smelled just as vile. Downstairs, the elephant had broken something, and Elliot’s mother was scolding it. Shoving his head under his pillow, Elliot put his headphones on, and jammed the volume up button with his thumb. Elliot glanced at his clock and pursed his lips, it was only three in the afternoon. Grabbing his coat, he snuck out of

his room, crept past the elephant, and made his escape, shutting the door silently behind him.

The second Elliot left the house his shoulders relaxed, his jaw unclenched, and his posture improved. The air was bitter, but he liked how it felt on his face, it felt real. Each person Elliot saw was like a miracle; these people didn’t have elephants to go home to.

Elliot always seemed to forget this, his life had become so centralized around the elephant that he often forgot that there was a whole world outside the house, an elephant-free world, where people lived their lives much like he used to. Sometimes Elliot found himself longing for the everyday worries he once had. He watched a man in a tight suit check his watch and tap his foot at a red light, heard a woman speak angrily on the phone as she brushed past him, and listened to the wails of a little boy whose scooter had clipped him in the ankle.

The day continued to unfold, clouds passed overhead, balls bounced in driveways down the street, and an ice cream truck sang its melody in the distance. Elliot made his way from block to block, surveying each building up and down, watching the apricot glow of the setting sun reflect off their windows. The music in his ears was replaced with a ringtone, and within a few seconds, he changed his course and headed towards Spratly Diner. ***

51

The late lunch crowd had mostly piled out, and Logan had finished wiping off the countertop. The diner was warm, even in the wintertime. The booths were a deep red, the tables were polished wood, and the walls were exposed brick. The lights hung from the ceiling in a line, each lampshade was a unique shape. Logan was distinctive looking, he had a wiry frame and an explosion of curly red hair that seeped out from under his white cap. He had taken the job a year earlier, and spent almost every weekend at the diner since.

The light coming through the windows had shifted from orange to a deep purple, preparing itself for darkness. The only remaining occupied table was the one in the corner, where three teenagers sat, a heaping plate of fries in between them. Logan looked at the one towards the back window.

She wore a brown knit sweater and jeans.

She leaned with her elbows on the table, and she swung her head backwards when she laughed. Her eyes flashed joyously around the table at her friends, her smile was contagious. Next to her sat a smaller boy with a pencil behind his ear. Logan noticed the notepad peeking out of his bag under the booth. He sat very still, looking inquisitively around the diner. Across from them sat the girl who wore bright red Nikes. She was tall and always fidgeting. Logan eyed the salt shaker that she spun in circles, precariously close to the edge of the table. They 52

chatted loudly, laughing at bizarre scenarios they had created for themselves; Logan noticed the mound of fries shrink until it was only one. The three of them continued to talk, each of them eyeing the last fry, refusing to be the one to take it.

Logan wasn’t new to the diner, he knew the drill. Walking slowly up to the table in the back he asked, “You guys finished with those fries, or are you still working?” Their conversation stopped and they looked around at each other.

“I-,” the boy with the pencil behind his ear checked once more around the table for good measure. “I think you can leave it,” he decided. Logan nodded knowingly, smiled, and returned to the counter.

The chimes jingled and the door swung open. A frigid gust entered the diner, passing from booth to booth, icing over the windows as it went. Logan watched the boy with dark circles under his eyes step into the diner. His hands were deep in the pockets of his sweatshirt and he took long steps with his eyes down. Logan’s gaze followed the boy across the diner hall, with each step he took the circles under his eyes faded in the warm light from the lamps and his hands effortlessly freed themselves from his pockets, swinging at his sides. Logan couldn’t help but crack a smile as the boy without dark circles under his eyes sat down at the table in the back and was seamlessly ushered into a conversation.

This was Logan’s favorite time to be in the diner. The soft music, usually dulled by the chatter of the crowd, flowed freely through the diner, slowly being absorbed by the booths. With virtually no customers to serve, Logan headed to the back in search of a chocolate milkshake. Em, his manager, always made the best ones. She was the one who had helped Logan get the job when he was younger. Logan returned with a huge drink, the edges drizzled with raspberry syrup that dripped down along the inside of the tall, frosted glass. Logan was just able to finish it, scooping up the froth and syrup from the bottom with a spoon, before the early dinner crowd arrived. Logan eyed the table in the back where the boy without dark circles under his eyes and his friends sat. While three of them were still eagerly talking, one sat rigidly, checking the clock every few moments, his leg bouncing beneath the table.

One by one, groups piled into the diner

around them, and Logan scurried about, scrambling to take orders in time. From the corner of his eye, Logan saw occupants of the table in the back get up to leave. The last fry still lay on the plate, and as the four of them left the diner, the girl who swung her head backwards when she laughed snuck back to pop it in her mouth before running out with her friends. The four of them stood just outside the entrance to the diner, trying to figure out where the night would take them. Between serving tables, Logan smiled as one of the four waved goodbye and headed out early. The three others stayed out, huddled together in the cold, eagerly planning the rest of their night. As the boy with dark circles under his eyes walked down the street, Logan watched as his hands entrenched themselves in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, and his eyes fell. Logan thought he saw a peculiar shadow looming behind the boy, the shadow of an elephant.

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Love Diary Z Fluger ‘22 Entry One: Falling

I find falling in love easy

I don’t understand all of the fuss It feels as if so much of it is out of our hands and by the time we realize what has happened it’s already too late Instead I think love is in the hands of fate Or the decision of an unbiased jury of our all-seeing spiritual peers It’s absolutely not something that an individual actively does I think it is silly to use love as a verb Love is like being boiled in hot water and so semantically it would be silly to say that To think that we have any control over who, where, why, and how we fall for people feels like a testament to our pig-headed desire to master destiny while simultaneously forgetting what destiny is.

(that’s an awful misconception, by the way, that falling in love is inherently sexy. In my experience, it is rarely sexy. There may be other things that happen in tandem with falling in love but in my experience, falling in love is usually much too draining to be horny for.)

It feels like learning something new Like learning something in a history class that irreversibly changes the way you look at the world around you It’s that kind of discomfort That kind of skin-crawling realization that gives you chills and also makes you a little nauseous Nausea is a poor descriptor because so much can fit under it as an umbrella term.

The kind of nausea I’m referring to is the roller coaster brand of nausea.

The heart in your throat looking over the edge of what is a steep drop kind The palm sweat kind The you need to hold onto something to keep your balance kind The fear of being vulnerable and out of control kind love is not a feeling that is mistakable. When you feel it you know.

And when you stop feeling it you know.

Entry Two: Hurt

Entry Three: Stamina

Why does love hurt so much?

I don’t mean that cutely, I mean when you’re falling in love why does it hurt your heart and your stomach and your head so much?

Is it some kind of response from your nervous system?

Or is it some kind of Prometheus style punishment

You know what’s hard? Staying in love.

When you fall out of love there is a very different feeling of nausea. Of course, nausea remains a poor descriptor so I would say that I’m referring to the motion sick kind of nausea The head in your lap kind Lunch in your throat kind Looking out the window wondering how much longer you can stay in your seat kind Now falling out of love is something that needs a special verb Of course, falling out of love hurts, but I have found that falling out of love does not hurt

Is it weird that I like it?

That whenever I feel that ache in my heart that it makes me really happy 54

Am I some kind of emotional sadist?

No, probably not (It definitely does not feel sexy)

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your heart it hits you in a much more sensitive spot your spirit There is a specific shame that comes with being the first one to fall out of love It’s the pain of deception The pain of knowing that you have reached the beginning of the end Sometimes, there’s a reason.

Maybe it’s as big as a fight Maybe it’s an attitude or a vice Maybe it’s loss of trust Most painful of all, maybe it’s not easily explainable Maybe you just can’t look at them without grinding your teeth Maybe you can’t hear the voice that once sent shivers down your spine without your heart dropping Maybe the need you once had to reach out to them physically or verbally becomes an obligation or a chore Maybe that’s the price we pay Maybe your relationship must die young or you’ll feel like the villain of it In the end, what I find impressive is stamina

Entry Four: Held I want to be held I don’t feel like I have ever really been held by someone who loves me I feel like I inevitably do a lot of the holding I want someone to comfort me because always being the one who comforts is awfully lonely.

Even when I’m raw or at my wit’s end I want to be held Not that I have to fit in someone’s arms Just that they thought to put me in them Not that I wouldn’t be there for them Just that they would be there for me too I want to be held I feel like my desires, wants, and limits have been treated as barriers and not as parts of me ...

I want someone to want me Not just the idea of me in theory, but who loves me in practice.

I feel like I inevitably do a lot of the wanting I want to be able to hang up power at the door sometimes because walking around on guard is very tiring Most of all I want someone who is in my corner without reservations Even when I crack Even when I am weak Even when it is clear I will lose I want to be held

Most of all I want someone who will really be there for all of me Even the parts that aren’t fun Even the parts that aren’t cool 56

57

Friend Emma Diamond ‘22

A mixture of vanilla milk and peach-

es, I’m reminded of her whenever I wash my hair. We were sprawled out on a fluffy polka-dotted duvet, our eyes fixed on her bright red Nintendo 3DS. Well, only one of her eyes was on the screen. The other was covered by a green (her favorite color), adhesive eyepatch. She was born with a cataract and wore eyepatches to strengthen her eye until she was nine. Cartoon animals moved across the screen of the 3DS. She had wanted to play Mario Bros, but I convinced her to put the veterinary game into the machine instead. I promised her that we would play Mario another day. She used the lavender stylus to cure animal after animal.

Her blonde older sister sat across the room, rolling her eyes at every word we said. She was four years older than us and constantly felt the need to prove her superiority. At least twenty stuffed animals were scattered across my best friend’s twin sized bed. Her favorite was Bear Bear, a British toy that she got when she was born. Despite the abundance of cozy stuffies, there was only one small, deflated pillow resting against the headboard. Our heads were pressed against 58

one another while we attempted to share it.

Although our heads were directly aligned, my toes stretched almost six inches further down the bed. She was small; she had always been small. She looked at me and her long, brown, silky hair blended with mine.

That was the first time I smelled the shampoo. The smell of fresh fruit filled my nostrils. At the time, I couldn’t put my finger on which fruit it was. I turned my head and pressed my face into her hair. She giggled and asked me what I was doing. I wanted to get a stronger whiff. Later that night, when I was back home, I made my mom ask for the name of the shampoo. I’ve been using it ever since.

Seven years later, during the summer before freshman year, she was taken to the emergency room. I had been at the same hospital earlier in the summer, so I met her there for moral support. I remember when she was told she needed an IV. Because it was a pediatric emergency room, the nurse demonstrated the insertion process on a bright yellow stuffed duck. At that moment, I longed to be seven years old again, playing with her 3DS on her stuffed animal covered bed. When the nurse put the IV in her arm, she winced; it was her first time getting an IV. Later that night, she was admitted to the hospital and was eventually diagnosed with Aplastic Anemia. After discussion, her doctors ultimately decided that having a bone marrow transplant at the Children’s Hospi-

tal of Philadelphia was the best treatment option.

When I got out of the car, I was overwhelmed with the smell of smoke. The air filled with grey clouds as a woman swayed back and forth on her feet and smoked a cigarette. She was standing in front of a sign that read “Ronald McDonald House”. My mom led me to the large glass doors of the building behind the sign. My best friend’s mom was waiting for us inside. She forced a smile, but her eyes looked tired. We took the elevator up to the fourth floor. The apartment was exquisite; bright sunlight streamed through floor to ceiling windows.

The beauty was ironic. My best friend was sitting on a grey sectional with her blonde sister’s arm around her shoulder. She was laughing at something her sister said. It was that same giggle, the giggle she let out on the day I smelled the shampoo for the first time. Somehow, even during the worst time of her life, she was smiling. I noticed a short tube coming from her chest. It wasn’t connected to any machine. It was there so the

doctors could get things into her body more quickly. I thought back to the day she was dreading being pricked by a needle for her very first IV; now, she was used to the pain.

On the side table next to the couch was a small, bright red remote. Next to the remote was a small black box with the letters “Nintendo Switch” written across it. I smiled and spun around to see the television. On the screen, a video game was paused. Mario was frozen in mid air. She picked up the red controller and handed it to me. With a second controller, she added me to the game.

I picked my character, Toad, and we proceeded to play. I didn’t break my promise.

We did play Mario on another day. Later that night, she and I sprawled out on a thin, blue blanket. This bed wasn’t covered with stuffed animals, but of course Bear Bear was there. Although this full sized bed had multiple thick pillows, we chose to share one.

But this time, when she turned to look at me, I didn’t smell fresh fruit; I didn’t smell the shampoo. Chemo stole her hair away.

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As It Always Had Been Margot Story ‘25 Julea

“Anne, are you okay?” I asked. Her

head whipped around, and she answered a little too quickly.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” I decided not to press the issue more, although I was still concerned. I turned back to where I was packing up my suitcase, and Anne turned back to hers.

Anne and I had been staying together at my place for the better part of the summer and were now heading to the cabin, excited for the change of scenery. We will be starting high school in a month and a half and were determined to make every second of remaining freedom count. I wasn’t sure why Anne had wanted to stay at my place to begin with, maybe she just wanted an extra long sleepover, but I wasn’t complaining.

We were best friends, and who would pass up the chance to live with your best friend for a few months? At my place, we stayed up until one or two in the morning most nights.

We slept until noon, lounged around all day, and did whatever we wanted before we had to go back to school. But after a while, sub60

urban Maine can get dull. We’d exhausted all our options for fun: gone to the roller skating rink six different times, tried all the limited flavors at Scoops For All, and read nearly every book in the YA section at the public library. Granted, it was a small section, but it counts nonetheless.

Now we were about to head to the cabin. I had always heard stories about my dad’s “old days” there, when he was young and spent his time fishing and writing. He’s a known author, but he didn’t used to see the merit in writing until he was holed up in that cabin for weeks on end with nothing much to do. Although it didn’t sound terribly different from our situation at home, the location change would be fun.

Anne had seemed a bit off all day. We had woken up about four hours earlier than usual in preparation for our departure (which our sleep cycles did not agree with, thank you very much), and she had recieved a phone call from her mom. I didn’t watch as she took the call, but she left the room halfway through and seemed sadder after she hung up. Her excitement about the impending waffles had lessened. When I asked her about it, she didn’t say much except that the call was from her mom and that she would probably be staying a few more weeks, about right up until school started. It seemed odd to me, but I decided not to push her about it. But throughout the day, her head hung lower. She didn’t change her clothes for the drive, and her wavy dark hair remained unkempt.

Anne It was just past ten in the morning when I recieved a call from my mom. I had been so excited to go to Julea’s dad’s “famous” cabin and get out of town for a while. We had a lot of things planned, and I was ready to get started. I had been staying with her for most of the summer already, since my dad… he was diagnosed with cancer in the middle of last year. It was in the early stages, so we didn’t tell many people about it, including Julea’s family. I probably would have told her about it, but the doctors said we could probably catch it early with some simple treatments when he was first diagnosed. But then it got worse. A lot worse. The cancer spread through his body unexpectedly, and so he stayed home most of the time; my mom took care of him. I figured it would be better to spend the summer away from all that. Of course, I loved my dad and would want to spend every second with him if I thought he was going to… But my mom had kept an unflinchingly positive attitude, so I decided to spend the summer with Julea, having a final hurrah before being shackled to the torture chamber (I assume) that is freshman year. Plus, the doctors said the risk of death wasn’t high yet. Yet. Truth be told, I had been expecting this phone call ever since the summer began. I thought I had braced myself for it, all those nights I pretended to be watching whatever show Julea had put on when I was really contemplating the arrival of the news. But one of the things I had always liked most about myself was my optimism. I’d inherited it from my mom. So I kept chugging

along, ignoring the small part of me that grew more and more anxious each day, and had as fun a time as I could with my best friend.

When I first picked up the phone, I expected a normal conversation with my mom. She called me frequently, usually steering clear of the topic of my dad and just asking for updates on how everything was going over at Julea’s. But from the first moment she began talking, I could tell something was off.

Her voice sounded hoarse and quiet. I had to turn the volume on my phone up. I could hear the sadness in her tone, thick with emotion as she delivered the news.

“They don’t think he’s going to make it,” she said. I could actually feel the color drain from my face. “They say he probably has another month. Until school starts. It’s spread too far.” As her voice broke a little, something inside me did as well. My initial shock quickly turned to anger that I wasn’t there with him. I left the room and went into the bathroom across from Julea’s bedroom.

“I’m coming back,” I said desperately.

“No.” My mom’s voice had turned firmly calm. “Stay with Julea. Come back right before school. You need to have fun.”

“But, Mom…” My voice broke and tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. I shook them off.

“Stay, Annie.” She hung up the phone, and that was that. As I leaned my head against the door and sighed heavily, I expected the tears to fall. But they didn’t. I felt empty, hollow, angry. But mostly confused. How are you supposed to feel when you find out that 61

your dad is going to die?

No tears came, my eyes were still tinged with red, so I splashed my face with cold water to keep Julea from knowing. I aggressively grabbed a towel from the rack and patted my face dry. When I stared back into the mirror, I looked just the same. Julea would make too big of a deal out of this. She always tended to get a little too passionate. I didn’t need that, no matter how much I loved her.

I was a bit quieter, and Julea would often have to talk to other people for me to get my point across. She was more headstrong and unafraid to say what was necessary. But this was something I needed to process.

I shook off any lingering signs of the life-changing phone call I’d just had and prepared to face the day.

Julea

62

“Ooh, Dad,” I started. “Can I DJ?” “Sure, Lea.” He passed back the lengthy AUX cord. I plugged it into my phone and put my playlist on shuffle. One of my and Anne’s favorites came on, and I expected to see her smiling and singing along. But when I turned to my friend, she still had that same empty expression on her face … like she knew something terrible was about to happen, and she was helpless to stop it.

“Are you okay, Anne?” I asked her for the fifth time that day.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said again, like all the other times I’d asked her. Any reasonable person would have probably given up on finding out what was wrong, but I knew

Anne too well to let this go. Anne was always a bright light, full of joy and optimism, able to make the best out of any situation.

But now, that side of her seemed gone.

Something had replaced it, something dark and sad. It pained me to see Anne like this, and her insistence on not telling me why was starting to get on my nerves. I was her best friend, and had been for years. Why wouldn’t she tell me what was wrong?

I tried to stay distracted for the rest of the car ride. That was useless, since I didn’t see Anne smile once. My dad wanted to listen to a podcast at some point. So, Anne and I put in our respective earbuds and went on our phones. I watched a new show from Netflix, but the plotline barely registered in my head. It was a good show; I was just too distracted to enjoy it. Anne, on the other hand, had just been staring out the window for the whole ride. It was beautiful scenery, green vines and trees, a bright blue sky, the occasional patch of flowers. I didn’t blame her for not interacting with me. I assumed she was listening to music. I knew that when she was stressed or freaked out, she liked to listen to music. But why was she stressed or freaked out?

Anne’s phone pinged with what I recognized as her text message notification sound. She sighed and looked at her phone with what seemed like hesitation. Her eyes scanned over what I could see as a long message, although I couldn’t read the text. She breathed a shaky breath and set her phone

in her lap, a hand running through her dark, tangled locks. Her face was pale, I noticed; paler than usual. We always had a joke that Anne was pale enough to be a ghost, but she was nearly starting to turn purple now. I looked at her eyes to find them glossy. She closed them, and I saw a thin tear trickle down her cheek, dampening her long eyelashes. Her lips slightly quivered, and her face was full of anguish.

“Dad, pull over up there,” I said. There was a grassy field shortly ahead, a worn wooden bench overlooking a patch of flowers. I needed to talk to Anne, and I didn’t want to have this conversation in the car.

“Why, honey?” He looked back, a concerned expression on his face. He didn’t seem to see Anne’s state, but he saw my anxious look and processed that something bad was happening.

“Just something I need to do.” He shrugged in concession and pulled the car to the side of the road.

Even though Anne hadn’t said a word when I asked my dad to pull over, once the car stopped, she seemed the most anxious to get out. She opened the door gently but with speed and rushed to the bench, catching on to my idea. I left the car as well and went to my friend. Anne was sitting on the bench, hugging her knees; her head had receded into her sweatshirt like a turtle so her jawline wasn’t visible. She was silent, but her body shook with sobs. I sat on the other side of her, not touching her or looking at her.

I knew she’d tell me when she was ready. I

waited a few minutes before she spoke. I looked at her and saw tears flooding her face.

“My dad’s gonna die,” she whispered.

Anne Through my tears, I could see Julea try to contain her expression of surprise. She looked down into her lap.

“How?” she asked in a small voice.

“He’s had cancer for a while, and I…” For the amount of crying I was doing, my voice was surprisingly stable. When the tears that had been building all day finally fell in the car, I was relieved. It felt like a weight had been lifted. “I’m sorry for not telling you.”

“Don’t be,” she replied, but only after a few moments of hesitance. She moved a bit closer to me.

“That’s why I’ve been staying with you all these months,” I said, my words a quiet, hoarse whisper. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“How long does he have?” Julea posed the question carefully. I could tell her curiosity was brewing, but she didn’t want to shatter me. I was on the verge of that already.

“One month,” I said, and then I let loose a strangled cry before breaking completely.

I erupted into sobs and buried my face in Julea’s shoulder, my tears dampening her curly blonde hair. She wrapped her arms around me. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. I knew what she meant.

We stayed like that for God knows how long. It felt simultaneously as if forever and a millisecond had passed. At some point I stopped crying. I just rested my 63

head on Julea’s shoulder and she held me, arms still wrapped around me. You know that post-crying haze you get, when it feels like the world has shifted just a bit and you can’t ever go back to normal? That, on top of my ever growing grief, turned my brain to mush. I stopped thinking about anything in particular. I focused on one distant sunflower. It was too far for me to see it entirely clearly, but it caught my eye when a breeze blew one of its petals off. And then another. And another. The world came and slowly broke it apart, and it was unable to do anything about it. I felt a little bit like that sunflower.

After some time, Julea asked a question.

“What was in the text message?” Her voice was stronger now, less hesitant. Since my crying had stopped, she probably felt like she could ask more difficult questions.

“It was from him.” My voice didn’t shake.

“Saying goodbye.” Julea turned to me with a look of confusion on her face.

“Wait, why is he saying goodbye now? You have another month!”

“My…” I started, my voice had cracked.

I cleared my throat and began again. “My mom doesn’t want me to come home. She thinks I should stay with you for the rest of the summer. I didn’t even get to hear his voice one last time,” I said, whispering the last sentence.

“That’s bullshit,” Julea said, voice raising.

“What kind of mom keeps her daughter 64

from her dying father?” I knew Julea loved my mom, but I still felt a need to defend her, even if I knew the words Julea was saying rang true.

“We’re about to start high school. She thinks it would just be added stress.” Julea sighed.

“I understand the sentiment, but that’s still not okay. I mean, I love having you here, but I want you to have time with him.”

“I… I want that too.” Tears threatened to well up in my eyes again. But an idea took form in my head. “Maybe it’s not me, maybe it’s her.”

“What?!” Julea looked at me with confusion.

“She can’t handle it,” I whispered. “She might still be in denial. To have me there-” “-would make it feel real.” Julea nodded like she understood.

“Yeah.” I sighed again, the realization weighing on me.

“Go back to the car,” Julea said. She gave me one last squeeze before detangling herself from my limbs and standing from the bench. I could see the sun starting to set.

The sky was beginning to blur into soft ambers and lilacs. “I have a phone call to make.”

I hesitated. I knew what she meant, and I wasn’t sure if I was okay with the idea. My mom already had so much on her plate; this had to be affecting her just as much as it was me. But I trusted Julea’s judgement, and so I rose from the seat, hugged my friend one

more time, and started up the hill to the car.

Julea Before making the call, I took a moment to just stare out at the field with my thoughts. I knew something had happened to affect Anne this greatly, but that was not what I’d been expecting. It saddened me as well. I had known Anne’s dad for as long as I’d known her, and he was always kind to me and let me hang out with Anne, even when her mom said no. He was there in my life too. It would hurt to lose him.

But there was a little bit of anger inside me. Why hadn’t Anne told me? We were best friends. This was a massive development in her life. A small, selfish part of me was angry at Anne. She should have told me. The more rational part of my brain said that Anne needed time to process this, but it didn’t completely get rid of my annoyance.

The most important thing to me, though, was that Anne could get back to her father.

She had a special relationship with him, and I admired that. I couldn’t imagine what life would be like without my dad.

I dialed the number I’d memorized long ago (at the request of Anne) and prepared to do what was necessary.

“Hello, Mrs. Goldsmith? This is Julea.”

“Oh, Julea! Hello!” Her voice was thick with fake excitement. I could hear the hoarseness in her tone, presumably from crying.

“I just wanted to call really quick. Anne

told me about… what’s been happening.” I could tell that Anne’s mom knew what I was referring to from the silence that followed.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” she said, voice quieter now, more authentic.

“You have to let Anne come home.” I decided to get straight to the point.

“I don’t think that’s such a good-” “Please, Mrs. Goldsmith. You know how much he means to her. She needs to spend some time with him.”

“I just-” “She could come home in a couple of weeks, spend some time at the cabin with me as planned. It’s not fair to keep her from him, even if you have her best interest at heart.”

“I suppose… Perhaps that could work.

I just don’t want her to worry. She’s been stressing so much over starting high school already. And I...” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know if I can do it. With her here… I worry it’ll feel like it’s truly the end.” I nodded slightly, Anne’s and my theory was confirmed.

“She can help you. You two can handle this.” It was true. Maybe Anne had collapsed in my arms today, but she was fierce, and I knew that she could do this. Her relationship with her mom had always been strong.

It would be hard, but Anne was strong. “Just let her come home before he … passes.” I struggled to say the last word.

“I’ll consider it.” Her tone let me know that

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she was leaning towards saying yes. “Thank you, Julea. You are a brave girl. My Annie is lucky to have you as a friend.”

“Not as lucky as I am to have her,” I said, and hung up the phone. I exhaled deeply and walked back up to the car.

The rest of the car ride was happier. Well, maybe not happier, but lighter. There was still weight in the air, and I could tell my father was confused. He knew something terrible had happened and that Anne had cried her eyes out (it turned out that we were on the bench for around an hour and a half), but he didn’t know exactly why. I’d tell him later, without Anne there. I decided not to tell Anne that she would probably be going back, since her mom hadn’t completely decided, and I thought she should hear it from a parent.

Anne and I sang along to songs from my playlist, and she even cracked a few small smiles. The Anne I knew was still in there.

She would not be broken. The sun set and the sky turned dark. I opened the window and the July night breeze was cool, the sky dotted with stars. The air smelled different from town, more earthy and natural. I could see why my dad liked it there. Anne and I lay together, our heads resting on top of one another. We could have been asleep for how silent we were, but I knew we weren’t. We were just there with each other. Sometimes, that felt like all we needed.

My dad announced that we were nearing 66

the cabin, and though Anne wasn’t enthusiastic, I could tell there was a glimmer of excitement in her. Then he said it would still be another hour, and I huffed in exasperation. To kill the time, we watched a show together and complained about the faults in a book series we had both read. Anne wasn’t as passionate as she usually was, but I could tell she was trying. All she had to do was try.

By the time we finally arrived at the cabin, I could no longer keep my excitement inside, and gasped when I saw the little house.

It was worn down, shingles on the roof peeling and wood stripped down. But it looked like exactly the change of scenery we needed from the repetitive nature of the suburbs. While it was rough around the edges, it looked welcoming and inviting.

A place you could escape to. I could see a pond a few hundred feet away from a long wooden porch. The crickets chirped loudly and mosquitoes buzzed. Ugh. I hated mosquitoes. But this was worth it. I turned to Anne and smiled at her.

“Ready to go?”

She nodded, a ghost of a smile on her lips. We left the car and I wrapped my arm around her shoulder as we walked to the cabin. She still wasn’t okay, and she wouldn’t be for a while, but she didn’t need to be.

We would get through this. It was Anne and me, as it always had been. We could make it through anything.

Returning Home Kate Deming ‘24

The day after Christmas always begins

with an early flight to Chicago, a drive to my dad’s hometown of Racine, and ends with a dinner filled with the aroma of the welcoming, crispy, dangerously delicious, thin cheese pizza of Wells Brothers. The air is always sharp. It’s the kind of air that makes your toes go numb, the furious winds never hold back, and my dad always, always forgets to wear a heavier coat.

My dad opens the rental car door, first dusting off the powdered snow that had fallen the night before. I begin to help him, but he swats me away with his selfless disposition. Without hesitation, I turn on the heat as I run in place, trying to generate any sort of heat myself. He then moves to put our suitcases in the trunk, as the colorless sky slowly begins to awake from its slumber.

I scurry into the passenger seat, as my dad sits beside me, eagerly trying to get out of the Chicago airport, as the bustle of the holidays will soon erupt around us.

“Any music suggestions?” I ask, grabbing chapstick from my bag.

“Your pick,” he responds, checking the exits carefully as he gets onto the highway.

I open my phone playing Tempted by the Fruit of Another, my dad’s favorite song. He

swears it was his college anthem. It may be the only Squeeze song I know, but I know all the lyrics. As the beat begins to intensify, my dad taps his foot by the pedals, and drums on the steering wheel.

“Hands-on the wheel!” I exclaim as he laughs, ignoring my paranoia.

My dad stares out the window, with a soft gaze, as he quietly sings the lyrics. He sits up straight and tilts his neck to both sides, cracking any knots. He is wearing a fairly lightweight black knit sweater, a white shirt poking out underneath, and dark washed blue jeans with a few patches that stick out like a sore thumb. He wears black converse that he had just gotten for Christmas the day before, still fresh and pure, but he is still not used to them. He has a small bandaid on his chin from shaving, and his clear acrylic glasses have begun to slide down his nose.

He’s waiting for them to slide far enough until he has to fix them. He continues to drum his hands, changing to a one-hand electric guitar when necessary.

“That’s my old high school!” my dad says, pointing his finger as we begin to enter his hometown of Racine, Wisconsin. The building is burnt auburn brick, fairly large, with the words St. Catherine’s proudly displayed at the top. He grins slightly, reflecting on the school, pulling over to the side of the road.

We sit in silence for a moment, but not realizing it. You can still feel the bitterness of the cold from inside the car and see the wind

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sweep down the street. I look over to my dad, as he takes a few more seconds to take it in that he’s home, a home he hasn’t called home in so long.

Gone Beckett Leslie-Jones ‘25

Mom and I are two different souls,

living in the same home. We have different rules, aspirations, and qualities that are right for each of us but not for each other.

The consecutive late nights lead to the realization that we weren’t the best for each other. The house grew cold, jackets could not fend off the sword of the heavy chill. And as the winter grew through the house, I love you’s were no longer said, and paired meals were just a recollection of how things were before it all went wrong.

Stacy, my mom, reminds me of a Honey Badger, fearless and thick-skinned. When she was six years old her mother passed away in a car accident. Her mom, 26, had 68

slid under a UPS freight truck on the expressway, October 22nd, 1983. The impact of the collision caused immediate death.

On the first day of mom’s kindergarten, clusters of children piled through the hallway, all with mothers and fathers waving them off; she waved to her babysitter, stumbling into the classroom. Mom’s inner saboteur made her act out, it had control over her. I’ve become a prisoner of her pure rage, assigned to eat in my room alone.

I open up the fluorescent blue shades, the sun beams into my eyes. The morning’s best friends, the cheerful chickadees stare into my room, alongside the other strange birds.

From my seated position, I tilted my head towards mom’s door.

Thank God it’s closed.

The light from my room’s window illuminates my vibrant yellow desk. Pieces of loose strands and popsicle stick debris are scattered across it. While I swipe them aside, I grab the painting I’m working on from my backpack. It’s a painting of Lucy and me hand in hand, with a maple tree in the distant background.

I was six years old, brave, not so slick, oblivious. My chubby legs guided me around the park, while I snatched the toys from other kids. Through the pile of action figures and McDonald’s happy meal tokens, a girl had caught my eye, soon to be my close friend, Lucy. She was joyously roaring with a Pterodactyl and Triceratops.

Dinosaurs had always been my favorite reptile, from their strange shapes to their color it was easy to craft stories. I had expected myself to steal her dinosaurs, but her eyes had stopped me in my tracks. In a cluster of confusion, I had stood there, in the middle of the park, motionless.

“Do you want to play?” she said so sweetly, handing her Pterodactyl towards me. I was dumbfounded. She giggled first at my startled face, patting me on my leg. She motioned for me to sit with her.

“Ok,” I said, falling along with the ten other toys in my hand. At impact, the rubber panels had created a fart-like noise. I giggled loudly. While trying to replicate the sound, I succeeded on my fifth attempt. I was laughing so loudly I barely heard her question.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“What is your name?”

“Gracon.”

“What is your name,” I asked her.

“Lucy.”

I was no longer laughing alone - Lucy and I were laughing together.

The Wing Ezra Mundy ‘25

The clouds were gathering. As Seamus

the seagull looked up, he could see the last bit of blue fade as the dark puffs gathered and collided. He took a long look because he knew he wouldn’t see the clear sky ever again. He was going to die today.

The Great Blasket Island just peeked through the heavy mist descending upon the Dingle Peninsula. The late morning smell of recent dew was replaced by the unmistakable smell of rain. The beauty of the Whitefeather territory seemed to be illuminated by the fading light, rather than dimmed.

But Seamus wasn’t happy. The darkness of knowing that you’re going to die is a crushing weight, especially if there’s nothing you can do about it.

Seamus was a runt. He had a crippled wing and was exceptionally small. And, like all runts, he was to be executed. Seagulls were supposed to be able to fly by the time they were eight weeks old, nine if they were really struggling. After nine, there’s talk of execution.

Seamus’ mom was the greatest flyer in the entire Whitefeather clan. The clan leader, High Bird Wyvern, gave them an extra year

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because he knew that Seamus’ mom would figure something out. He was wrong. Seamus’ mother felt immensely guilty because she felt that it was her fault, and even after trying so hard, her son was going to die.

Seamus now walked along the edge of the cliff, gathering sticks and long bits of grass.

He was almost home, but he wasn’t sure if he would be able to carry the twigs and grass down the cliff to his cave without being able to fly. He put them all in his beak and carefully inched down the little path to the nest, and watched as a light drizzle descended upon the cliffs.

His mom was waiting for him when he arrived. Her eyes were red and feathers wet, as if she had just been crying. She was a beautiful bird. Her down feathers were laced with different colors, and she radiated power.

Her wings were large, strong, and aerodynamic, anyone could guess that she was an amazing flyer.

“Seamus—” she started to say, but couldn’t get out the words. She ran and folded him into her wings, crying because he was home and this was happening and because her son was going to die.

Seamus pulled out of her embrace. “I’m going to my nest, mom,” he told her. “One last project, you know?”

She sighed. “Okay.” As Seamus moved further into the cave, to his personal nest, his mother peeked out of the cliff. “You don’t have much time though,” she said. “I think it’s almost midday.”

“Love you, mom.” That made her choke up again. He didn’t want to look at her anymore, for he knew neither of them would be 70

able to bear it for much longer.

When he got to his nest, he immediately began to work. *** “We are here for your boy!” said a loud voice.

“Oh, he’s… just in the other room…” replied a shaky voice.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Two burly cormorants bursted into Seamus’ room just as he was finishing up his project. He quickly concealed it under his wing before either of them took notice.

“You are coming with us to High Bird Wyvern,” said the more muscular of the two.

Seamus looked at them, making a show of innocent fear. They grabbed his good wing and hauled him up and out of the cave. His mom came warily behind, holding herself together. They walked up the path toward Wyvern’s roost.

Seamus was not expecting the sheer amount of birds there. Most executions were quiet, only loved ones and friends usually showed up. Seamus didn’t have many friends since he spent most of his time practicing flight and doing small services for the community. That must be why, he thought.

They are here because of the gratitude for the small chores I did every day. There were even some residents of neighboring clans, like the Lightfoot and Fisherking clans. Everyone was either sad or minorly annoyed, but the number of birds was completely un-

precedented.

Suddenly there was an enormous flap.

The whole crowd looked up in surprise as High Bird Wyvern swooped down upon the crowd. He was not a handsome seagull. He was slightly tubby and had a scar on one of his legs. He had a perpetual scowl, and it was hard to tell from his figure that he was an experienced soldier.

“Seamus Winnigan, you are to be executed,” he said. His voice was deep and intimidating, another thing seemingly out of character. “Let’s make this quick so as to have as little tears as possible.” He shot a look at Seamus’ mom.

Wyvern took Seamus to the edge of the cliff. “You may choose whether to jump or be pushed. Would you like to say anything to your clan and family before you make your choice?”

“Can I just see where I’m going to land?” said Seamus. He heard his mother gasp and choke a little at this.

“Very well,” said Wyvern. “But it could make this harder for you.” Seamus nodded and shuffled over to the edge of the cliff.

There seemed to be an updraft blowing from between the jagged rocks at the bottom. As he was turned around he slipped the makeshift splint he had made on his wing. “I’m ready. I would like to jump.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Winnigan,” said Wyvern.

Seamus didn’t look back. He leaped. He heard his mom scream. He spread his

wings….

Seamus was gliding. The updraft caught on his splint. He had expected the updraft taking him upwards. He had expected Wyvern being impressed. He had expected so many things and all of them had just been destroyed.

He came to rest on a rock, out of sight of the cliff edge he had jumped from. There was a crevice to his left. The rain came pouring down, and he took shelter in the cave.

Maybe I can learn to fly. Start a new life down here. Eventually, I’ll see her again… it’ll just take time.

Living Inbetween Emma Brunner ‘22 “There are people… who think that we cannot rule ourselves because the few times we tried, we failed, as if all the others who rule themselves today got it right the first time. It is like telling a crawling baby who tries to walk, and then falls back on his buttocks, to stay there. As if the adults walking past him did not all crawl, once.”

(Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie).

Dear Riley,

Before I begin, know that I don’t say anything in this letter to scare you, but maybe a scare wouldn’t be such a bad thing since

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nothing seems to keep your attention besides minecraft these days. Now, being 7, there’s no way you could possibly understand what I’m saying, for if I received this letter at 7, I don’t think I would either, but either way, you’re still my favorite cousin, and if this helps you in even the most miniscule way, it has served its purpose.

In her newest article, ‘Why I stand up for Black Women,” Meg Thee Stallion says, “From the moment we begin to navigate the intricacies of adolescence, we feel … the weight of contradictory expectations and misguided preconceptions,” (Megan Thee Stallion). With this letter, Riley, I hope to take some of the weight from your shoulders and calm the “contradictory expectations and misguided preconceptions.” I hope that when you navigate through your own adolescence, that this remains here as a guide if you shall ever need it.

If not already, you’ll soon start to hear the word “exotic” everywhere you go. Soon they’ll ask you at the checkout kiosk at Macy’s, then at the hairdresser down the block, then in the seat at the orthodontist with the bib still clipped around your neck. It’s amazing, truly, that so many people take interest in where we are “from.” I guess we should take it as a compliment that we are so interesting, so sought after. We make people curious, right? They’ll ask you, “where are you from?” followed by, “No, you misunderstood me, where are you really from?” but 72

as I’ve seen already, you know this already and always reply with a big, prideful grin and yell, “Jamaica!” That gives them some satisfaction, I’m sure, but they’ll also wonder more. Why our complexion looks the way it does, how our hair bounces the way it does, why our bodies are shaped the way they are, why our eyes are the colors they are, why we aren’t white and not Black, but a fetishized in-between. We’re “exotic,” they say; we are “unique,” they reassure us. One summer when looking at a biracial model on Instagram, my friend turned to me and said, “I wish I was mixed like you!” Maybe I should have said something; anything.

Looking back, I wish I did. I smiled silently, my blue eyes looking back into her green ones on her white, sunburned face. I do too.

Then maybe I could talk to someone who understands.

One hot summer day with grocery bags in our hands, Aunty Marlon, our tutor, Hannah, and I were walking to the car through the car park from Target; it was so hot. “Hannah needs to start wearing longer shorts,” our tutor said, turning to Aunty Marlon. “I know.” Hannah didn’t hear, but I heard the sigh. It was such a hot day.

For a long time, Barbie was my perfect.

Taylor Swift was my perfect. Hannah Montana was my perfect. Whiteness, my perfect.

Even now, as you watch me scroll through TikTok and Instagram, hovering over my phone with those starstruck brown eyes and

a gawking mouth, my digital page is filled with these Barbies and Hannah Montana’s, and many times, I think back to the skinny blonde model I saw on my feed during lunch. If only I could look like her.

Already, I have begun to hear this deathly phrase slip from your mouth, in quiet remarks or upon questioning. “Riley,” we tell you, “your hair looks so beautifully curly today!” You scowl. “I don’t like my hair.” We all worry, hopelessly trying to save you from following our footsteps and tripping down into the rabbit hole. “How do you wish it looked?” Blonder, straighter, longer; either in that order or a subtle variation, it’s always the same response. It saddens me that so many girls of color are pressured into these Eurocentric beauty standards; told that we are not beautiful if we do not have these small little hips and bouncing bobbling ponytails. They’re supposed to be mesmerizing by default. But what else are we supposed to believe when this country is constantly reminding us and putting us in our place?

But why do we let ourselves believe this?

Why this strange complicity? Why do we succumb to this torture and pine over something we can never fully achieve? This whiteness? Ta-Nehisi Coates says in Between the World and Me that, “The people who must believe they are white can never be your measuring stick.” Riley, we can never be white- we will never be white, not me, not you and not Hannah. So why should we

compare ourselves and measure ourselves to them? It is hard, I promise, and I struggle every day, and most of the time I don’t feel like fighting. But I will fight for you, and remind you every time we visit you in Brooklyn, that your hair, your body, and your Blackness are equally beautiful. Remember this and never, ever forget it.

In middle school, I was constantly ridiculed for being biracial; for being what I am. It sounds absurd, but that’s plainly what the bullying was. You see, Riley, unlike you, Hannah and I do not share your brown eyes and brown skin; instead, we “need a tan” as Grandma always tells me. On my birthday, the first thing everyone came to notice when hovering over me swaddled in a blanket, was that I was well, white. Pale white; with two big blue eyes waiting to open and see the world. Because of this, it has always been a struggle coming to terms with what exactly I am. Yes, by blood I am just as Black as you are, or any other Black and white child, but on the outside, for years now, I have been told differently; middle school told me differently. Only now do I realize it wasn’t okay for my white classmates to draw caricatures of me and my hair on the white board and to ‘act like a Jamaican’ to get me upset; whatever ‘acting like a Jamaican’ even means. To put into perspective just how bad it got, I remember in eighth grade after spring break, my classmate came up to me and forcefully grabbed my arm and held his next to mine. He had just come back from vacation. “Look!” He said, cackling, “Now I’m Blacker than you!” The summer that same year, another boy thought it was funny to put our skin complexions into an online

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color detector. The results said that his tan was darker. Same thing.

Now, I definitely didn’t believe that I was Black; how could I be with blue eyes?

Seemingly stripped of my black identity, I looked to the white community and to my white friends for acceptance. It seemed as if straightening the life out of my hair and shopping at Claire’s at the mall every weekend was a small price to pay. Acceptance never came there either.

Reflecting on this, I can’t help but wonder if I was, as Martin Luther King states in his Letter to Birmingham Jail, “The white moderate who is more devoted to ‘order’ than to justice; who prefers a negative peace”. I never fought for myself. I accepted the blatant racism from my classmates no matter how much it offended me. And I never fought for the other three Black kids in my grade either who also received similar abuse. Please do not do this at any cost. Please fight.

To do this, it’s essential to also recognize the privilege we hold in our identity. We both have white fathers; white blood. This gives us power. Whether we like it or not, we owe it to our Black family, friends and identity to use the privilege we have to stand up against racism and challenge the system.

I couldn’t do this then. I was stuck in this horrible world of The Inbetween which I would rather disregard than face, and exist in without acknowledging. Living in this country, a country hellbent on categoriza74

tion and labels, you too will feel this pressure of choice, just as we all do. I was stupid to think I could ignore it forever.

A picture of the kissogram sent to me anonymously.

In mid February 2020, during my sophomore year, just after a sweet Valentine’s Day, I received this letter from a Kissogram event at my school, (Kissogram is a setup where you can send candy with an anonymous note to anyone you like. Definitely not a bad idea for high school students, right?).

It’s funny how a slip of paper, just the light scratch of a pencil to a surface, is able to create masterpieces. Now, this letter was indeed a masterpiece, capable of blasting my windows and my walls apart, knocking me down like a building. Reading it was an indescribable experience. The sickly pink slip of paper. Gross. And the bubbly bubblegum handwriting. Grosser. Even now, I struggle to put into words what I felt in that moment.

A punch in the stomach? A smack across the face? Drowning in a well? Suffocation? No, I’m really not that poetic - I simply thought

I was going to throw up. I cried for weeks instead.

James Baldwin tells us to “... try to remember that what they believe, as well as what they do and cause you to endure, does not testify to your inferiority but to their inhumanity and fear.” Maybe this is an example of that. Maybe this person attacking my insecurities was really just exposing their own “inhumanity and fear.” I know that I have white skin. I know that I have blue eyes.

But why did someone feel the need to use that as a weapon? To hurt me? To make me cry? I wish I could be strong for you and tell you that I didn’t let this get to me, but it was middle school all over again. The memories flooded my brain all at once; storm rains rushing from my eyes and down my pinkened cheeks. They never found out who sent it. They searched for five days. They dropped it after that. Did they even care?

Do I care? I left my school’s affinity group.

I was embarrassed. I felt like a fake. I was pretending. I should leave. I still wonder about this time in my life and every action and step I’ve taken up to this day. But still I question, and I ask you reading, what would you have done if you were in my shoes? If the person who wrote that letter to me ever reads this, I have one question for you: Do you feel better now?

This note was enlightening for me, but still I wish it was only a bad dream; one I

could wake up from and forget an hour later when trying to tell my friends. I wish I never saw its pink sickly paper or it’s gross bubblegum handwriting. But most of all, I wish I didn’t let it hurt me as much as it did.

I’m stronger now. However, if it did teach me anything at all, I can almost confidently say this: Never change yourself to match someone else’s perception of you. Only you are yourself; only you are Riley. No one else can even begin to imagine what it is like to walk in your shoes for a day, just like no one knows what it is to walk in mine. So why listen to someone who hasn’t been you?

People attack others based on their own insecurities - as if tearing someone else down would automatically bring them up.

So when I choose to include Baldwin’s words in this letter as advice for your future, know that I also do this to remind myself that these people who try to tear us down don’t “testify to [our] inferiority.”

Only we can do that.

Only we can choose justice rather than order. Only we can accept the in-between.

Only we can determine our identities, and love our bodies and ourselves. Every. Single.

Part.

I wish I could give you a definitive answer on how to do this, but I am still learning and growing myself. But with everything I have gone through, from middle school until today, I know that I can definitely say this: 75

I love my blue eyes. I love myself, and no one, nothing, will ever change that.

I’m here if you ever need me, Riley.

With love, Your cousin, Emma.

The Train That Never Came Ana Ziebarth ‘21 The 9:00 pm train to Essex is now delayed for an hour. Thank you for your patience.

Around him, he heard a groan and a

foot stomp. He could barely see the faces of people around him, but he could just make out the shape of someone’s head. He peered at the dimly lit clock, the only source of light in the station. 9:32. He was supposed to be home by now, just like he promised. Dammit. I can’t be late again, he thought. He could picture her small face, staring at him with those sad eyes. Her lips would quiver and her hands would be holding on to her raggedy stuffed bunny. Yet she would always 76

raise her other hand to him, extending her pinky so that once again he could have another chance to fulfill his promise.

The fog enveloped everything in its presence; there was no escaping it. He felt an eerie presence behind him as if someone was watching him. His body tensed and a shiver went down his spine. He slowly turned his head but all he saw was the outline of a woman. His muscles slowly relaxed again, realizing that there was nothing to be afraid of.

He slid his phone out of his pocket and dialed the babysitter. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be home late. I’m so sorry. The train was delayed. I’ll try not to let it happen again. Okay, I’ll see you later. Thanks again.”

He placed his phone back into his jacket pocket.

He felt three gentle taps on his shoulder.

He spun around, inches away from a stranger’s face. Although it was dark, he could just make out the features of her face. The thinness of her lips, her hollow cheeks, her round eyes. She held out a black wallet in her gloved hand with his initials engraved on the front.

“Thank you,” he said with a smile.

As he reached to take the wallet from her hand, he accidentally tugged on her glove.

The glove came off her hand to reveal grey peeling skin covered with red scratches. A rotten smell reeked from her. Out of fear, he froze, not knowing what to do or say. She hurried away quickly in the other direction.

All he could do was watch her, his heart

beating rapidly in his chest. She peered over her shoulder and gave him a piercing glare, her eyes appeared to be glowing a soft red.

All he could do now was wait. He trembled thinking of her decomposing hand and its foul smell. Who was she? Where did she come from? What was she? Was she even human?

The 9:00 pm train to Essex is canceled.

Sorry for the inconvenience.

His foot hit the ground hard as he stomped twice; the first time out of frustration, the second time to shake off his nerves. No! Dammit! She won’t forgive me this time, he thought. Her small hands would curl around the top of the couch, with her eyes wide open she would stare out the window until the sky grew black. Her feet would trudge along the wooden floors in the hallway, her raggedy stuffed bunny dragging behind her. She would be tucked into bed, but this time without a bedtime story or a kiss on her forehead. Her pillow would be slightly damp from her tears. He knew that he had to get home safely so that he could shower her with kisses and beg for her forgiveness in the morning.

He decided to walk to the bus station. His feet moved mechanically as he took deep breaths, praying that he wouldn’t run into her again. As he reached the bottom of the steps, he gazed left and right, like a child would at a crosswalk; as his daughter would.

No sign of her. He began the five-minute walk to the bus station. When he reached the stop and saw that no one was there, he breathed a sigh of relief. He waited for the next bus, impatient. He prayed that it would come at any moment so that he could return to his daughter as soon as possible.

All of a sudden, he felt the cold pavement of the sidewalk beneath his body. A pair of glowing red eyes appeared above him. And then … nothing.

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Photography

35mm color film

85 Clio Blazer ‘24 Harrison Humphrey ‘23

78

35mm black and white film

35mm color film

92 Tilda Sutter ‘22 Harrison Humphrey ‘23

35mm color film 35mm black and white film

93 Emma Diamond ‘22

35mm color film

94 Tilda Sutter ‘22

35mm color film

94 Henry Boone ‘21

35mm color film

95 Piper Jassem ‘22 Blue Hostler Burrows ‘23

35mm black and white film 35mm color film

96 Violet Baumann ‘24

iPhone digital

97 Tristan Blazer ‘21 Emma Diamond ‘21 William Connelly ‘21

35mm color film 35mm black and white film 35mm color film

98 Nina Gerzema ‘21

35mm black and white film

99 Olivia DeTraglia ‘22 Bryce Sookra ‘23

35mm color film 35mm black and white film

100 Henry Boone ‘21 Lily Parks ‘21

35mm color film 35mm color film

101 George Boulukos ‘21

35mm color film

79

Sarah Katz ‘21, 35mm color film Kieira Embler ‘21, 35mm color film 80

Josie Parks ‘23, 35mm black and white film

Tristan Blazer ‘21, 35mm black and white film

81

Caroline Maltz ‘21, iPhone digital

Violet Baumann ‘24, iPhone digital 82

Emma Diamond ‘22, 35mm color film

Caroline Maltz ‘21, iPhone digital 83

84

Sarah Katz ‘21, 35mm color film

Clio Blazer ‘24, iPhone digital 85

Blue Hostler-Burrows ‘23, 35mm black and white film

86

Emma Diamond ‘22, 35mm black and white film

Alexa Moskowitz ‘21, 35mm color film

Harrison Humphrey ‘23, 35mm color film

Annabelle Hatsav ‘21, 35mm color film

87

Melissa Toledo ‘21, 35mm color film

88

Caroline Maltz ‘21, iPhone digital

Sam McGee ‘23, 35mm black and white film

Nina Gerzema ‘21, 35mm black and white film 89

90

Elias Kassel-Venetis ‘21, 35mm color film

Josie Parks ‘23, 35mm black and white film

Tristan Blazer ‘21, 35mm color film

Piper Jassem ‘22, 35mm color film

Beach, Acadia Schimmel ‘21 91

92

Harrison Humphrey ‘23, 35mm black and white film

Emma Diamond ‘22, 35mm color film 93

Tilda Sutter ‘22, 35mm color film

94 95

Tilda Sutter ‘22, 35mm color film

Piper Jassem ‘22, 35mm black and white film

Henry Boone ‘21, 35mm color film

Blue Hostler Burrows ‘23, 35mm color film

Violet Baumann ‘24, iPhone digital

96 97

William Connelly ‘21, 35mm color film

Emma Diamond ‘21, 35mm black and white film

Tristan Blazer ‘21, 35mm color film

98

Bryce Sookra ‘23, 35mm black and white film

Nina Gerzema ‘21, 35mm black and white film

99

Olivia DeTraglia ‘22, 35mm color film

100 101

George Boulukos ‘21, 35mm color film

Lily Parks ‘21, 35mm color film

George Boulukos ‘21, 35mm color film

Henry Boone ‘21, 35mm color film

104 Rei Weintraub ‘21 Cayla Robbins ‘21

Unglazed earthenware Glazed earthenware

105 Noelle Raffo ‘21

Steel wire

106 Lulu Fleming-Benite ‘21

Sgraffito ware

107 Cayla Robbins ‘21

Air dry clay

108 Olivia Propp ‘22

Air dry clay, dowels & string

109 Ruthann Staskowski ‘21 Pearl McAninch ‘21

Air dry clay Glazed earthenware

110 Ana Ziebarth ‘21 Olivia Cueto ‘21

Glazed earthenware Glazed earthenware

111 Ruby Hutchins ‘21 Noelle Raffo ‘23

Glazed earthenware Glazed earthenware

112 Marcus Moise ‘21

Earthenware with underglaze (unfired) Papier-mache Glazed earthenware Glazed earthenware

Olivia Propp ‘22 Cayla Robbins ‘21 Jack Anderson ‘21

102

113 Olivia DeTraglia ‘22

Glazed earthenware

114 Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21 Rei Weintraub ‘21

Glazed earthenware Plaster gauze

115 Sarah Katz ‘21 Luke Cameron ‘21

Glazed earthenware Oven bake clay

116 Noelle Raffo ‘23 Lily Parks ‘21

Glazed earthenware Glazed earthenware

3D Art

117 Noelle Raffo ‘23 Oni Thornell ‘22 Ely Silverman ‘22

Glazed earthenware Air dry clay Glazed earthenware

118 Miles Friedman ‘22 Oni Thornell ‘22 Cayla Robbins ‘21

Plastaline clay Air dry clay Air dry clay

119 Ruby Hutchins ‘21 Ruby Rosenblatt ‘22

Glazed earthenware Papier-mache

103

104

Cayla Robbins ‘21, glazed earthenware

Noelle Raffo ‘21, steel wire 105

Rei Weintraub ‘21, unglazed earthenware

106

Lulu Fleming-Benite ‘21, sgraffito ware

Cayla Robbins ‘21, air dry clay 107

Olivia Propp ‘22, air dry clay, dowels & string

Pearl McAninch ‘21, glazed earthenware

108 109

Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21, air dry clay

Ruby Hutchins ‘21, glazed earthenware

Ana Ziebarth ‘21, glazed earthenware Olivia Cueto ‘21, glazed earthenware 110

Noelle Raffo ‘23, glazed earthenware 111

Olivia DeTraglia ‘22, glazed earthenware Olivia Propp ‘22, papier-mâché

Cayla Robbins ‘21, glazed earthenware

Jack Anderson ‘21, glazed earthenware

Olivia DeTraglia ‘22, glazed earthenware

Marcus Moise ‘21, earthenware with underglaze (unfired)

112

113

114

Luke Cameron ‘21, oven bake clay

Rei Weintraub ‘21, plaster gauze

Sarah Katz ‘21, glazed earthenware

Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21, glazed earthenware

115

116

Noelle Raffo ‘23, glazed earthenware

Noelle Raffo ‘23, glazed earthenware

Oni Thornell ‘22, air dry clay

Ely Silverman ‘22, glazed earthenware

Lily Parks ‘21, glazed earthenware

117

Miles Friedman ‘22, plastaline clay

Oni Thornell ‘22, air dry clay 118

Ruby Hutchins ‘21, glazed earthenware

Cayla Robbins ‘21, air dry clay

Ruby Rosenblatt ‘22, papier-mâché 119

122 Ajahni Jackson ‘21 Olivia Barrera ‘21

Brooklyn High Low Tea Shop

Ben Connolly ‘22

Area Codes

Rhyus Goldman ‘22

Covid 19 vs. The East Village

123 Jack Hillyer ‘21

120

Operating in the Shadows

Final

Emma Brunner ‘22

Hidden Places

Cole Dorsey ‘22

Zoom Trap

Io Weintraub ‘22

Time to Wake Up

Film

121

Operating in the Shadows Ajahni Jackson ‘21

Area Codes Ben Connolly ‘22

122

Brooklyn High Low Tea Shop Olivia Barrera‘21

Covid 19 vs. The East Village Rhyus Goldman ‘22

Final Jack Hillyer ‘21

Hidden Places Emma Brunner ‘22

Zoom Trap Cole Dorsey ‘21

Time to Wake Up Io Weintraub ‘22

123

126 - 127 Olivia Atienza ‘25 Suko Bey ‘25 Anais Cornfield ‘25 Lily Faulkner ‘25 Gia Garland ‘25 Hudson McDonald ‘26 Imogen Notaro ‘25 128 - 129 Dash Cosaboom-Son ‘25 Clare Fleming ‘25 Alden Homet ‘25 Beckett Leslie-Jones ‘25 Giselle Molaei ‘26 Leo O’Hagan ‘25 Samantha Ramirez ‘25 Ian Shearer ‘25 Margot Story ‘25 Samuel Vuvu ‘25 Wyeth Zeff ‘25

124

Studio Art Middle School

125

Imogen Notaro ‘25, untitled

Gia Garland ‘25, Scarlet

Suko Bey ‘25

126

Olivia Atienza ‘25, Woman

Hudson McDonald ‘26

Lily Faulkner ‘25

Anais Cornfield ‘25

127

Giselle Molaei ‘26

Clare Fleming ‘25

Leo O’Hagan ‘25

Margot Story ‘25

Wyeth Zeff ‘25

Ian Shearer ‘25

Samuel Vuvu ‘25

128

Dash Cosaboom-Son ‘25

Samantha Ramirez ‘25

Alden Homet ‘25

Beckett Leslie-Jones ‘25

129

Acknowledgements

What a year we just finished! The special circumstances under which this magazine is being published continue to be remarkable. If it were not for the strong community at LREI, this publication would not be possible during the pandemic.

So, firstly, we want to thank the LREI community for its incredible resiliency during this period. It was simultaneously challenging, exhausting and exhilarating to create the magazine this year … from deciding what would be feasible in these circumstances, to soliciting and editing student work, developing graphic design skills, collaborating with other departments, and so much more. It was indeed a true team effort. Thank you first and foremost to Phil Kassen, Allison Isbell, Margaret Paul, Ana Chaney, and Josh Marks without whom the annual publication of (i.e.) would not be possible. To all of the students who submitted work during this challenging year and managed to thrive artistically – we were truly blown away by both the quantity and quality of your creative genius. This is your magazine, and you should all be so proud of the work you have done. An enormous and heartfelt thank-you to the art teachers, James French, Shauna Finn, Susan Now, and Stephen MacGillivray who were generous with their time and who provided invaluable guidance, assistance, suggestions, and feedback over the course of the year. Many thanks to Ileana Jimenez, Jane Belton, Ann Carroll, Rohan Cassells, and Jeremiah Demster for recommending and assisting in the collection of student work for the magazine. Our profound thanks to Mark Silberberg and Stephen MacGillivray for making the digital edition of the magazine possible.

Special thanks to Joan Jubett, Ann Carroll, Joy Piedmont, and Matthew Milton for helping with the launch of the magazine at the Arts Spring Festival. We look forward to the Lit Mag Coffee House when we return in the fall. We appreciate all you exceptional, resilient, and talented people!! Gratitude!

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