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Introduction Thank you for picking up The All Saints’ Review. We are thrilled to present another fabulous collection of student and faculty fiction, non-fiction, photography and art work. This issue even boasts a review of a video game and what would The All Saints’ Review be without a review? (One astute freshman made this point.) Also, Charles Flores did a great job interviewing former NFL offensive tackle Blake Brockermeyer. Sarah McLaughlin excelled in designing and laying out this issue. I also want to give a shout-out to Gracie Chambers for designing and laying out the last one. For this issue I invited members of our faculty and staff to write about a beloved, funny or notable teacher or coach from their past. No doubt we have all had a significant educator in our lives and I was hoping to give folks a chance to celebrate this person. I will always remember my 7th grade English teacher, the diminutive and seemingly frail Mrs. Pease who shocked us when she leapt up on her desk to demonstrate a preposition. Not failing to recognize that she had us, she then cowered under an empty student desk. At my beloved Kenyon College I had an incredible poetry teacher, Professor Phillip Church, may he rest in peace. Professor Church would sit on the edge of a table wearing Coke bottle-thick glasses and gently chew on the end of a piece of chalk (much to the annoyance of some) while deeply pondering verses. One day, as Professor Church was reading the work of Wilfred Owens about men dying horribly in the trenches of WWI, he started crying just a little. I was stunned and terribly impressed. I have this (probably) slightly silly romantic notion that teaching, or rather, that of being a teacher, has a slight element of immortality mixed up in it. It is essentially what Shakespeare maintains in one of his most famous sonnets when he wrote about his love living on through his work: “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see/ So long lives this, and this gives life to thee” (Sonnet 18). I believe that teachers and teaching can work this way, too. Whether we think about it or not, what our teachers imparted to us lives on inside of us just as what we pass on will hopefully cascade through coming generations, long after we are gone. Am I putting too much stock in the importance of teaching? Probably. Then again, I don’t think there’s an app out there that can make me laugh and remember prepositions so fondly as dear old Mrs. Pease did. All the best, Scott Jarrett Adviser, The All Saints’ Review 1

Contents poetry fiction non-fiction photos art Many thanks to Ryan Nguyen (‘15) for using his creativity to make an excellent cover design for this issue of The All Saints’ Review




Fiction photo by Sam Paul

A Restful Night by Bailey Bowman

It is a restful night, and the timid, twinkling stars are beginning to appear

over the top of the fishing boat. No one on the fishing boat knew that it wouldn’t be so peaceful. They may never see land again.

As the fishing boat rocked along with the ripples of the waves, gloomy and

raging clouds set across the skyline. The storm approached, and the waves got bigger. The waves got so big that the little fishing boat flooded. Then, the fury came. The clap of thunder made the boat vibrate. Lightning flashed everywhere, but the storm was not done yet. A huge tidal wave came at the fishing boat, swept it up, threw it into the air, and pushed with all its force and might to make sure that the little fishing boat would sink deeper into the dark, mysterious, monster-lurking filled sea. The storm was like a flaming ball of hatred pounding at the poor, hopeless, innocent little fishing boat and sinking it deeper and deeper into the dark depths. Who will be its next victims? The storm wants revenge.

photo by Caroline Fettinger


Off the African Coast by Will Shipman

           Off the coast of South Africa floats a rickety old fishing boat. It was a typical fishing day out on the crystal clear waters of South Africa, but this regular day was about to change for the worse. Dense, salty aromas from the ocean filled the air. Pelicans were torpedoes, diving in the water and successfully coming up with a fish in their beak. There was an ominous, eerie feeling in the air. Growing unusually dark, the sky turns grey and the wind slowly starts to pick up. Abruptly, a drizzle of rain turns into a biting cold shower. Like a volcano, the sky appears like it is going to erupt at any moment. The sea grows angry, jostling the boat around like it is a ragdoll. Winds begin to howl like a wolf straying from its pack. It now looks like the stormy sky is about to swallow the Earth whole. Lightning pierces the ill-omened sky that appears unnervingly close to the boat. The boat has not undergone anything yet. The worst is yet to come. 5

photo by Sophie Cheveraux

The Aliens Never Stood A Chance by Eric Johnson

“There is a planet we are coming up to it is called Earth according to my research,” said Zonny. “Now, why would we go their Zonny?” asked Stato. “Because according to my research this planet can support us. If you look at the stats of this planet,Stato, it has wood, very little water, fuel. It also has platinum to build more space ships.” “OK are y’all ready to land the planet earth.” The aliens landed in the desert in New Mexico. None of the radars detected the ship coming into earths atmosphere. So no one knew they were here. “My fellow aliens we are at the new land to have a new beginning. This new land is now ours. Let’s take it for ourselves.” All of the aliens started out on their own adventures but Zodac, Zonny, Stato, Migoto and a few other aliens stayed together. They started walking east till they found themselves in Texas. All they could think about was getting wood to build their own houses. Zodac and the other aliens found a construction site. That contractor Johnny was working at. When Johnny was on his break he saw in the distance several giant green slugs coming towards his site. But Johnny was prepared because when he was in construction school he took a class that taught him what to do if aliens ever invade your construction site. That class taught him that you have to stay calm and don’t let them take what they want. They got to my site and started to walk around looking at stuff kind of like they wanted to buy the place.


Then I yelled “Hey, green giants, get off my site!” The one dressed in platinum armor came up to me and got a really angry look on his face. I think he was yelling at me but all I heard were clickey sounds. But then on alien named Stato which I think he is one of the dumb ones out of the bunch picked up a wet piece of wood and his hand dissenegrated. He started to scream and whelp waving his handless arm in the air. Now all the aliens were mad and coming at me. I guess they suspected I had something to do with it. So I ran to the top of the building I was building and I ran to the bottom and to the top and to the bottom again. I got tired and got the water hose and said “ say hello to my little hoses”. And sprayed each one and watch each one disintegrate. I told you the aliens never stood a chance.

photo by Sam Paul


There Once was a Squirrel Named Po by Isabel Logan

There was once a squirrel named Po. Po lived in an oak tree in the forest. One day Po got a letter. The letter Po got said he was invited to a birthday celebration for Ori, the goldfish. Po thought all day long about what he should give Ori. Finally, when he was writing the letter saying that he would be delighted to come, he had a brilliant idea. He would give Ori pecan and acorn shampoo and conditioner! This was the best idea for a an amazing, useful present for Ori, Po thought. When Po got to the party everyone was there. Even El the elephant was there and Tea the worm. They all had cake and it was time to open presents. Ori was very happy with the presents she had gotten so far, but when she opened Po’s present, she looked confused. “What’s wrong, don’t you love it?” Po said. “I can’t use shampoo and conditioner, it makes my scales come of,and it really hurts when that happens. But thank you anyway,” Ori answered. Po felt like he needed to get her some other present and fast beacause she only had 2 presents left. So Po ran, unnoticed to the shore of the river by Ori’s bowl house, grabbed as much sand as he could ran back and make a giant sand castle with several trips back and forth. When present time was over, everybody stayed behind because of the castle. Ori was very thankful and gave the unneeded presents back. Po went home very happy that afternoon. With a smile on his face Po tucked in his pet cricket, turned off the lights and went to bed.

By Alex Wynn

Master study of Olive Trees by Vincent Van Gogh oil pastel on paper


Underworld by Jack Taylor

“Please Mom, may we all go to the Grand Canyon?” I asked. “OK Jack, we can go, but when we get there you must stay ten feet away from the edge,” said mom. “OK, Mom. I love you.” I told myself when we get there I was going to lean over the edge. When we got to the Grand Canyon two days later, my brother and I were the first ones out of the car and at the edge of the phenomenal Grand Canyon. While we were looking at the people rafting on the Colorado River, my feet were partially over the edge. I slipped on a rock and fell into the Grand Canyon, and for about a minute I knew I was going to die so I just closed my eyes and kept falling. Kaboom! “Ouch. My eyes hurt. Who are you?” I asked as I looked up and saw a figure standing on a boat. “I am Charon. Get on my boat.” “OK,” I said hesitantly because I didn’t know what was going on. “What is this place?” Charon said, “This is the Underworld where dead souls go. The people over to your left are the unburied souls and they will lie there forever.” 9

We pulled up to a walkway heading to the Place of Judgment. “We are here. You may go see one of the three Judges,” said Charon. I asked him, “Who do you think is the best Judge?” “That’s easy. It’s Minos.” “OK. Thanks, Charon.” I walked along a stone sidewalk. A scary creature came up to me. It was a threeheaded dog that was barking loudly and the middle head breathed fire. It told me its name was Cerbus. I knew it was a dog and probably liked to fetch, so I reached for a stick and threw it as far as I could. While Cerbus was chasing after the stick, I quietly snuck into the Place of Judgment. This was the place where they judge you. At least, I think that was what Mrs. Caruthers taught us. One of the judges asked, “Who would you like to judge you?” I said, “Minos, please.” It took Minos a while to look at my past, but then he finally came back to me. “You were bad, so you must go to the Fields of Punishment,” Minos told me. He guided me to the Fields of Punishment. While we were walking, he told me my life was not so bad so my

punishment wouldn’t be terrible. At that moment, for some odd reason, Ixion rolled right in front of me. When I was alive, Mrs. Caruthers said that Ixion was in a spinning wheel that was on fire and he never stopped rolling. We kept on walking and in a few minutes my neck started hurting. I looked up to stretch my neck and saw Sisyphus trying to push a rock up a mountain. Mrs. Caruthers told us that his punishment was pushing a heavy rock up a mountain, and when he was almost at the top of the mountain, the rock would always roll back down. At last they told me my punishment was to do jumping jacks forever. I was right next to Tantalus. Mrs. Caruthers told us that his punishment was to stand in the water with grapes above him and fresh water below him, and he is never allowed to have any of it. If he tries to eat the grapes, they vanish and so does the water. My punishment didn’t seem so bad. Ten centuries later, Alecto flew by and told me to move faster on my jumping Jacks. I stopped and said, “I need to talk to Hades, now!” She asked, “Why?” I said, “Because I remembered I did something great I did in life and I need to tell him.” She said, “Fine, hop on my back and I will take you there.”

When we got to the House of Hades, Alecto put me down and told me that I had ten minutes before she comes back to get me. “Fine,” I said. I knew I had less time than I needed so I ran quickly through the House of Hades. I turned a corner that said “Hades Room” and ran straight into Persephone. We were both surprised, and she started to scream at me. I said, “Calm down. Calm down. I need to talk to Hades.” She asked, “What for?” I told her, “I have done something good in my past life.” She told me to follow her and we both walked to his room. Hermes was down there giving Hades some messages from the gods. Hermes looked up and said, “Oh, you have a visitor. I’ll get out.” Hades said, “Persephone, why have you brought this visitor to me?” She said, “I haven’t, he has come to us. Apparently, he has done a great deed, and he doesn’t think he should be in the Field of Punishment.” “Go on,” said Hades. “Ok,” I said, “I have done two good deeds in my life.” 10

“When I was five years old I saved my two year old cousin from drowning in the pool. The other thing I have done is praised your kingdom and all the gods.” Hades said, “What have you sacrificed for me?” “My multi-billion dollar inheritance from my great grandparents. I gave it all away just for you.” “Very well. You should not be in the Field of Punishment. You should be in Elysium Field.” “Thank you for changing your mind. I’m sorry to hurry but I only have ten minutes in here and it has already been nine. I must go.” Hades said, “OK, son. Persephone, tell Alecto he is good to go to Elysium.” Persephone nods and hurries me out the door. When we got to the gates of the palace, Alecto had just flown up and I jumped on her back. Persephone told Alecto that I could go to Elysium. She nodded and we went north of Hades house and she dropped me off near a beautiful pool. I said, “Now this, I can live with.”


from top to bottom: photos by Sam Paul, Kathi Tiffany, and Sophie Chevereaux

“The Pedestrian”

by Tommy Tarrant (with thanks to, and, in honor of, Ray Bradbury, 1920-2012)

To enter out into the silence that was

There was a faint smell of bread from

the city at eight o’clock of a misty evening

the night bakery at Central Market and the air

in November, to put your feet on the bricky

cut his nose and made his lungs blaze like an

undulation of Camp Bowie, to step over the

explosion of Christmas tree lights in a Westover

grassy seams and make your way, hands in

front yard; you could feel the cold light going

pockets, that was what Mr. Diction Gerund most

on and off. He listened to the thrust of his Nikes

dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the

as they pushed through the autumn leaves. He

corner of Camp Bowie and Hulen and peer past

stopped to examine a tree stump and count its

Nothing Bundt Cakes and down the long moonlit

rings. He picked up a branch, studying its fibrous

stretches in four directions, deciding which way

make-up in the sporadic streetlights as he went

to go, but it really made no difference; he was

on, smelling its rusty smell.

alone in this world of 2053, or as good as alone,

and with a final decision made, a path selected,

house on every side as he moved. “What’s

he would hoof off, sending patterns of frosty air

up tonight on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram,

before him like the smoke of a barbecue pit.

Pinterest? Who is friending who? Where are the

people checking in?”

Sometimes he would walk for hours and

“Hello in there,” he whispered to every

miles and return in the early morning. And on his

The street was long and silent and empty, with

way he would see the cottages and homes with

only his shadow moving like the shadow of a

their dark windows, and it was not unequal to

coyote at night.

walking through a graveyard where only faintest

glimmers of light appeared like distant fading

noticing his wrist watch. “A new post on Vine? A

stars behind the windows.

YouTube link? A word with a friend?”

Mr. Gerund would pause, twist his head,

“What is it now? He asked the houses,

Did someone giggle inside a house?

listen, look, and forge on, his feet making no

He hesitated, but went on when no humans

noise on the chunky sidewalks. Long ago he

appeared. He tripped over a bumpy section of

had smartly changed to Red Nikes when

sidewalk. The cement was vanishing and he

sauntering around at night, because large

imagined the side walks would soon disappear.

canines in packs would shadow him, barking

In ten years of walking by night or day, he had

incesantly if he wore his old, hard, teacher shoes.

never met another Fort Worthian walking, not

On this particular evening he began his journey in

once in all that time.

a southerly direction, toward the Trinity River.


He turned on a side street, planning to

head back to his house. He was a block away when a single car screeched abruptly around the corner and eviscerated him with a ruthless white cone of light. He stood mesmerized, not unlike the light, and then sucked toward it. A metallic voice spoke. “Halt! Stand still!” He stopped. “Raise your hands!” “But-“ he protested. “Hands up or we’ll shoot!” The Fort Worth Po Po, of course, but what an unusual, unbelievable thing; in a city of 900,000 there was only one police car left, wasn’t that right? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down to one car. Crime was ebbing;there was no need now for the police, save this single car wandering and wandering the empty streets. “Name?” the police car sputtered in a steely whisper. He couldn’t see the men in it because of the light. “Diction Gerund,” he said. “Speak up!” “Diction Gerund!” “Business or profession?” “I guess you’d call me a teacher – an English

lighting up their faces, but not enlivening them “No profession,” the car repeated, hissing like an adder. “What are you doing out?” “Walking,” said Diction Gerund. “Walking!” “Just walking,” he said simply, but his face felt icy. “Walking, just walking, walking?” “Yes sir.” “Walking where? For what?” “Walking for air. Walking to see, to smell, to hear, to feel.” “Your address!” “Nineteen forty-eight Cleveland Street.” “And there you do have wireless in your house? You do have a Smart Phone, Mr. Gerund?” “No.” “No!?” There was a quiet accusation that echoed off of the downtown skyscrapers at Sundance Square miles away. “Are you married, Mr. Gerund?” “No.” “Not married,” the police voice behind the torching beam said. “Nobody wanted me – I didn’t use social media,” said Diction Gerund with a muted smile. “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to!” the voice snapped. Diction Gerund waited in the chilly night. “Just walking, Mr. Gerund?” “Yes.” “But you haven’t explained for what purpose.” “I explained; for air, and to see and hear and feel…” “Have you done this often?” “Every night for years.”

teacher?” “No profession,” said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light numbed him, like a 7-year old boy sitting and watching Minecraft videos. “You might say that,” said Mr. Gerund. He hadn’t taught in years. Students didn’t come to school anymore. Everything went on in the tomblike houses at night now, he mused. The tombs, ill-lit by “smart” phones and I-things, where the people sat like the dead, 13

The police car sat in middle of Hulen Street growling steadily. “Well, Mr. Gerund,” it said. “Is that all?” he asked carefully. “Yes,” said the voice, “Get in!” There was a release, a pop and the back door of the car opened. “Wait a minute, I haven’t…” “Get in.” “I protest!” “Mr. Gerund.” He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in – there was no one in it, no one whatsoever. “Get in.” He peered into the back of the car. It looked like a large stainless steel sink, dull and shiny all at once. Perhaps they would wash him out of it with a hose when they were finished. “Now if you had an account of some kind – Facebook, Twitter, Instagram – even Pandora. If you had someone to give you an alibi to ‘like’ you…but-“ “Where are you taking me?” The car hesitated then clicked and clicked as if a computer were processing Mr. Diction Gerund’s presence. “To the Psychiatric Center for the Research on Regressive Tendencies.” The car rolled down Hulen, toward the Trinity River and they passed a house, one house with its lights on – one house in an entire city of darkness – one house illuminated like the sun as it set over the western edge of Tarrant County, beyond All Saints’ Episcopal School (a scene no one had witnessed for years). “That’s my house,” said Diction Gerund. No one answered him. The car picked up speed on the empty streets, flanked by the empty sidewalks and the mostlydark houses, turning onto the highway, the only sound and motion in an otherwise chilly November night.

By Tiffany Adams

Shell Painting inspired by Georgia O’Keeffe watercolor on paper

By Hannah Link

still life of fruit oil pastel on paper

By Elliott Anthony

Jazz Painting tempera paint on paper


Non-Fiction 15

photo by Vivian McNair

Review of Test Drive Unlimited 2 by Ben Staffel

Test Drive Unlimited 2 is a very interactive game where the user drives around two main islands. One island is Ibiza off the coast of Spain and the other is O’ahu in Hawaii. In the beginning, the player wakes up from a dream, where he/she thought it was his/ her birthday and had received a Ferrari. Sadly, the person wakes up and realizes that the player is still a valet. After the dream, the player has to buy a car and get a license to race. The racing is hard, but it can pay off if you get first place in the championship rankings. As the player goes through all of the car categories, if he/she wins first place in the championship, then he/she will win more money. After winning a lot of money, the player can choose to spend it on expensive cars, expensive clothes, expensive houses, or expensive yachts. As the player goes around and discovers new roads, the player can spawn on the roads that they have discovered. As the player discovers new things, he/she can level up from a nobody to a celebrity. There are not just paved roads; there are also dirty roads that can be

discovered. While driving the car, the player can see many realistic features, like your person shifting gears, being able to put down the roof, put down the windows, and turn on the blinkers. While walking around in a house or a building, the player can select gestures, such as laughing, crying, waving “hello,” or getting angry. This game does have many defects, like sometimes the graphics are slow to load and some of the cut scenes are cheesy. I highly recommend this game for people who like realistic driving and buying expensive merchandise.


photo by Kevin Stadler

The Lake By Patrick Boyce

As the serene sky hovered over the lethargic lake, pure white clouds cautiously inched from one side to the other. The clouds travelled alone initially, but as time streamed on, they began to migrate in clusters and gradually decelerated until they lazily stopped over the lake. The cerulean sky quickly shifted to silver as the clouds began to wring themselves out in the sky. Water drops dripped from the clouds down to the lake, diving gracefully with humble splashes. The lake eagerly drank the gift from above, hoping to quench its thirst. The rain continued to fall at a sluggish and continual pace. A gentle breeze guided the drops as they embarked on the journey of a lifetime. Bordering the lake, the bouldered cliffs stood in a stoic manner, never breaking from a straight face. On top of the cliffs, the deeply rooted trees yielded to the wind, swaying gently in the direction they were instructed to bend. Occasionally, leaves detached from their homes and freely fluttered in the wind. They, too, initiated an adventure so many would never take. The plants absorbed the gift from the clouds desperately. The coolness of the wind and the rain extinguished the suffering of the water and the vegetation, for both had been rotting in the sinister sun for ages. The passive docks swayed smoothly from side-to-side. The rain performed a percussion cadence on the rusty roofs. Pitter patter. Pitter patter. The drops then spilled over the edge of the various roofs into the lake. The rain generously served the rest of the environment, happily helping in any way it could. Everything relaxed as the rain cured the environment’s seemingly endless suffering. As the nature sighed in relief, a lone fisherman sat on one of the swaying docks, resignedly waiting for an inevitable disappointment.

photo by Sam Paul


photo by Sophie Chevereaux

What do you See in the Mirror? by Tasha Glaub

What do you see in the Mirror? Do you see a successful career in front of you? Do you see a bright future ahead? Do you see all the wonders to be explored? Do you see anything? Can you see anything? Seeing nothing is better, dreaming makes it come alive. See yourself standing, Looking back at you. What do you see in the mirror? Do you see yourself? Do you see who you want to be? Do you see who you really are? Do you see the outside but not in? Stare at it long and hard, What do you really see? Is it something worth looking at? Is it something worth trying to be? Is it a lost hope or dream? ?coming?alive? It is your soul burning you from the inside? What do you see in the mirror? Dreams, Hope, Love, Happiness? Be who you are and not something you are not. Ask yourself, What do you really see in the mirror?


The Rottweiler by Tayler Weathers

“So, when I was coming in this morning, I saw this dog on the access ramp to I-30?” my friend said. I nodded politely for him to go on, as friends do. “It was a Rottweiler, his guts all over the road—“ he took a breath and started to continue, but a girl across the room shouted, “Are you talking about the Rottweiler? I saw it this morning too. That was gross.” I’m sure it was. Gross, but not as gross as the image of that same dog on that same road that I was holding in my mind, where there was one noticeable difference: The dog had been alive. The black Rottweiler with a brown spot around his left eye and a brown stomach had been alive, panting, and lost only yesterday, when I’d passed it. Yesterday, when I had been running late and had had no time to stop for a potentially dangerous dog. A dog that was now dead, his intestines splayed across the road, hit at some high speed by a vehicle exiting the freeway. Without realizing it, I had frozen with my jaw halfway open. My friends assumed it was because of the gruesome story, at least until I spoke. “I saw him yesterday,” I said, echoing the thought throbbing in my brain, “and I didn’t help him. I had wanted to, but I was all by myself and he was big and I was late...” I trailed off, not mentioning how my hands had twitched on the wheel, how I had consciously stopped the automatic reaction to pull over onto the ample shoulder and drive the dog to the pound.

My teacher tried to comfort me and tell me it didn’t matter, that loose dogs can be dangers and there was nothing I could have done, and I only said, “But there was.” I could have called someone, or pulled into the shops nearby and asked them to watch him, or I could have stopped and helped him. I did none of those things. I remembered how proud I had been not a week before when my dad and I gave a stranded man money for gas while we were out. I remembered every homeless person I had passed and every charity I had ducked away from and I decided the dog was my burning bush. Then I remembered Booker. A homily given just that morning by a man who’d helped another man, compared to the Bible story of the rich man and the beggar. A homily I had really liked, even as a cleaning crew was wiping the Rottweiler, my beggar, off the access road. I thought of all these things and tears filled my eyes. My friend hugged me and told me it wasn’t my fault, it was okay, I had done the right thing, but I just sat there. I was the rich man, and I had missed my chance. Later, when I got in my truck, the same one that had carried me past the stubby-tailed Rottweiler who had needed my help, I saved the number for Animal Control into my contacts, but it felt like too little, too late. I was not as good as I thought I was.


Teacher Reflections...

photo by Andi Jameson

“Those who know, do. Those that understand, teach.� -Aristotle photo by Tristan Mercer


When I Grow up I Want to be... by Julie Yater Kindergarten Teacher

My entire life has been imbued with the idea that education is the most important way a person can be prepared to live successfully and contribute to society. My parents always insisted that my sisters and I receive an education no matter what the obstacles were. My first recollection of wanting to be an educator is when, as a child, I received a chalkboard for Christmas and spent many hours teaching my stuffed animals and neighborhood friends! The real inspiration for me to pursue a degree in education occurred while visiting my older sister while I was still in college. She is a truly gifted elementary teacher, and when I visited her in the classroom and observed the positive interaction she had with her students I knew teaching was the only career for me. My sister has continued to inspire me as I have begun my work as a classroom teacher. On days when I feel discouraged, she has always reminded me of the ultimate reward of having a student grasp a difficult concept. She also reminds me that just my presence and an ability to project a positive attitude toward learning will accomplish a great deal for my students.

My third grade teacher was another important inspiration for me. The impressions she made then, and what I now realize, was how she made reading exciting to her students have remained fresh in my mind over the years. I recall one of my favorite chapter books she would read to us after lunch. I now begin my year reading the very same book titled The Boxcar Children to my Kindergarten students. One of my goals as a teacher is to have my students remember me as I remember her.


time when battles are fought and there are monkey bars to master. With my inclined head resting on my crossed arms, as ordered, by Nancy Crossley I spit my Luden’s Cherry Cough Drop out HS English on the desk. Oblivious to the red goo I was There was only one elementary school trailing across the scarred wooden surface, I tongued that baby, flipped it over, and raced in Portales, New Mexico; everyone in it was it through some imaginary story in the box white. I don’t know where the Indians or of shadow that was my private space. I loved anyone else of color went, but it was the rest time. It was soon shattered by Miss 50s and no one talked about such things. Price, who called me out – loudly – across the Teachers like Miss Jewell Price taught me to room. know my place and to stay in it. I found myself looking up into the Those were the days of ABC’s, onepudgy face of a teacher at the end of her two-three’s, yes ma’ams, and no sirs. Girls wore dresses starched and ironed, hair pinned rope. “Miss REID!” That was me. “Miss Reid, back and fastened with barrettes. Boys wore come up here to my desk!” Clueless to the fact that I was in trouble, I walked between shirts tucked neatly into pants, hair slicked my perfectly-behaving classmates to the away from perfect parts. We sat up straight front of the room, where she sat behind and kept our mouths shut. Except me. a massive wooden desk I could barely see As much as I enjoyed second grade, apparently Miss Price thought I should enjoy over. Denied any genes for height, I was short like Granny, short like my parents, and it less, so I could learn more and she could precocious for my age. I was a year younger teach in the peace and quiet of my subdued than the rest of class, so any expectation of self. But little Miss Subdued never showed my mature behavior was continually met with up. disappointment. Mind you, I wasn’t a terrible child. Peering over the edge of her desk, Miss “Do you ever stop talking?” my frustrated Price commanded, “GET back here where I Granny often asked. I shadowed her as she made breakfast, wearing the white, starched can talk to you!” Head down, I shuffled my uniform of a beauty operator. “I do talk a lot, little Buster Brown shoes around the wooden don’t I, Grammy?” was my simple concession fortress and stood nearer. She fired her query with no intention of changing my ways. From in a fierce whisper. “Did you hear me say to get quiet?” her painted red stool, I prattled on about “Yes, ma’am.” nothing and everything while she patted out “Did you GET quiet?” Eyes blazing, she biscuits. Oh, how she loved me, her only never blinked. Her eyebrows seemed to grow granddaughter. But Miss Price bore no such closer together, knitting into an expression prejudice. she saved for personal conversations with In those days of blowing dust, jungle gyms, and learning cursive, playing was more hard-core second-grade offenders and other recidivists. fun than sitting still…and way more fun than “No, ma’am.” keeping quiet. We didn’t have ADHD back “No, you didn’t. Now… (At this point, then or dysgraphia or delayed anything. We I think she was winging it)… Get under my had polio, cleft palates, and club feet. I was ahead of my time: I was ADD. I was GT. I was desk!” I had never seen her do this before, but my next move was not negotiable: Under a pain in the neck. Ask Miss Price. the desk I went until lunchtime. That’s when When we put our heads on our desks, the right side of my brain, Wonderland, she needed a break from the cacophony kicked in and I was happily “someplace else.” of seven-year-olds wired from recess, that

Miss Price


As I squatted in my awesome fortress, Miss Price punished the rest of the class with math. I was a princess locked in a tower, my pink conical hat trailing a chiffon scarf that matched my jeweled gown and slippers. The dragon roamed the forest around me, guarding her treasure with fiery bellows. Above me the wooden rafters harbored frightened birds and a family of squirrels who assured me that all was well. In due time, the tower bell rang and my freedom was restored. “Have you learned your lesson, Miss Reid?” Her face peered under her desk like a giant looking in Alice’s window. Assuring her that the solitude had transformed me, I exited the room, no worse for the humiliation that she had intended. At year’s end, she passed me on to third grade, with little or no remorse. I was one of those children about whom teachers warn other teachers; luckily for the third grade teacher, she never had the little Reid girl, whose family had traded the Land of the Setting Sun for the Lone Star State. Although we moved from Portales, we kids returned every summer to see Granny, spend our hard-earned quarters at Woolworth’s, drink warm Dr. Pepper in a teacup at Skillern’s drugstore, and wait patiently for her to give another cold wave so Pearl’s very red hair would stay curly. Just down the alley from Granny’s apartment, one block over, lived Miss Price in a white cottage, complete with a picket fence, and I never failed to visit her as I grew up – I’m sure, to her surprise. Inside, her living room was filled with dolls from all over the world. Shelves covered the walls, and dolls covered the shelves. I didn’t know one person could have so many, and they were NOT to be played with. However, as she toured me around the room, she took a doll down every now and then to show me the pretty lace skirts, the costumes of other lands she had visited, princesses all.

As I grew older, I wondered why Miss Price had no children. Had her husband died in the war? Was she ever married at all? Apparently, I had tread on a delicate matter; my mother hemmed and hawed about how some women just don’t like men, so they don’t get married. Kind of like Miss Myrtle and Miss Hazelwood, “sisters” who lived in the big house near the town square. Kind of like Johnny, who runs the café, but Johnny’s not really a man. Oh…OH! Folks around Portales just accepted folks as they were, loved them, lived with them, moved on with life. Now we see rainbow flags and drag queens, argue about what “family” means so we can “preserve its sanctity,” and cover each other up with so many labels that it’s hard to see the human being standing next to us. Was Miss Price’s experience different in the golden era of the 50s? I think she may have been lonely but probably did not travel alone. During the school year, a brood of second-graders, even the occasional chatty one, sufficed as her own. I’m pretty sure she loved us. I learned from her, over fifty years ago, that exasperated teachers sometimes do ill-considered things, but putting a student under my desk these days would be more than a little weird. She is long gone, but memory abides. More importantly, I learned from her how much trust students and parents place in a teacher, hoping we don’t violate that trust. The consequent bond is an important one that may last for a long time; I’m surprised what students do remember. A father told me that my notation, “You should sign up for my Creative Writing class!” across the top of his daughter’s sophomore essay “changed her life”; she majored in English and is a journalist. She said no one had ever told her she could write, and she cried when she showed my comment to her parents. Little things like that. Treasures that remind us that with all its warts and wrinkles, school is a good place…from any side of the desk. 23

Teachers Who Have Had an Impression on Me by Dr. Tad Bird

I chuckled to myself as I considered Mr. Jarrett’s request to consider sharing an anecdote or story about a teacher who made an impact on my life. “Tough assignment,” I thought, as there are many teachers who have made impressions on me. Many were quite amazing people, some introverted, and others more charismatic, none of them perfect; all of them were remarkable in some form or another. For the purpose of this assignment, I will offer four brief stories. The first two relate to my parents as they are among the finest teachers I have ever had the privilege of knowing and from whence I have learned to wonder and ask questions. My father was an Episcopal priest, who was formally trained as a marine biologist; and my mother was an elementary, special-education teacher, who happened to be, and remains, a wonderful storyteller. After leaving the bucolic setting of Vineyard Haven on Martha’s Vineyard Island (I was a ripe five years old), we settled on Little Hen Island in Cundy’s Harbor, Maine, with several other families, all of whom-save for the Bird familywere generational fisher folk. In between hopping around from parish to parish,

providing supply assistance to several congregations, Dad spent much of his time in a beautiful hand-made sixteen foot wooden boat, aptly named the Upward Bound. A researcher at heart, whether in matters of theology or biology, he would take his boat in and out of the countless inlets and tidal pools around Ridley and Hen Cove, and Quahog Bay. I was fortunate to be his first mate on a few of these jaunts and was absorbed with his work since it usually entailed something squishy or with scales. He conducted research on shark eyes, so I was allowed to catch sharks –dogfish and sand sharks, actually; and he collected specimens such as sea cucumbers, sea anemones, and urchins to send to Scripps for further study—he was their “supply guy,” and every now and then we’d fish for mackerel or flounder for fun and sustenance. A typical outing included watching the careful, purposeful stalk of a Great Blue Heron, or the unceasing squawk and whirl of terns or seagulls. Seals would inevitably pop up at the most unsuspecting moment as if to say “What are you doing here?” and drop back down into the depths to chase their quarry or romp in and around the seaweed and barnacled encrusted rocks. Early morn or 24

twilight, sunrise or sunset, with mackerel sky or a clear blue, the soothing sounds of waves lapping over the rough hewn, verdant coastline served as a backdrop. It is no wonder, then, that an eight year-old boy might ask such questions as “Dad, did God create the world in six days?” A simple “yes or “no” never followed. A typical response was “it depends…” In such settings the journey of unpacking the dynamic tension between faith and reason began and was nurtured. My innate curiosity was exercised by being encouraged to ask questions…lots of them. In these formative years, Kipling was an author who drew me in, and though Riki Tikki Tavi was by far my favorite story, the trials and tribulations of the wayfaring elephant child resonated nearly as deep, in large part to my mother’s renditions which always included a dramatic, exotic voice, intoning, “…on the banks of the great, grey-green, greasy Lim-popo River…” Other memories include listening, wide-eyed and mouth agape as she joyfully flipped through the A.A. Milne classics with Christopher Robin’s anthropomorphic friends, especially when it came to the most appealing character, Tigger. Raising five children and following a peripatetic priest halfway around the

country was no small order, yet she did so with boundless energy, humor, integrity, and flexibility. In the winter, after putting in an exhausting week at her school and exercises of homework afterwards, she would load up the Volkswagen bus on predawn Saturday and take hyperactive boys to the Bowdoin rink for league hockey games. I don’t remember our wins and losses, nor how many goals I scored or how many times I landed on my rear end; I remember fondly that there were donuts and hot chocolate afterwards. Always. Mom made learning fun, read to me voluminously and dramatically, pushed us to explore the outdoors, arts and athletics, and she never sat still, even in Church. Another memorable teacher was my high school soccer coach: the Reverend Robert Sterling Phipps, Jr. Coach Phipps happened to be the School’s Chaplain, taught history and Theology, coached football, soccer, and baseball. And he was one tough cookie. Though I did not initially appreciate his techniques, I soon came to realize that him challenging me in practice (loudly and publically) was more than a sign of affection, it was a sign of respect; knowing that I wouldn’t crater and likely to pull others along. I can’t say that he was well-loved by all, but he was certainly well-respected. In his own way, he always looked out for the underdog. One of my memories of him


included a speech he gave before a soccer game against our arch-rival, St. Mark’s. The Marksmen had a way of getting under everyone’s skin because they were good at everything…and sometimes they were a bit arrogant in the way they let you know it. Though they often beat us in many contests, we typically held our own in soccer and this particular year we were undefeated going into our match. It was a cold, spitty day (Texas soccer is in the winter) and he was dressed in his warmups and windbreaker. Underneath he had his clerical attire, with black shirt and white priest’s collar. I’ll never forget what happened next, as we sat on the locker benches, anxiously waiting to sprint out on to the field and battle the Lions. Mr. Phipps, as we called him, had carefully removed his collar in front of us and placed it on the windowsill, wheeled around with arched brow (he had some rather dramatic eyebrows) and teeth clenched spewed forth with the most colorful, profane and passionate speech ever to grace our most-receptive, innocent adolescent ears. Though we were whipped up into a frenzy, we were stunned as he finished his version of the Charge of the Light Brigade (Tennyson couldn’t touch Reverend Phipps this day) as he reached for his collar, and in the blink of an eye, fixed it back in place and said “The Lord be with you,” to which we

obediently responded “And also with you!” The Marksmen didn’t know what hit them as the Spartans won the field that day. Reverend Phipps was also most influential in my college placement and in my professional life. After serving St. Stephen’s for over 25 years, he left to become Headmaster of a small Episcopal boys’ boarding school in Virginia. When I was in graduate school, he called me and said, “Tad, I have the perfect place for you as a teacher and a coach.” I hadn’t quite decided to go into education as a career at the time. But he saw something and had faith in me, more than I had in myself. I also have fond memories of a beloved History Professor, Dr. Ed Phillips, whom we affectionately referred to as “Fast Eddie” for the way he shuffled in and out of class. His mind and wit, however, were anything but slow. He was one of the most passionate teachers I knew and the depth and breadth of his knowledge was staggering. But one of the more impressionable moments for me was when I had exhausted a Blue Book for one of his legendary tests (a simple bare pamphlet one was expected to fill with clear, cogent responses to the question or problems posed). I don’t recall a short answer or a multiple-choice test in his class. Ever. Though I typically did well in his courses, I remember one exam where I had completed two of the three requisite 26

essays, but didn’t have as much time for the last; so I whipped through it and thought that I had answered the questions well, waxing quite eloquent along the way. Indeed, I had, but when I received his comments the following week, I read the distinctive scrawl “Dear Mr. Bird, typically your responses thoroughly cover the material. Frankly, this one smacks of bull!” Suffice it to say, I sheepishly approached his office, a bit red-faced realizing that any shortcoming on the test was completely self-inflicted and his comments were spot-on. But, and this is an important but, when I entered the room to discuss my work, he said “You know, you have a fine mind, and I want to know what you really think.” For whatever reason, he allowed me to offer him a more thorough analysis, accompanied by relevant material. It is important to note the tremendous gratitude and respect I feel and have for all of my teachers because of the immeasurable patience, love, care, faith, discipline, creativity and grace they shared, putting up with the restive mind of an annoying energetic young lad. Were it not for these remarkable people, these great teachers, I don’t know where I would be today.

photos by Meg Hasten


Go Into the World & Make a Differenece by Michael Gonzalez

If you know me, you know that

I realized it was time to take my

my parents are my heroes. Manuel

education seriously and to begin to

and Rose were my first teachers,

grow up. The next day I was called

giving my brothers and me the strong

into his office for a follow-up meeting.

foundation for the love of learning.

Not knowing what to expect, Bill and

Neither of my parents had much of a

I visited about my scores, which were

formal education, but what they lacked

average, and that I probably would

in education, they made up in love and

not do well in upper level advanced

wisdom. It was through their sacrifices

classes. I was devastated. What would

and encouragement that I desired to

I do? My love was the study of local

continue my education. This led me

governments and I wanted to pursue

to attend St. Mary’s University and

a career in city administration. With

Trinity University in San Antonio after

this news, would I need to consider a

returning from the Army.

different major and career? How could

At St. Mary’s, I decided to major in a man who really didn’t know me make political science for my undergraduate a decision that would affect my life? As

degree. Dr. Bill Crane, an elderly

I later found out, Bill told me it was a

man from southern Arkansas, was

test to determine if I would just accept

department chair during my admission

his recommendations to pursue another

interview. In order to be selected into

field of study or fight for something I

the very competitive political science

truly wanted. He wondered what my

program, every student had to be

desire and work ethic would be during

interviewed by Bill. It was during this

these two years.

interview where I was introduced to

critical thinking and how to respond

finally accepted me into the program

After several meetings, Bill

during an interview. After the interview, on a conditional basis. This decision 28

changed my life. Someone other

I am in San Antonio, I visit his grave on

than my parents believed in me. Bill’s

St. Mary’s campus. I remember the last

decision to give me the opportunity

thing he said to me the day he died, “Go

to join the program gave me the

into the world and make a difference.”

confidence and determination to pursue my dreams and goals.

Thank you, Mom, Dad, and Bill for everything. I love you so very much.

After I graduated from St.

Mary’s with a BA in political science and religion, I asked Bill why he took a chance in admitting me into the program. Bill said he saw something in me and it was my desire to learn and my determination to achieve my goals.

As always, I love my parents for

everything they provided for me. They are the ones who ignited the passion that Bill recognized. In the same light, I love Bill for giving me the confidence to pursue the rigors of life. Bill died several years ago and once a year, when


Doctor God

During my last semester, I took the Constitutional Law course which was the capstone offering. It by Father David Madison was designed specifically for those of us that would be in law school during the following I think the teacher that had the most semester. It was an intense course that gave us influence on my life was one of my college professors: Dr. Ken Street. In some ways, he was a sample of what we could look forward to as we were slogging through three years of yearning larger than life at Austin College. In other ways, he was quite understated. He was quiet, stately, a law degree. I worked my way through that course with the nagging reminder about how and a force with which a young academic had to I had dropped the ball in the reading course reckon. He earned the moniker, “Dr. God” from earlier. That served as constant motivation to be the student body; out of fear, respect, and later prepared for each and every session. I worked in your college career out of true friendship. hard throughout the semester and will never My first class with Dr. God was during forget how difficult I though the final exam was. my first semester on campus: “Poli Sci 21”, How did any of us pass?! I was convinced that I which served as an introduction into Political dropped the ball yet again and would be forever Science Department. It was a course that had a tagged as a colossal “waster” of Dr. Gods’s time. beautiful mix of intense reading, critical analysis, The Saturday after final exams, I received persuasive writing, arguing on your feet, all a phone call. As I recall, it was at some ungodly stirred together with just a hint of what felt like hour of the morning from my college boy academic hazing. Walking into classroom AD 201 perspective (probably 10:30, or so). I answered. on any Tuesday/Thursday at 9:30 was like walking “David? Ken Street.” My heart stopped. I into battle. It was awesome. stammered for a, “Yes sir!” He was calling to let Throughout my four years at Austin me know that I scored the “high A” on his Con College, I had several courses with Dr. Street. Law final--he just wanted to let me know how Two moments immediately come to mind. One proud he was of my achievement. I was stunned. summer, I took an intense reading course on the Throughout my life, I have been blessed history of the American presidency. We had to with many academic accomplishments. Nothing be invited to take the class and it was considered will ever mean more to me than that final exam. quite an honor to get tapped. We covered a different book each week and would meet in his office for two hours to discuss the assigned text. There were only two students in the course; nowhere to hide. One week toward the end of the summer term, both of us students were clearly unprepared for the session. Things were getting tough about 30 minutes into the session. There was lots of shifting in our seats and maybe even some sweat beading on our brow as the questions intensified. By 45 minutes, the wheels fell completely off. Dr. God chastised both of us, threw us out of his office, and told us to come back when we weren’t, “wasting his time.” I photo by Andi Jameson never arrived unprepared again. 30

A Tale of Two Teachers

year-old college student, I could barely comprehend English at that hour, much less a discussion filled with words like “Tokugawa” and “Zaibatsu.” I remember trying to recall what cardinal sin I must have committed that had doomed me to this academic version of hell. As I was contemplating the merits of hightailing it back to my dorm for a little more sack time, the professor walked in and introduced himself as “Dr. Bohon.” He was entirely too happy for 8:00 in the morning and he was wearing a brightly colored, paisley tie that was about eight inches too short. I smiled as I thought to myself, “typical history nerd!” He explained that as young adults, we had to learn to make our own decisions. That was his reasoning for never taking attendance, a piece of information for which I would have gladly emptied my checking account just one hour earlier. About fifteen minutes into that first class, he had managed to cover the entire chalkboard surface with words that were barely legible. After he had run out of space and instead of walking to the end of the board to retrieve the eraser from the chalk tray, he raised his arm and hurriedly used his coat sleeve to erase part of the board. Without missing a beat, he began to write in that relatively small space while continuing to explain the significance of Shinto mythology. Throughout the class, he continued to scribble on the board, stopping occasionally just long enough to erase portions of the board with his sleeve. It was extremely amusing for the handful of us in attendance that day. At some point during that introductory class, I became aware of the fact that I was actually enjoying Japanese history,

by Dr. Bart Pointer

When I was in 7th grade, my basketball coach was also my U.S. History teacher. He was considerably better at the former than the latter. Every day when the bell rang, Coach Young would take roll, put his feet on the desk, and then begin to read directly from the textbook; every . . . single . . . day. He reminded me of Ben Stein, who played the economics teacher on Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, except the Stein character was infinitely more exciting than Coach Young. Whenever Coach would get tired of hearing himself talk or when it appeared that he was on the brink of losing consciousness, he would “shake things up” and ask a student to read. On those rare occasions, it was like Christmas morning! I could imagine no greater joy than to hear the sound of another voice . . . ANYONE else’s voice (especially on those occasions when that voice belonged to Lori Wilson, the girl who sat beside me; but that’s a different story and there is no point in taking a side trip down Broken Heart Boulevard). In retrospect, Coach Young taught me a great deal: how to set up a hook shot from the top of the key and how to dribble between my legs without planting my face on the gym floor; but he failed miserably at teaching me any U.S. History. Fast forward to my sophomore year at T.C.U. It was 8:00 a.m. in the morning and I was sitting at my desk, awaiting my professor’s arrival. The class was Japanese History. Yes, that’s right: Japanese History at 8 o’clock in the morning. As a nineteen31

which came as a huge surprise. He was so animated and excited about his subject matter that by the time class was over, his shirttail was hanging out and his clothes were covered in chalk. His appearance reminded me of Pigpen, the Charlie Brown cartoon character who is constantly engulfed in a cloud of dust. Nevertheless, I felt a real sense of gratification for the enthusiasm with which he engaged his students. In retrospect, I am even more appreciative when I consider that he had most likely given that lecture every year for thirty-something years. From that day forward, I never missed his class; not once. In fact, I enrolled in his Chinese History course the following semester. Periodically I would see him in the T.C.U. cafeteria and on occasion we would take time to visit over lunch. It was quite obvious that he loved his life’s work. Dr. Bohon, along with select others in my life, impressed upon me a rather simple, yet profoundly important life lesson: Choose worthy goals and beliefs and then pursue them with purpose and passion. If you do that, you will leave this world a better place and somewhere along the way, you will no doubt be an inspiration to others.

photos by Tristan Mercer


As I started running out of remote places for inspiration, I asked the guy who sat in front of me where he goes to write and he shrugged, holding up his last paper with an A on it, and said, “For this one, I Googled ‘sunset’.” And that’s when Wisdom, in all her glory, hit me like the common sense some are born with: Grades mean nothing if you’ve not learned something, overcome a challenge, or better understood yourself because of what you’ve experienced. I will always fondly remember those quiet times I carved out of my crowded schedule as some of the most worthwhile in my life; if I retained nothing else from the class, ingrained in me is the need and affection for deliberate stillness as an integrated part of my life. When all else fails, simplify, simplify.

Thoreau & Emerson by Meg Hasten

To my Thoreau & Emerson professor..

I came into your class an eager college senior anxious to tackle the world, and I left your class intent on entering the woods. I connected with this class, with your teaching style; it showed me how learning should be: reflective, creative, and self-disciplined. In class we discussed as a group the assigned texts and the writers; you never lectured. Other than reading, our only homework was to immerse ourselves weekly in nature, “so much so that you cannot see anything manmade.” You sent us out into the woods to write, to engage our senses, to learn, to listen. I found hidden spots that became mine, hiking deep into the Nature Preserve or driving down country roads for inspiration. I took this homework the most seriously, perhaps because I knew it was shaping my soul, not just my grade. And to find this class, this self-awareness, my senior year as I was applying for jobs and trying to figure out life - there was a plan in that. “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” –Henry David Thoreau

photo by Andi Jameson



photo by Genevieve Merrill

Football, Surgery, Rehab: The Life of an NFL Lineman Editor’s Note: The average NFL player’s career is frequently listed at approximately 3.3 years, according to Blake Brockermeyer, a graduate of Arlington Heights High School and a University of Texas All-American, played offensive tackle for nine seasons in the NFL, suiting up for the Carolina Panthers, the Chicago Bears and the Denver Broncos. Brockermeyer, who is listed as 6’4”, 300 pounds on the NFL historical player site, started 103 games and played in a total of 136. He currently weighs 245 is an avid rock climber and an All Saints’ Middle School and varsity football coach. He is the proud father of Jack (10th), Luke (8th) and twins Tommy and James (5th). Senior football player Charlie Flores interviewed Coach Brockermeyer shortly before Christmas Break. CF: What were your earliest memories of playing football? BB: My earliest memories of playing football would be the 7th grade. I didn’t play when I was younger because I was over the weight limit so I had to wait till the 7th grade to play and I remember to playing at Stripling Middle School in Fort Worth. I remember getting killed; I remember just being terrible at football – but I liked it. I remember going against a lot of older guys and not feeling like I was very good at it when I started. CF: Were your parents afraid of your getting hurt playing football? BB: No, my dad had played college football so you as far as football working out – but, you know, after I got to college and played I didn’t think it was too big of a deal. for a few years, I had a good idea that I was going to make it to the next level. So there CF: What other sports did you play in high was never really a question of, “Am I hoping school? to make it to the NFL?” – it was more of a matter of how long so it always seemed like BB: My freshman year I played football, an obtainable goal once I put my mind to that basketball, and baseball, sophomore year that’s what I wanted to do. I played baseball and football. After my sophomore year I decided just to focus on football. I loved playing baseball but it limited CF: When did you realize that you were better than your peers at football? my working out for football. CF: Did you have a back-up plan if football didn’t work out? BB: Not a great one probably (laughing). I mean the odds are definitely stacked against

BB: I remember in high school, my junior year, I was playing against some guys that were being recruited pretty heavily and offered many scholarships, and I remember 35

doing pretty well against them. That gave me some confidence after playing them. Then mail from many colleges started to come in and my mom would always keep me humble. “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch” – I remember her saying that over and over again. I would be like, “Mom, I have over a 100 schools recruiting me…I can.” In college, my sophomore year, one of the scouts that had come to the game against the University of Houston had mentioned in the paper that I was the best player on the field and I was only a sophomore. So I thought, “Wow! This is definitely starting to look like it is going to happen.” That’s when I started thinking about leaving early out of Texas. CF: Who do you contribute most of your success to (in terms of technique)? BB: Well, I had a pretty good offensive line coach named Pat Watson in college who was a good coach and taught me a lot more than I learned in high school. But honestly, until my rookie year in the NFL, my line coach Jim McNally, he actually brought in one of his former linemen, Anthony Munoz, who is considered the best offensive tackle ever. So, my rookie mini-camp, after the draft, he came in and would work with me one-onone for like two or three days and I learned more in those three days than I learned in my career. So coach McNally was the best teacher I had. CF: What’s it like to play in the NFL at such a high level of competition? BB: It’s a lot different than most people think. They think, oh, you just show up on Sundays and play, but it’s a full-time job. Monday through Sunday you get one day off a week, which is usually Tuesdays, but that day is usually spent in treatment and getting all the soreness out from the game. It was a great experience and something I’m glad I did and

something I would not change. There’s a lot of stress involved, a lot of people watching everything you do – more so now then when I played because of the technology. It was fun but also the biggest relief is after the game and being like, “Thank God I survived that!” CF: What happens at the line of scrimmage and in those dog piles that people might not realize? BB: Well, it’s definitely a big difference from SPC football that’s for sure. You know, there’s a lot of talking between plays, after plays, and during plays. Lots of things that can’t be repeated. It’s an ego based profession, where it’s always testing someone’s manhood. My rookie year I was 22 years old and I was the youngest player in the NFL and I was playing against guys that were as old as 40. There’s a big difference in age. There’s an intimidation factor and there’s a lot of talking and extracurricular things that go on after the whistle. CF: What were some of the high points in your career? BB: I was fortunate and unfortunate to be drafted by an expansion team, so for the Carolina Panthers it was their first year being a football team. So I honestly was one of the more experienced guys on the whole team and I was a rookie. Most of the guys that were there were journeyman-type guys that had never played that much and had been backups. There were a handful of veterans that had played. Being able to play from the first day of my career, to come and be the starter was a great way to learn a lot. Each team I played on made the playoffs at least once and had two of those teams were really good teams and got really close to the Super Bowl. Playing a lot of snaps in my nine-year career. 36

CF: What do you consider your biggest accomplishment?

CF: What was the best fan base that you saw when you saw in the NFL?

BB: Probably the fact that I missed very few games in that span, even though I was injured a lot. Surgeries after the season, heal up, work out, do all the things to get ready for the next season. By the time the next season came around, I was ready. When it was time to play a game, I would play even if I was hurt, there’s kind of a respect factor that you have to earn and I think that was probably something I’m most proud of.

BB: I thought the Green Bay Packers fans were good fans. There’s not a whole lot to do in Green Bay so it’s kind of a big deal for there to be a game. Their fans were never over-the top-rude or obnoxious. Families can go to the game and not have to worry about it, where in some cities they can’t because something’s going to happen to them. CF: The NFL has been in the news a lot this year about concussions and hazing in the locker rooms. Can you give us your opinion on these topics?

CF: What were some of your low points in your career? BB: I have two. I broke my thumb during my second year and I had surgery and they put pins in my thumb. Another player had taken over my position while I was injured, he had played pretty well and the next year when training camp had opened, they decided they wanted to move me o a different position and my heart was not in moving to a different position so I didn’t play that well and after the last preseason game they benched me. I knew I would get another opportunity to go back in and show them that I was better that the guy that had started over me. Fortunately for me, he got injured two games later. Once I got back on the field, I kept starting. At the end of my career, I went to 8 or 9 teams and every doctor just flunked my physical. I went to the worst teams you can think of because I wanted to play another year or two and every doctor would be like, “Fail, fail, fail, fail.”

BB: When I played you really didn’t hear much about concussions. If you had one, there wasn’t a protocol. Once the ringing was out of your head, you would go back in and play. A lot of research has been done so they are trying to do a good job by protecting the players. A lot of the rules they have I disagree with but they are trying to protect players. The hazing is more of a prank than a physical bullying. It’s kind of like initiation in fraternities. In the NFL, you don’t see people getting beat up, it’s more like pranking or joking. It usually has to do with taping a rookie up to a goal post or throwing them in an ice tub. The most common type of hazing is the rookies are in charge of bringing food for road trips. They are in charge of bringing donuts or fruit to their position group a certain day. At least one dinner a rookie is in charge of, that’s where I think the rules are fixing to change, because some of the tabs these people are spending are crazyexpensive. They will take their position group out and spend $20,000-$30,000 on a dinner. That will change in the near future.

CF: What was the loudest stadium you played in? BB: I always thought that Minnesota was the loudest stadium we played in. Any dome is loud but that place seemed to be real loud and Kansas City was extremely loud.

CF: You are blessed to have four boys. Do you worry about them playing football with all the concussions? 37

BB: I don’t worry about it but it is definitely a part of the risk that you take in any sport you play. It’s part of the game and injuries happen. There’s always something that can happen in football.

CF: What was your favorite franchise? BB: The Chicago Bears because I was at the peak of my career and I played the best football there. There’s a lot of tradition and history because they have more Hall of Famers than any other franchise. If I had been drafted by the Denver Broncos, I think my career would have been a lot longer because the really took care of players’ bodies.

CF: Why did you choose All Saints’ to send your kids to? BB: My wife did most of the research and we talked about it. She thought that this would be a great place to send the boys to because it has such a spiritual base and she had heard nothing but good things about All Saints. She can probably answer that better than me (laughing).

CF: Who is the best player you have ever played against? BB: Dwight Freeney was an incredible player because no matter what you did you were wrong because he could do everything perfect technique-wise and he always did his move a little bit better. He was an excellent player. Simeon Rice was a great defensive end. I think at one time out of the top ten sack leaders, I played against eight of them.

CF: What are you up to these days? I’m coaching football at All Saints and helping out with the strength and conditioning program. Assisting baseball in the Spring. CF: What do you miss the most about professional football? BB: I miss the camaraderie between the coaches and players. It’s seldom that I miss playing on the field. I miss being around the guys and being a part of a group of guys with a common goal. CF: What don’t you miss about football? BB: I don’t miss the meetings. In the NFL you meet and meet and meet about anything you can think of. From 7 am to 8 pm it’s mostly practice or meetings. That gets old after a while. Rehab and surgery takes its toll mentally on you because you spend half of your day everyday just doing the same methodical boring exercises trying to build up your muscles. You are doing that and you know that you are just going to hurt it again next year. So it’s just this vicious cycle of football, surgery, then rehab again and again. 38

Poetry photo by Katie Nicholson


Chick, Chick, Chick Dare by Jack Taylor

by Brock Bearden

Chick Chick Chick, peck peck peck Just another day what the heck same other ladies around Mr. Rooster strutting up the town

Get some scratch sit in the hay lay a brown egg

wait for the next day

I was dared by my brother to swallow a handful of color I threw it up and there was a rainbow of commotion Next thing I knew I was crying And my body was full of emotion. That handful of color burned through my tongue It made my face catch on fire And sent me spinning on my head I was hearing the heavenly choir The pop rocks burned through my tongue Which made my face catch on fire While spinning on my head I was deeply admired. Out they came from my body in all directions There might be one left in my mouth But I’m stuck upside down to the pavement Oh no-the last one is coming out south! I thought I was going to die But the firemen appeared and sprayed me down Water was splashing like I was riding down Niagara Falls The embarrassment was more profound.

photos by Sophie Chevereaux


From Mollie-Ann to Marzipan by Alex Bush

Obey who? Me, that’s you-know-who… We worry and grumble and suffer- oh, boo. From promises broken and promises kept, I should have known better than e’er to leapt. Stand at the station and pay up the fare; We say we’ll go far, but where oh where? Jumping is free, and runs dime-a-dozen; At that rate I had not been a friendly curmudgeon. A baby bjørne’s life I have now been free, For what? Ah, to know my own destiny; And what of you, leader? Stiff as a log? Bah what does it matter? You’re nothing but fog. From child-like obedience we fear much to stray. But this is the chorus, to enter the fray! To depart from the pull, to leap to the skies, A trip to the island has opened my eyes. Promises made in the back-lot of Goryeo Stand nought to the flames of a forest in Borneo. There is life left, here things to be done. The courage is knowledge, the war to be won. We must be all things: love, patient, and kind. The Republic of Heaven screams, “Now is the time!” “Our laughter is now!” Must be our refrain, If hope is our comfort, if joy is our gain.


Hope is a Thing with Claws by Thea Wilson

“Hope” is a thing with clawsThat tears at the heartAnd draws the blood from the innocentAnd never shows-mercy ever-

And devious - in the spirits - it scratchesAnd teared must be the childThat falls into its sharp clutches That scarred so many souls-

I’ve seen it in the common landsAnd on the rarest hillsYet-always-masked, It asked a home-of me.

Kind Lies by Ellie Hertel

photos by Katie Nicholson

Do you ever smile when inside you’re upset? Or say you remember when you truly forget? Someone asks how you are and you say that you’re fine, Or spit out another generic line. Yes, it’s a lie, but it isn’t that wrong. It’s simply so that they can move along. Most of the time, they’re being polite. They don’t want to hear, so lying’s alright. Do you ever say ‘sorry’ when you couldn’t care less, Or give a nice answer when it’s really a guess? Say that it’s lovely when it’s really a mess, Or want to say no, but you answer a yes? These are the lies that couldn’t be fined! You aren’t doing wrong, you’re just being kind.


In the Dappled Pool, Drift Roses by Nancy Crossley

Pearls cascade down ivory satin, and she pauses. Beneath the arbor blooms, she descends flagstone steps as if she owns them …steadied, assured… by your arm. Gliding past garden waterfall, father and bride stand center, and you kiss her -the cheek kiss of ceremony for a little-girl-grown. Your part done, you sit by me, take my hand in one of yours, and cover it with the other. You still wear the gold watch I gave; You smell like pine and autumn afternoon. “It’s good, Mama. We did good.” Her face, peach porcelain, smiles softly from verse to promise to kiss. You’re right: The years have come to this, and it is good. Sitting close, we watch, reliving silently our Ode-to-Joy day of stained glass,white lace, and soft, fluttering orchids. By Liam Finley

Flower Inspired by Georgia O’Keeffe watercolor on paper


The Gauntlet

photo by Annabelle French

by Phoebe Bloomfield As I walk into the Middle School hall, to my friends around I might fall. Keeping up a steady pace, I prepare for the peril I am sure to face. The temptation is strong, but I carry on, my academic future at stake. I move slowly through the crowd, my friend’s laughter clear and loud. I pass my friends with a longing glance, knowing that now is my chance, to pass the test every day presents, and make my morning’s time well spent. My daily struggle has come to pass, as I sit down in my intended class. I have braved it once more, the Gauntlet. photo by Sara Kate Puff


by Jhacobe Cochran Success is reaching the top of the mountain Emotion is a rollercoaster Fear is the feeling of an upset stomach Jealousy is feeling concern Chaos is a highway around 6 p.m. on a Friday Love is playing basketball on the weekends Excitement is the fuel on the basketball court Hope is a prayer for help Trust is telling a dog to sit on the first try Dreams are unrealistic movies 44

Two Days a Jabberwocky by Ben Taylor

The frabjous day had long since past and on his life! he had been hast ening through the wood When trav’ling round the bend he found a sight so scribilous he lost his bound and he would have been frightened, if he could Out came the old blade to snickersnack To cut and cleave and tear and hack Just like old brillyg, and the once in the wood But ere the sword had left its sheath Scarce’ even before he drew in breath Enveloped in smoke; he would have falled lighter if he could Head a-pounding, heart a-bounding He came to, his lip a-pouting Why, this time, had there been a catch? His eyes had marveled at its purple sheen Its slithy body, the Hookah’s gleam And could have all been but a dream? It could! Our hero sits, thoughts a-wandering on a giant toadstool, just a-pondering How had he so soon met his match? He had hoped it would be the Bandersnatch!

photo by Kathi Tiffany

The New Girl

by Cecilia Nowlin Quiet, shy, don’t know what to say; I am the new girl today. I brisk through the hallways almost unseen. Tell me, does it look like my face is turning green? I have a few friends, but I’m still not sure If having a lot of friends is the cure For missing everyone at my old school. I’m afraid that here I’ll look like a fool. Soon, I’ll get over it; I’m positive I will. My parents tell me I just need to ‘chill’. After a while, I’m fitting in better. We start small conversations about school and the weather. And somehow I know; I can feel it in my bones That I can go from being the new girl to feeling at home. 45

Little Jem

by Dylan Kearney A young boy named Jem is extremely curious Boo Radley is the one that makes him furious Catching a glimpse of him is impossible Dragging him out of his house is improbable Every time Jem has tried to see him Fate demands Jem not to see him Gates surround his house at all times Having to go onto his property is surely Jem’s demise Impossible to get high enough to see in Boo’s windows Jem knows what he needs to impose Knowing he can trust two of his closest friends Little Jem makes them attend Many times have I tried to see Boo and have failed Not now, not tonight, tonight we shall avail Out into the night Jem and his friends went Praying they wouldn’t die by Boo, whom they hadn’t met Quietly they approached his house Right beneath them shot out a mouse Scared by the creature they had just seen The kids cautiously stepped up onto the decks horizontal beams Under them it groaned and creaked Venturing further was making the kids bleak When all of a sudden footsteps made the house shake

photo by Sam Paul


New Year

A pale flower unfolds in a cave, where no light will ever warm its petals.

by Ashley Dioguardi

A new morning brewed Reveals fresh ideas, with Past regrets forgotten.

Life does thrive in the dark – in the blackness of rich soil freshly watered by rain, and in the shadows of an embryo’s home cradled by its mother.

A shiny yellow school bus, Pulls up to the curb, entrusting Eager minds to follow along. The clicking of high heels Trace down the hallway. Familiar sounds comfort me, Paper fresh from the print Blankets the miniature desks, Previewing what is to come.

Even in those cavernous tunnels where no light has ever touched, life forever blooms.

by Kelly Carroll

photo by Sam Paul

A new perspective Forms an idea in my head. Welcome to the New Year!

photo by Sam Paul

photo by Katie Nicholson

photo by Vivian McCnair


Ares’ Civil War by Rob Smat

Rob Smat ’13 was named the recipient of the 2012 Cameron Phelan Creative Writing Award with his winning poem titled Ares’ Civil War. Faculty-nominated students were asked to draw inspiration from an image and write an essay on the theme “A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words.” Recipients receive a $500 tuition grant scholarship and their names listed on a plaque displayed in the Sid W. Richardson Library in the Upper School. The Cameron Phelan Creative Writing Award is named in memory of Cameron, a graduate of the Class of 1999, who tragically passed away in 2006. Part I We choose to go to the Moon In this decade And do the other things Not because they are easy But because they are hard We choose to go to the Moon The Reds hollow out missiles Once fated to kill, Now destined to explore The final frontier America looks up She wonders how far, She wonders how fast, She can fly

Now the only reflection is our ownideal past We choose to go to War Ares revels with sumptuous sacrifices Ares grasps his landlocked beachhead Ares relishes in his lust for sweltering deserts Sandy grains slip between Ares’sclutches We choose to go to War Cold Ares no longer fuels rigorous innovation Ares halts America Oil no longer fuels gargantuan rockets and machines of humankind Oil halts America We choose to go to War

We choose to go to the Moon Close race, Sputnik and Gagarin by a hair, America in hot pursuit Ares receives no burnt offerings Magnificent Ares is frozen for fear of the atom Ares remains Cold, The shadow of his former self America trips, Stumbles Her first martyrs: Grissom, White, Chaffee

A nation divided cannot thrive A nation divided cannot function A nation divided can notsucceed A nation divided cannot stand A nation divided needs unity Here we find the magnitude of a new towering achievement, Its shadow will stretch beyond our generations, We shall shift our eyes from the reflection of the past And America will hope once again, Here is found Change We Can Believe In: We choose to go to Mars

We choose to go to the Moon America takes one small step The Eagle has landed America by a photo finish One giant leap for mankind We choose to go to the Moon In the Moon’s shadow America moves forward, America looks to the future, America hopes. We choose to go to War In this decade

Part II

America has hoped America has Enterprise, But Enterprise was retired Atlantis was retired Discovery was retired Former Reds Now America’s only way up Once occupying our rear-view reflection,


All Saints' Review 2014  

Literary magazine harnessing the writing talents of students, faculty and staff at All Saints' Episcopal School in Fort Worth.

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