Issuu

CERBERUS

Cerberus

The Literary Magazine of Ashley Hall Charleston, South Carolina

2026 Editorial Team Helen Kourtidis ‘26: Editor-in-Chief Savvy Lewis ‘26 Elizabeth Brisson ‘27 Molly Mettler ‘27 Charlotte Guffey ‘28 Georgia Newman ‘28 Kate Graham ‘28 Lynden Taylor ‘28 Vayia Kourtidis ‘29 Marlowe Murdough ‘29 Faculty Advisors and Editors Chris Hughes Christina Trimarco Emmad Soltan Front Cover Art The Jungle by Felice Killian

From the Editor Helen Kourtidis History Cerberus, an Ashley Hall publication since 1912, earned an esteemed place among the school’s time-honored traditions. Founded by Josephine Pinckney and Elizabeth Gamel Woolsey, this publication has been the start of the prolific writing careers of many Ashley Hall alumnae. The name derives from a stuffed dog, who traveled around campus and was placed at the Ashley Hall gates to welcome the students back every school year. Adored by many students, it became a mascot who “guarded” the school’s gates – hence its classical name, Cerberus, after the mythological guard dog. For some time, the magazine was known as The Acanthus, named after a purple+white flower which is also present as an architectural feature in the McBee House. The Cerberus returned to its original name in 2023, in order to remember the rich, long history that was begun so long ago. The current Cerberus team is excited to build off of our last few publications in this Spring volume of 2026. Please join us in congratulating the Cerberus staff and many contributing students, to whom we all must say: PQV. 2

Spring 2026 This Spring, as always, the Cerberus is the culmination of an incredible range of artistic styles, thematic elements, and student experiences. Students have submitted photography documenting their adventures abroad, their simple moments with soft sunsets, and their wonder at the beauty of the nature that surrounds us. Artists have dedicated months to their work, perfecting every brushstroke and pencil mark before deciding to share the final products with us, whether they created masterful AP portfolios or beautiful doodles in the backs of notebooks. Poets have carefully crafted sentences to impart their inner thoughts and observations, discussing topics from isolation and desire to charlie’s grocery and their love of yoga class. Finally, students shared their academic work, the analytical essays and class projects that demonstrate their incredible growth and skill as students and as individuals. The intellectual diversity of Ashley Hall’s student body shines through in every Cerberus publication, making it all the more wonderful to flip through. As always, in reviewing these submissions, I am hit with a sense of joy at this collection of student work, and gratitude that I am given such wonderful snapshots into my classmates' thoughts and experiences. The visual and literary arts provide us with a unique form of 3

communication, a special way to share jokes and serious contemplations alike that is difficult to find elsewhere. When taken together, these submissions tell a story of growing up, of the ups and downs of adolescence and the large and small moments that will make up our memories of our high school years. They tell a story of Ashley Hall, and of everyone that will one day walk through these halls and browse these pages as alumnae, reminiscing on a time of their lives that is more fleeting that they may recognize. The Spring 2026 edition of the Cerberus is rather bittersweet for me, because it will be my last. As I am writing this while still in the midst of exams, it is still difficult to comprehend that I graduate in three weeks, but I am already feeling nostalgic about the Cerberus long before this edition releases. I am eternally grateful for the space this publication has occupied in my academic development and my personal journey of growing at Ashley Hall. I hope younger students take hold of this opportunity both to share their work and to appreciate that of their classmates— it forges connections you may not even notice until your time at this school is almost over. Thank you so much to everyone who has submitted to or read this edition, and to everyone who will submit and read in the future. I hope you all enjoy this Spring’s edition of the Cerberus, and all of the future editions to come.

CERBERUS STAFF HELEN KOURTIDIS ‘26 – Editor in Chief Helen Kourtidis is a Senior who has attended Ashley Hall since third grade and has been part of the Cerberus Staff since she was a freshman. She has long enjoyed the humanities and arts, and she loves reading, writing poetry, playing the piano, and performing in theater productions. Helen will be attending Wesleyan University next fall, and she hopes to bring everything the Cerberus taught her to college with her. She has loved working on the Cerberus and will forever miss being a part of this beautiful tradition! SAVVY LEWIS ‘26 – Poetry Editor Savvy Lewis is a Senior who has attended Ashley Hall since 7th grade and has been part of the Cerberus Staff since her sophomore year. She loves reading, writing poetry, and playing the violin. She has loved being a part of the Cerberus staff and will miss being a part of this tradition. ELIZABETH BRISSON ‘27 – Marketing Team MOLLY METTLER ‘27 – Staff Writer Molly is a junior who has attended Ashley Hall since the 9th grade. This is her first year on the Cerberus Staff and she has really enjoyed being a part of this lovely team. She 5

loves reading and writing, playing sports, dogs, and spending time with her friends and family. LYNDEN TAYLOR – ‘28 - Marketing team Lynden is a Sophomore who has attended Ashley Hall since 5th grade and has been a part of the Cerberus staff starting this year. She enjoys reading, playing soccer, and listening to music. She also LOVES spending time with her family and friends. She has absolutely loved being part of the Cerberus staff this year and looks forward to continuing this tradition in the coming years. GEORGIA NEWMAN ‘28 - Marketing team Georgia is a sophomore who has attended Ashley Hall since kindergarten and has been part of the Cerberus staff starting this year. She enjoys spending time with her friends, playing lacrosse, running, and learning with Ashley Hall. She has enjoyed her time with the Cerberus so far and can not wait to continue this tradition in upcoming years. KATE GRAHAM ‘28 - Art Curator Kate Graham is a Sophomore who has attended Ashley Hall since 6th grade, and this is her first year on the Cerberus staff. She enjoys music, movies, spending time with her friends, and being outside. She is so excited to join the team as the art curator to show our community all the amazing art that its students create. She has enjoyed her 6

time on Cerberus this year and is excited for the Spring edition and the future of this tradition. MARLOWE MURDOUGH ‘29 –Academic Section Curator VAYIA KOURTIDIS ‘29 – Staff Writer

Table of Contents A Tribute to Mrs. DeeDee Smith by Emmad Soltan . . . 13 From the Staff: Around Campus: Arts by Vayia Kourtidis . . . 15

A Midsummer Night’s Dream by Emmad Soltan . . . 16 29 New Street by Britton Zollweg . . .18 Estranged by Molly Mettler . . .18 Fishing Under The Ravenel Bridge by Emma Kate Schimming . . .20 Juniper Tree by Penny Rose . . .20 Ashley Hall’s Juniper by Kate Murray . . .21 Sailboat Sunset by Clara Kirchner . . .22 Williams through the Silverstone Haze by Leighton Staebell . . . 22

Red Snapper, Blue Marlin, Mahi Mahi by Annie Davis . . . 23 Snow in Love by Susannah Elliott . . . 24 Untitled by Alex Young . . . 25 Merge by Grace Taylor . . .25 Is it just me or…? by Anonymous . . . 26 Untitled by Anonymous . . . 27 Sunrise on Sullivan's by Emma Tedford . . . 27 Sunrise on the Ravenel by Gemma Williams . . . 28 Mammoth Hot Springs: Creation by Fire and Water by Kamya Heyward . . . 29 Infinity by Teddy Harrington . . . 29 Sunset at the Marsh by Olivia Paoletti . . . 30 Join the Krewe by Felice Kilian . . .31 Untitled by Madeline Schimming . . . 31 The Demoted by Annabel Morse . . . 32 Day's End by Nettie Carter . . . 39 9

Ignite by Grace Taylor . . . 40 Photography by Shila Sniderman . . . 41 Madeline Oak by Bryn Wildstein . . . 43 Media by Annabelle Lee . . . 44 Golden Hour by Zahirah Muhammed . . . 45 Washington DC Pictures by Jaalah Brown . . . 46 Bamboo Gardens by Anna Thome . . . 48 Washout by Tate Erwin . . . 49 Wanting by Campbell Lennon . . . 50 The Human Experience by Isla Dillahey . . . 51 Breaking Glass by Helen Kourtidis . . .52 Untitled by Payton Rivers . . . 55 La Gare by Grace Taylor . . . 56 Untitled by Rebecca Somsky . . . 57 Moving On by Veda Patel . . . 58 Untitled by Sally Rowson . . . 59 Shell Collection by Carys Sills . . . 60 10

Triptych by Walker Ewing . . . 61 Nothing Like Surfing at Sunset by Izzy Scolnick .61 Ocean Finds by Izzy Scolnick . . . 62 Panther Pride by Izzy Scolnick . . . 62 Practice Ends With Golden Hour by Izzy Scolnick… 63

Quiet Moments by the Water byIzzy Scolnick . . . 63 Watching the world wake up on East Bay by Izzy Scolnick . . . 64 The Ocean Calls by Izzy Scolnick . . . 65 Ashley Hall Girls x Charlies by Elizabeth Brisson . . .65

Yoga Class Picture . . . 66 April 2nd poem by Madeline Graham . . . 67 Crow Pose by Jaalah Brown . . . 68 Acrostic Poem by Faye Davall . . . 69 Yoga by Mary Hope Lloyd . . . 69 Yoga by Mira Allegier . . . 70

Academic Section In-Class Essay Test for The Road– Helen Kourtidis Block Project Final Draft – Penelope Rose

1984 Op-Ed: How Violent Language Kills Democracy – Helen Kourtidis Introduction to Mrs. Westbrook’s class’s “Girl” Poems The Pursuer – Anonymous Dancer – Caitlin Bennett Older Sister – Anonymous Thoughts Behind the Smile – Aziel Reed

A Tribute to Mrs. DeeDee Smith Miss You Emmad Soltan

DeeDee Smith was hired in 1999 by our former Head of School, Margaret C. MacDonald (1985 - 2004). The interview went well. Margaret hand wrote the offer on the back of her business card! DeeDee told me she still kept this special card dear to her heart in a safe place. 13

For over quarter a century, DeeDee was a beloved and integral part of the Ashley Hall community. Her dedication, grace, and unmatched ability to connect helped shape the school into the special place it is today. She poured her heart into the students, faculty, and families she served, and in return, she was deeply loved and respected by all who had the privilege of knowing her. Her presence wasn't just appreciated, it was essential, and it will be profoundly missed. DeeDee played many roles at Ashley Hall and touched countless lives. She was the Middle School Administrative Assistant for many years. I helped setup her new office at the new IP Building entrance. She coordinated the Summer Camps programs. Every week in summer, we got together to upload the weekly emergency contact list for summer campers. She also coordinated the Extended Day program and hired many CofC students. DeeDee managed the School Store and was an excellent sales woman. She always chatted about the new merchandise at the store. One day, she received beautiful women handbags with the Ashley Hall white and purple squares. She suggested that I buy this for my wife and I did. We love this bag VERY much. It was picked by DeeDee. Her daughter Lauren Smith is an Ashley Hall alumna (Class of 2010). Lauren also became a teacher. We saw her during many summers coming back to serve as a 14

teacher/counselor in both the Ashley Hall summer camp and the Horizons at Ashley Hall program. Lauren was recently inducted in Ashley Hall Athletic Hall of Fame. What a wonderful bond when the Mother and daughter are both supporting their beloved school. DeeDee had a big heart. She once said, ‘You can pick your friends, but not your family... unless you’re at Ashley Hall. Here, you get both.’ She has created that sense of family for so many—showing up, pitching in, making every person feel seen and valued. We miss you DeeDee.

Around Campus: Arts

Vayia Kourtidis The performing arts department has been busy this semester across all sections! Beginning in January, students from fifth to twelfth grade prepared for the biennial Shakespeare on the Bear Cave performance, directed by theatre teacher Ms. Phelan-Deconinck. This year, these talented students worked on the classic A Midsummer Night’s Dream, portraying scenes of jealousy, love, and comedy. Meanwhile, private lesson students worked 15

especially hard these last few months. Many piano students participated in the Louise Matheson Scholarship Auditions, South Carolina Music Teachers’ Association (SCMTA) Auditions, and Achievement Day, where they were tested on piano playing and theory skills. In May, several are taking the Royal Conservatory of Music exams. Best of luck to them! In the strings world, cellists Adya Sharma ‘29 and Sky Malloy ‘30 went to Boston in February with the Charleston Symphony Youth Orchestra to play in the New England Conservatory. The Upper School Arts Showcase in April featured performances from the talented Red Choir and Upper School Strings classes. The Red Choir sang highlights from the year, ranging from Baroque melodies to the crooning songs of Gershwin, while Upper School Strings hopped between classical tunes and recent pop hits. Our resident performing arts students should be proud of all the work they’ve done this year!

A Midsummer Night’s Dream Emmad Soltan Huge thanks for A Midsummer Night’s Dream play at the Bear Cave this past weekend. I came to the Friday show and saw a full house of audience. All seats were taken. Overflow audience sat on Jenkins concrete steps or brought their blankets or lawn chairs. I asked our SRO about Saturday 16

and Sunday shows. They also had a full house! We were blessed with good weather for the three days. The costumes were beautiful and were carefully picked to match each character. The actors’ audio was crisp, clear and at the perfect volume for the space. The dusk lighting was this big white ball to the side that felt like a big moon. Background music was well chosen with perfect volume. Adding a real cello was a nice compliment to the background music. I noticed how the space was efficiently and fully used; above/around/in front of the Bear Cave, Senior Lawn, Jenkins steps. I had to keep turning my head left, right, up and down to catch up the active scenes. Very dynamic indeed. The Wild West group dance at Jenkins corner was vividly amazing with much energy. WOW, WOW, WOW! I loved how Aimee Phelan took a Shakespeare era play and re-imagined it happening at the Wild West with fairy dust sprinkling! With much appreciation for our precious team’s hard work and the many long rehearsals. Huge Thanks for A Midsummer Night's Dream Play at the Bear Cave

29 New Street by Britton Zollweg

Estranged Molly Mettler We walked the same street— opposite directions, opposite intentions My eyes trace the pavement, then glance up— a subtle smile unfolds across my face my mouth makes the first move but I don’t think you heard me coming. 18

"Good morning” Little white circles inhabit your ears They orbit your silence like tiny moons— surviving only in universes where my voice is muted. You’ve found other worlds to wander into; I’m still waiting in this one. Our voices once danced together Now they lie paralyzed in our throats, Tuned only to the hum inside our ears. Woven together by wires– No, not wires. Chains. We render each other strangers. Always “connected” yet never with reality Isolation becomes infectious. Two blocks later, My ears are chillingly embraced By my own little white circle.

Fishing Under the Ravenel Bridge Emma Kate Schimming

Juniper Tree by Penny Rose I made it using black ink, and it was my first time using ink for such a big piece. My favorite part about it that I love pointing out is my description of Mr. Miyar in the workhe is situated to the left of the tree! 20

Ashley Hall’s Juniper Tree by Kate Murray This piece was made using ink, Sharpie, pencil, and white. I sat outside directly in front of the tree during each class time, carefully observing the tree's details and doing my best to translate that onto the paper. It was a very long, tedious process, but so worth it in the end!

Sailboat Sunset by Clara Kirchner

Williams Through the Silverstone Haze Leighton Staebell

Red Snapper, Blue Marlin, Mahi Mahi by Annie Davis

Snow in Love by Susannah Elliott

Untitled by Alex Young

Merge by Grace Taylor

Is it just me or…? Anonymous

Untitled by Anonymous

Sunrise on Sullivan’s Island by Emma Tedford

Sunrise on the Ravenel by Gemma Williams

Mammoth Hot Springs: Creation by Fire and Water by Kamya Heyward Infinity Teddy Harrington Is infinity real? We cannot say because no one has lived long enough to reach the end and return with an answer. Maybe infinity is something that continues forever, reaching every corner of the universe. And yet, it unravels like string. Maybe infinity ends at a definite point, concluding all existence 29

like a punctuation mark finishing a thought. Or maybe infinity is neither endless nor limited— just a concept we stretch over the unknown to make it seem less terrifying

Sunset at the Marsh by Olivia Paoletti 30

Join the Krewe by Felice Killian

Untitled by Madeline Schimming

The Demoted Annabel Morse Prologue My bloody hand reaches for the microphone, the other for the paper in my pocket. I shove it in a crevice between the floor and wall. A dark voice behind me says, “it would be a lot easier to give up now.” I can practically hear her voice shaking with glee. I switched on the almost dead, dented microphone that holds the only hope of life for me. I cry into it, hopefully these aren’t my last words. I feel a cold jagged blade tearing my filthy shirt “Help. My name is Kalisa Jeffery. I am….” Then it all goes dark. This can’t be how it ends for us. Chapter 1 I don't really want to learn about the Paris treaty from eons ago. Who does? Not me. I drum my fingers on my desk and try to pay attention, but it doesn’t work. I wonder what that girl I saw on the train was doing. She looked hungry and scared and tired and dirty. I saw her tuck a foreign looking newspaper in her coat. She must have been demoted. Everyone in the city would hate to be the lowest of the low. Mama’s voice soon enters my head “Kalisa,” She 32

says, “what if you were them? No roof, no food, no talent, and no money. How would you feel seeing all the elites walking around with no worries?” “Kalisa, Kalisa Jeffery?” A sharp voice disrupts my thoughts. “Yes ma’am?” I manage to squeak out to Ms. Kolin. The principal’s sidekick says “The Principal wants you in her office effective now.” There is something in her tone that tells me nothing good can come of this. I turn to see my best friend, Annise Mooréy, right next to the report station where people's fates are sealed; where children become demoted. She is lingering outside of the offices. Why is she there? She isn’t the type to ruin someone's life. I offer a wave to Annise. She looks up and shakes her head. It feels like I am about to meet my doom as I walk through the massive, white bullet-proof doors. As soon as I push through the doors, “Sit.” I can’t stand to look the principal in the eyes. Her eyes are like shards of glass digging into your soul. She is evil. You can tell just by looking at her, with her fake lips, plucked eyebrows, tight updo and fake, curled hair. “Look here Kalisa, you are terrible. Nothing good can ever come from you. I despise you,” she slams her hands on the desk. “You are worthless. You are a terrible student, athlete, artist and person. You will fail and drop. Rurals never amount to anything.” She did not just insult my upbringing and the people that keep her twisted world 33

turning. She couldn't have been more disgusted or hateful if she were the devil herself. “I will personally make sure of it.” Of what? My eyes sting. I won’t let her make me cry. Me being here means life to my family. It keeps them fed, clean, and safe. I don’t know what I did wrong, but I refuse to let her strip me of my dignity, or what little I have left. She is trying to manipulate my emotions to stay in control, but I know this game like the back of my hand. I will never give in to her.

Principal Lowelle, hiding behind her fake power, will never control me. It is impossible to control me. Trust me, people have tried. “See, you are worthless. Your thoughts of revolution against the Siocists are foolish, and you could easily die because of that.” She slams her hands down on her glass designer desk. “So you might want to stop now. I have eyes and ears and resources. I am listening. Do not forget that I can destroy your life in a single word. That is all. Go back to your education and enjoy it while it lasts, because that could end very soon.” Her razor sharp eyes stare into the deepest part of my soul. It is a look I will never forget. Burning humiliation surges through my veins. But at the same time, a beautiful defiance is blooming in me. The start of a fight. My favorite part. I start to get out of my seat when she says, mockingly, “oh and your next

class will be with Mr. Kazeski, apparently you need a discipline class.” I dread the next class. Everyone fears and hates, with a passion, the discipline class with Mr. Kazeski. His job is to abuse us. No one leaves without a bloody nose. I know that I did something that deserves far more punishment than a discipline class could ever serve. After I leave his class with a signature black eye and bloody nose, I go to the bathroom to assess the damage. My head feels light from blood loss and I can’t open my black eye. My right leg aches from being twisted while trying to fight back using my self defense moves from class. It did not work the way I had planned. Along the hall, posters of propaganda line the way to the ladies room. I push through the heavy door with what little strength I have left and try to open my swollen eye to look at the damage. A deep cut traces my right cheekbone and I have a black eye on the right and dirt on the left side from being pushed to the dirt floor again and again and again. A streak of blood flows down my nose to my chin. My hair is a matted mess and my uniform is a sorry sight. I go to my locker. This isn’t the first time this has happened to me. I walk the vacant halls to my locker to grab my baby wipes hair brush and - I stop and stare at my locker. It is wide 35

open, contents on display, rummaged through. Yellow caution tape across the locker warns off onlookers. My heart is beating out of my chest so loud I am sure that even Principal Lowelle can hear it from her office. Something is wrong, something is happening that shouldn’t be. An old man comes up behind me. I slowly and cautiously turn around to face him. After he sees my face he slowly backs away. “My gosh,” he exclaims “Shouldn’t you be in class?” He is wearing a janitor uniform but walks like he is probably one of the more important ones. He has a crooked cap and twinkly dark eyes. He looks about sixty. What is he doing here? Janitors are only present here after the school day is over, or in the case of an emergency. Otherwise they hide and sleep in their lounges all day, and clean the whole night. Out of sight, out of mind. Why would they want him out and about? I go ahead and ask a simple straight forward question. “What are you doing here?” He looks anxious like he is carrying a dark secret. The twinkle leaves his eyes as he says, “I am movin’ the contents of that locker to a classified space.” He stuffs his hand in his pockets “Can I trust ya? You look like the trouble kind. Wad ya do Miss?” It is now my turn to stuff my bruised knuckles into my pockets. “Got into trouble. Why are you moving that locker’s contents?” He doesn't deflect “same as you, got into trouble. Now go 36

down the hall to the right toward the east wing room 303.” He looks me in the eyes “ I didn’t say ya nothin’ ya hear. Now go.” I turn on my heels, obey his orders and head in the direction he points to. I can see my reflection on the floor of the hall as I pass carefree students immersed in their education. It is so nice to be a superior student, out of trouble, and free from rankings. The meeting with the principal still haunts me. The janitor better have pointed me in the direction of a selfcare center, not authority for being out of class without a pass. 300, 301, 302… I turn to the right into the east wing. A dark hall invites me. The lights flicker. Once, twice, three times. This hall looks deserted, forgotten. I push on through the darkness. This hall found me, invited me to be alone and away from life. I continue to walk through the eerily, yet blissfully quiet hall. This unexpected silence is forever in my debt. I come across an abandoned door covered in chipped blue paint. On a small plaque it says 303. Perfect. The door squeaks and I think what is rational right now? What bad things could happen if I went in there? I could get jumped but that already sort of happened. I jiggle the door knob and push the door open. As it creaks open, I peek inside scanning for potential threats. None. Perfect. I still walk in a fighting stance. Fists raised in front of my face, wide 37

stance balancing on the balls of my feet. All I see is an out of date newspaper with a headline of “More Demotes Go Missing” from The Insider. I had never heard of it before. I plant my feet on the ground and pick up the paper. I started to read the article “ This September we remember our fallen as the authorities continue to slaughter our brave colleagues, friends, and family.” I can’t help but gasp out loud. Why would the Siocists be killing off demotes? Why didn’t I notice this? The revolutionary article continues on. The light overhead flickers above me; not once but three times the ceiling creaks. The ceilings here are too thin. Someone could hear me. But the article calls to me. I have to read more. My body is starving for words to fulfill my rebellious mind. So I do the wrong, or right thing and take it. I stare at the sticky note on the way out of the hidden sanctuary. On the door a bright yellow post-it beckons me to read: This is a call to action to tell the public the truth. Someone has been here and knows. If word gets out, I am dead. Someone is watching me.

Day’s End by Nettie Carter

Ignite Grace Taylor 40

Photography by Shila Sniderman

Madeline Oak by Bryn Wildstein

Media Annabelle Lee I may be young I may be broken But I’m not stupid This generation, my generation, is always glued to the internet, focused on social media, what’s in style, and what’s not Trends Wondering what others think Letting them rip us apart like dogs Instead of focusing on what we think of ourselves Our own opinions Personalities Styles And morals We use media to define ourselves We hear one thing and automatically assume it’s true How do we know who to trust? How do we know what to trust? One person says one thing, and the other says another What can we do Nothing is simple anymore We rely mostly on tech to get us through the day We try to fix ourselves and others Try to fit the mold The real question is, can we trust ourselves? 44

Golden Hour by Zahirah Muhammed

Washington DC Pictures by Jaalah Brown

Bamboo Gardens by Anna Thome In Charleston, bamboo has become a familiar sight in gardens and coastal landscapes, symbolizing resilience and adaptability in the humid Lowcountry climate. Much like the region itself, bamboo represents quiet strength and flexibility, bending with coastal winds and storms while remaining firmly rooted in place.

Washout by Tate Erwin 49

Wanting Campbell Lennon

Wanting is a terrible thing You can want and never get, Want until it fills you up Want until you can think of nothing else Until it consumes you And you still want You can want to heal until your blood runs cold, Want to live until you breathe your last breath, Want to be seen until you disappear And you still want We want everything Yet we want nothing We want the world, Yet we wish the world upon others, We want pain, Yet we want love, We want it all, Yet we get nothing We get nothing until we want to change

The Human Experience by Isla Dillahey All three photos were taken for the purpose of showing the culture of the North American Academy of Piping and Drumming. The middle picture is a friend of mine practicing, the last photo a picture of after-practice fun, and the first picture a picture of the farm

that mirrors the camp. Sort of noticing things that no one else sees.

Breaking Glass Helen Kourtidis There is a piece of glass in sharpened shapes between us. I become a different kind of smith i glare at its clanging an ink-filled hammer foggy surface, on an anvil obscuring you made of paper behind opacity. my sentences stretch i try to trace into a blade, 52

the features of your face, but i can only catch outlines, vague shapes, and shades, a caricature, no substance, no soul. the glass is freezing, as if it is not glass at all, but a thick layer of unforgiving, unyielding ice. i search for something to break the harsh wall, rooting around my empty pockets, glancing across the lonely floor. nothing. i’ll have to

a honed razor, serrated, jagged. i pick up my sword, breath fogging up the metal forged of all that I am, and stare at this raw reflection of myself. I drive it into the glass wall, and cracks shiver out of a gaping wound like icy rivulets, like hairline fractures, like roots taking hold in unsteady dirt. the blade clatters to the ground and with it crash the pieces of the unforgiving 53

be creative if i am to properly introduce myself. so instead i empty out the contents of my thoughts, leave my brain devoid of secrets, arrange my words

glass. I look and trace the revealed features of your face and stare at all that you are: another smith, another soul, another raw reflection of myself.

Untitled by Payton Rivers

La Gare by Grace Taylor

Untitled by Rebecca Somsky

Moving On by Veda Patel This is a photo I took and edited of two elephants who have known each other for 50 years. The title is “Moving On”, because when I look at this picture its is clear that the two are close, but the one facing forward seems to be leaving 58

the other behind. The other seems to be crying but accepting that his companion is moving on. Moving on can be difficult to process, but it happens nonetheless.

Untitled by Sally Rowson

Shell Collection by Carys Sills

Triptych by Walker Ewing

Nothing Like Surfing at Sunset by Izzy Scolnick 61

Ocean Finds by Izzy Scolnick

Panther Pride by Izzy Scolnick

Practice Ends With Golden Hour by Izzy Scolnick

Quiet Moments by the Water by Izzy Scolnick

Watching the world wake up on East Bay by Izzy Scolnick

The Ocean Calls by Izzy Scolnick Ashley Hall Girls X Charlies Elizabeth Brisson On 1 Jasper Street sits Charlie’s, stocked and bright, A needed pause between classes, a mid-day light. Ashley Hall girls drift in, often in herds, Listen carefully and you’ll hear their chatty words.

And Charles behind the counter, oh what a guy, He’ll say he remembers your name, a causal lie. A cold celsius in hand, goldfish on repeat, Charlie’s gives every free period a much needed treat.

Yoga Class

April 2nd – poem Madeleine Graham yoga, yoga, yoga almost as fun as wearing a toga journaling and flows are just some of the work our favorite part of class is when we learn to wall twerk our class is so goated, its just so fun now im going to say something about everyone Jaalah is a gymnast and mira loves to jog but on thing we all have in common is how much we all hate downward dog mary hope’s music taste is so fire and celia’s ability to carry 60 bags across the room against her will is something i admire fayes ability to bachasana is truly a gift Mrs Donoho’s love for yoga always makes sure to uplift I love doing yoga on the lawn– when we convince Mrs Donoho to do “make it jingle” we feel victorious 67

Crow Pose by Jaalah Brown

Acrostic Poem Faye Davall

Youthful Observe Glaze Accomplish Athlete Self-disciplined Angelic Natural Assuring

Yoga by Mary Hope Lloyd 69

Yoga Mira Allegier On Monday mornings I put on my toga and get ready for yoga On Tuesday mornings I go to my yoga class in my pretty yoga dress On Wednesday mornings I get prepped for my afternoon yoga class On thursday, friday, saturday, I do YOGA the whole day But on my Sunday Yoga class I do yoga with all my friends – I do yoga all my week The best part is Savasana, when I’m sleeping on my cheek under the creek

This is the flipped back cover for the ACADEMIC SECTION

ACADEMIC SECTION

From the Editor: The Cerberus is excited to continue its new Academic section dedicated to the work students complete for their myriad classes. Over the course of their Ashley Hall careers, they learn to hone their writing skills, research efforts, and individual voices into a unique and professional writing proficiency that will last them a lifetime. These are just a few of the great works students have accomplished!

TABLE OF CONTENTS In-Class Essay Test for The Road– Helen Kourtidis Block Project Final Draft – Penelope Rose

1984 Op-Ed: How Violent Language Kills Democracy – Helen Kourtidis Introduction to Mrs. Westbrook’s class’s “Girl” Poems

The Pursuer – Anonymous Dancer – Caitlin Bennett Older Sister – Anonymous Thoughts Behind the Smile – Aziel Reed 72

English IV--The End and After Prompt (Option 1)--The Role of Fire in The Road Throughout the novel, the father and son must continually search for food and shelter. Another key to their survival is fire. Why does the father tell the boy the fire is “within” him? How does fire play both a literal and metaphorical role in their survival? In a well-developed essay, analyze the importance of fire in The Road. Make sure to support your points with specific evidence from the text.

In-Class Essay Test for The Road Helen Kourtidis When Prometheus gave humanity fire, it was both a blessing and a curse. This knowledge was forbidden, inciting his eternal punishment, and dangerous, an agent of destruction and pain. Yet it was also the first step to civilization, the beginning of human progress, a way to cook our food, light up our nights, and live to see another day. Whether in mythology or reality, fire is both an important tool and a terrible threat. Cormac McCarthy seemed to understand this duality very well when he was working on The Road. As a father and son face countless dangers in their journey through a post-apocalyptic United 73

States, fire shows up in all of its beautiful, horrifying, and metaphorical forms. In Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, fire plays a vital role as a dual agent of good and evil, simultaneously ravaging an already-burnt world and acting as a crucial element to the characters’ literal survival and sense of purpose. One of the most intriguing aspects of The Road is the visceral and vivid description of the post-apocalyptic landscape, in which fire is an important and terrifying feature. The man and the boy are wading through a world burnt to dust, the “ash moving over the road” so relentlessly that they have to cover their faces with cloth (8). The fire seems to have gotten almost everything, since the father often describes features like “a burned house” (8) or the blackened bodies of “the mummied dead” (24). It is heavily implied that fire was an aspect of the initial apocalypse, if not the primary threat that led to the fall of civilization. For example, when the man flashes back to the beginning of the end, he explains that “within a year there were fires on the ridges,” and that people were “smoking in their clothes” (32). Furthermore, the relentless and unnatural danger fire presents is clear from its ability to burn forests even when they’re covered in snow: “The snow orange and quivering. A forest fire was making its way along the tinder-box ridges above them, flaring and shimmering against the overcast like the northern lights” (31). Every new stop and setting on 74

the man and boy’s journey along the road seems to have a new example of something fire destroyed. Although McCarthy never outright explains what the cause of the apocalypse was, his descriptions of the world make one thing clear: fire is a threat, and it is a centerpiece of this post-apocalyptic landscape. However, fire is not a purely malevolent presence in The Road— in fact, it is often the man and the boy’s only savior from the cold and dark. As McCarthy describes this setting, it seems the nights these characters experience are colder and darker than anything readers know. There is no light of the moon and stars to guide them, and the ground is constantly a mix of ash and snow. Fire, therefore, when it can be controlled, is key to their survival. Every few pages, father and son are building a fire, gathering “a great brushpile of wood to see them through the night” and “watching the fire” as they eat whatever food they have found (30–31). McCarthy does not shy away from stressing just how important these campfires are. In one scene, although the pitch black night has already set in, and although the boy is terrified of being left alone, his father insists: “We have to have a fire… the sooner I go the sooner I’ll be back and we’ll have a fire and then you won't be scared anymore” (71–72). The man would not leave his son if having a fire was not vitally crucial to their safety. Thus, McCarthy sets up the multifaceted presence of fire. In the 75

wild, when let free, it is a monster eating up everything that is left of human civilization. When controlled, it is protecting what little is left of human life. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, fire has a metaphorical meaning in The Road, as it symbolizes the humanity and morality the father and son refuse to sacrifice, even in the face of so much suffering. One night, the boy asks his father for reassurance that “nothing bad is going to happen to (them)… because (they’re) carrying the fire,” a confirmation that readers soon become familiar with (83). They repeat “we’re carrying the fire” like a mantra as they travel down the road, until it becomes their purpose, their very identity. Towards the end of the story, as the father is taking his last breaths, he begs his son to go on without him for this very reason: he has to carry the fire. The boy resists him, crying that “(he doesn’t) know where it is,” before the man insists that “it’s inside (him). It was always there” (279). The man seems to understand that his son has unwittingly been the symbol and holder of the books’ moral center. The boy wants to help nearly every figure they come across, including the lightning-struck man, the little boy, the dog, and “Ely,” no matter the risk. Though the father often opposes these desires for caution’s sake, he also has certain moral boundaries they both refuse to give up. Unlike many of the figures they meet on the road, they never stoop to cannibalism, or attacking and 76

stealing from someone alive, except for occasions of self-defense. Many characters the man and the boy come across would argue that maintaining these principles is, from a rational perspective, a barrier to survival. But this book makes it clear that maintaining these principles is, from a human perspective, the only thing justifying their survival. Why survive if you lose yourself completely? What is the point of living to the next day if you only use it to bring more suffering to the world? These principles, this moral code, this humanity is what the man and the boy call the fire. The fire that is inside them. The fire that keeps destroying their world, that keeps them warm at night, that keeps them human. Yet perhaps the metaphorical connection between fire and humanity can be extended beyond the man and the boy’s moral code, and beyond The Road entirely. Perhaps fire and its duality is an apt way to talk about human nature as a whole. We are a destructive species, a selfish one, that seems to consume everything we come across and that has become a weapon of mass destruction. At the same time, we are healers, gardeners, nurturers who create worldwide organizations to clean up our own mess and protect what is left of the nature we’ve taken for granted. We are both deeply kind and vastly cruel. We stick to our morals and then tear them down at a moment's notice. We are the cannibals and lawless bands prowling along the road, but 77

we are also the man and the boy: survivors and innocents that simply want to make it to another, half-good day. When Prometheus gave humanity fire, he actually gave us a mirror with which to see ourselves. Humanity, like fire, is complicated. Humanity, like fire, is neither completely good nor completely evil, but a diverse collection of flames sparked for different purposes crackling in a fireplace too small to fit us all. That is what makes reading The Road such a visceral and haunting experience. That is what makes us wonder: Would I survive? Would I stoop that low? Would I carry the fire?

11th Grade Block Project *The block project was a large project for 11th grade Honors English in which a student chose their own block in downtown Charleston. For this project, you have to spend extensive time at the Charleston library, looking through dozens of primary sources to write a historical fiction story highlighting one of the major landmarks on your block.

English Final Draft: Block Project Penelope Rose My name is Penina Moise, I was born in Charleston, South Carolina. I have written over 100+ hymns. I am the author of a book titled Fancy Sketch Book; most of my writing is focused on my Jewish faith. Not only am I an author of many poems, but I also co-own a school with my sister, Curricula. Today, I will be going for a walk to gain inspiration on what I want to write about. Visiting the cemetery where my parents are buried isn’t going to be the highlight of my day. I go there often because of its quiet atmosphere, it's away from the world of the living, a place where I can go and sit with my thoughts. I love discussing my religion and its importance to me, especially to the children I teach at the Sunday school synagogue. But maybe walking around the block will reinspire me. I start my day like every other day. I pack my purse with paper, pencils, and coins just in case I need them. Walking out the door, I go straight to the corner of Coming Street onto Morris Street. I turned the corner to what looked like an empty plot of land, but suddenly it started to shake. Before I could even respond, a flash of light hit my eyes. Even though im used to the discomfort of not being able to see clearly because of my weakening eye, I was truly disturbed when my normal vision didn't come back. I couldn't see anything. Quickly, I 79

stepped forward and came face to face with the blunt side of a building that 5 seconds ago wasn't there. Rubbing my crown, I stepped back slowly, surveying the scene around me. Im still on the corner of Coming St and Morris St, but it's different. More buildings crowd the horizon, and in shock, I jump. Looking around, I see a wooden two-story building. Wanting to investigate further, I peer through the window using my hands to cover the reflection. This isnt a home, it resembles something similar to a mercantile store. Not only is the surrounding different and much fuller, but it is also louder. What once was a silent, cloudy day, besides the occasional chirp of a bird, has turned into a sunny yet noisy block. I can hear people talking inside the shop. Maybe these people can help me figure out what is going on. Walking inside, I am shocked at the number of items lining the shelves. From sugar, tea, and coffee bags to dried fruits, spices, and soap, there is so much to see. I turn my attention to the shopman at the counter across from me. He’s wearing a dark coat and a grey shirt. With my lasting stare, the shopman looks startled at the inquiry. I blurt out ‘hello’ before I stop myself. Talking to a man who wasn't here moments ago isnt as easy as it looks. His aged face reminds me of my late father; he would have looked similar to this shopman did if he were still alive. My father died when I was only 12 years old, so I didn't get much time to study his face. Out of my thoughts, the man calmly speaks out ‘What can I help you with?’ I dart around the room and meet his eyes. Not wanting to startle him, I ask if he's selling any newspapers. Hopefully, I will be able to figure out what day it is and somehow make it back home. He quietly grabs 80

a small stack of papers from under his desk and places them on the counter. He states, ‘this will be…’. But before he can answer, im already out the door. The date is June 15th, 1888. It's hard to grapple with the never-ending passage of time, but I've never felt so out of time before. There's only one thing on my mind, and that is to find my quiet spot at the cemetery to visit my parents. I break out into a hurried pace towards Coming Street. So determined, I almost knocked into a group of women dressed in long dresses adorned with lace and great volume. Continuing on, I see stacks and stacks of hay stacked high next to a home. And what seems like never-ending rows of homes. The number of people now here is astonishing, to say the least. Finally, that familiar stone wall reminds me as I realize im here, im at the entrance of the cemetery. Walking through the gate feels different from how it normally does. What once was a few scattered tombs now resembles dozens of lives laid to rest here. Instinctively, I walk diagonally towards my parents' tombs. Sticking out of the ground in front of my parents' flat graves stands a shiny new tombstone. Encrypted on the front is the name Penina Moise died Sept 13th, 1880. I died or I will die in 1880. This is a hard thing to process. I’m not ready to die. And suddenly I get it… a line just came to me. I know what I want to write about. I will write about friends and family, and death. “But why should I not wish to linger here? Do I not dwell in friendship’s atmosphere, Where generous souls such balmy tribute bring As makes my wintry age so like the spring That scarce the blind recluse, amid its 81

snows, Detects the absence of the vernal rose?” (Moise). Works cited Eberle, Kevin (2017) Capt. Joseph Lamble House. Roots and Recall. https://www.rootsandrecall.com/charleston/buildings /47-cannon-street/ Eidelman, Jay M.. "Penina Moïse." Shalvi/Hyman Encyclopedia of Jewish Women. 27 February 2009. Jewish Women's Archive. (Viewed on May 15, 2025) <https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/moise-penina>. ProQuest (1888, June) Charleston, June 1888, Sheet 44. Digitalsanbornmaps. https://digitalsanbornmaps-proquest-com.ccpl.idm.o clc.org/browse_maps Seymour "Sy" Brody (1996) Penina Moise. Jewish Virtual Library.https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/peninaoise Zillow (May 09, 2025) 44 Morris St. Zillow.com. https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/44-Morris-St-C

1984 Op-Ed: How Violent Language Kills Democracy Helen Kourtidis Why is everyone so angry now? Why can’t we have a conversation anymore? These questions have been buzzing around my mind and my “For You” page on social media for months, as I wonder when everything became so inflammatory. A mildly political topic can spark a screaming match in classrooms and comment sections. Support for one position or the other can provoke an endless string of slurs, curses, and increasingly creative insults that are as impressive as they are disconcerting. More and more, arguments devolve into a struggle to prove “the other side” wrong instead of a conversation focused on the issue at hand. No amount of jokes about tense Thanksgivings and empty Christmases can mask the glaring problem: our ability to conduct civil and productive disagreements is dying, and with it will crumble our ability to participate in an effective democracy. I am not alone in these observations or concerns. A 2025 Gallup article reached a similar conclusion in its analysis of years of polls, which demonstrated that Americans are far more concerned about inflammatory language and its impacts today than they have been in the past. According to their polls from 2011 and 2025, belief that the Republican Party has “gone too far” with its 83

language has increased by 16 percentage points to 69%, and belief that the Democratic Party has “gone too far” has increased by 9 percentage points to 60%. Of course, some have no problem with modern political rhetoric, either because they don’t experience it personally or because they think violent language is a necessary defense against an enemy they deem evil. In any case, it has begun to feel like the only thing most Democrats, Republicans, and Independents can agree on is that the way we talk to one another has become concerningly volatile (Jones). The answer to why this is happening is primarily that extreme language works. People want an enemy, and they want to feel like the good guy. The more intense and angry language is, the more it catches our attention. This is why violent rhetoric is so effective for autocratic, oligarchic, or otherwise authoritarian governments. George Orwell’s 1984 comes to mind as a classic example of language being used for the benefit of a dystopian ruling Party. For one, the Two Minutes Hate infuses into Party members “a hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture…” as they uncontrollably scream insults like “swine” at the face of the Party’s enemy, Goldstein (Orwell 14). Even their youngest children are taught to be reactive, and even in play they cry: “You’re a traitor!... You’re a thought-criminal! You’re a Eurasian spy!” (Orwell 23). There is no reason or diplomacy in the Party’s politics and rhetoric. Brainwashing their citizens to wield hateful language like a shield against thoughtcrime is a crucial element to the Party’s uncontested power. As Winston’s excited colleague explains: “Don’t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, 84

because there will be no words in which to express it” (Orwell 52). Perhaps, unlike the Party, we are not eradicating synonyms or shortening words for bureaucratic efficiency, but the trend of our political rhetoric mimics the aim of Newspeak. The more we use inflammatory language, the more the world seems black and white. The more we succumb to the temptation of a black and white world, the more we narrow our thinking. The more we narrow our thinking, the more dangerous politics gets, and the farther we drift from democracy. Democracy is not simply a title we give any government whose citizens have the right to suffrage. It also is not a box to check, a word we use to connote that we are the “good guys” fighting “for the people.” Democracy is an active, living conversation between citizens, a series of productive disagreements and experiments that seek to better society for the whole. For democracy to be a substantial part of a nation, rather than a superficial self-description, it must be possible to have such productive disagreements. In order to have productive disagreements, we must learn to grow out of inflammatory rhetoric. We must be careful with the words we use to express ourselves and question those that use extreme language in their calls to action. We must accept that, no matter how nice it feels, “our side,” whichever side it may be, is never always right.

“Girl” Poems 10th grade students in Mrs. Westbrook’s class were assigned to write a prose poem modeling Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl,” a short story reflecting a complex mother-daughter relationship through a stream of consciousness containing sentence 85

fragments of commands and advice. The only directions given to the 10th graders were to write their own unconventional prose poem highlighting any relationship of their choice, such as the role of a student, daughter, athlete, etc. The girls used Kincaid’s style as a guide for their own writing, establishing their own perspective through consistent narration, diction, syntax, and tone to curate uniquely written pieces of an original experience.

The Pursuer (for Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl”) Anonymous Pick up your pen and write something good; open your computer and write something better; ask every question that you can think of; learn everything you possibly can, then write it all down; don’t forget, never ever forget or risk turning into the fool you’re just begging to become; don’t get distracted by temporary success; always go after the next achievement; you are only as good as the work you produce; set your expectations high; now set them higher; did you really think what you did was enough? I know, it wasn’t. Don’t let an opportunity pass you by; try to figure yourself out; realize you can’t; remember, you are 86

only as good as the answers you have; learn a new word; learn a new language; here’s how to play chess; here’s how to play the game; here’s how to pass the SATs; here’s why you have to pass the SATs, or else you’ll only be the fool you know you are; don’t let anyone one-up you; don’t let that teacher who called you sharp down; don’t let your parents down, they worked hard so you could go out and find the answers; become a doctor so you can get the answers; here’s how to know when to give up, and here’s why that isn’t a good enough reason; take a deep breath and compose yourself; know that you are only as good as how how they’ll remember you; here’s how to get into a good school; here’s how to get your doctorate; when you feel like you’re burning out, keep going or else everyone will see the fool you’re pretending not to be; keep chasing after something, anything, so failure doesn’t have time to catch up; don’t focus on what’s going well now; instead, focus on the future, on everything you need to know about the future, on every decision you need to make for the future; never settle for “I don’t know”; make sure you have the answer to their question; don’t let on how exhausted you are; are you seriously complaining? you know everybody has problems, and they hate having to listen to someone complain; I know, I’m sorry. Keep your voice down, everyone is staring; keep your ego in check, you’re replaceable; memorize your lines, and don’t mess them up 87

or else everyone will remember that not-so-little slip up of yours and you’ll never get anywhere in life if you mess up; remember that everyone in the room is a better actor than you; try not to let it get to you; try not to let anything get to you; only think straight ahead, black and white; never forget your mistakes, you might make them again; manage your time, because you have so little; memento mori; here’s how to plan for everything; here’s how to handle pressure; here’s how to paint over the cracks; here’s why everything you do now will affect your future; here’s how to get an A; here’s why anything less is unacceptable; here’s how to stay up late questioning yourself; here’s why certain things about you are unfortunate; here’s why you’ll never be successful unless you push them aside; be somebody people are proud of, even when you’ve forgotten how to be proud of yourself; why are you celebrating that? excellence is expected, not exceptional; I know. Be somebody people look to for advice; be somebody who can take it on the chin; be somebody who can one day afford to relax; oh, but don’t you dare relax now, you have so much farther to go and so much more to learn and so much more to do and if you fall off now imagine how much of a helpless fool you’re going to be this time next year…

Dancer 88

(for Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl”) Caitlin Bennett Don’t look down, the audience wants to see your face; make your face pleasant, the audience doesn’t want to see the discomfort that lies below the hem of your skirt; don’t be inelegant t, only dance with pure gracefulness; don’t make an ugly face, you should only be joyful while performing - but I am joyful when I am dancing; spot the marker, no dancer spots the floor, if you spot the floor you will fall; find your marks, don’t be off them or you ruin the spacing; if the spacing is ruined you must fix it; fix it with elegance and continue dancing; don’t skip a count, don’t fall behind, don’t fall, if you do stand up immediately with a courtesy and a smile; while moving try to avoid being the failure you’re so bent on becoming; Connect your body with the music, the floor, the rhythm, stay on the counts; push through the floor as you point your toes, point your toes so much your leg is completely straight; no one wants a dancer with imporper technique; move with fluidity as the music plays during a combo, mistakes should be graceful, but try not to make them; rotate your leg fully; turn out, no one wants to see a dancer with ugly lines; make sure while extending your legs in adagio you make a full line above 90 degrees, if it is lower your weak, if it is it must be perfect, but can I ever achieve perfection?; In center, be one with the music, flow with the rhythm instilled in your heart: move; dance across the studio, keep the body upright; make sure to bend while you move, but don’t dare to crouch over; have your chest forward and proud; keep the shoulders back; place your arms slightly before your full 90 degrees of the body; don’t fall backwards, always remain forward; don’t lose your balance and never show signs of struggle, always conceal the pain - and try to 89

avoid being the failure you’re so bent on becoming; It’s been an hour and a half, hurry to the dressing room and quickly put on your pointe shoes; if you have a blister apply second skin; ankle hurts do better, push through, nothing a little bio-freeze and advil can’t fix, again always conceal the pain; slide on your toe pads, and if your shoes are dead, jet glue them before next class; take your place at barre, make sure you’re on the correct side; tie your skirt around your waist and wait for the teacher to begin; first combo: roll through your pointe shoes and move through each crevice, flat, demi pointe, three quarters and full pointe: Repeat; now balance in your shoes; don’t wobble or you must restart; turn gracefully to the other side and begin again; leave the barre and go to center, but don’t stand directly in the front because then you’r too cocky, but don’t stand in the back or you will fully diminish your value; be pleasant; don’t talk; smile as the teacher gives corrections; smile at your friends as they pass; compliment someone when they do well, always be humble and don’t share your success and try to avoid being the failure you’re so bent on becoming; It’s Saturday, but weekends do not apply in ballet; attend the morning class and be pleasant; fix your shoes and head into rehearsal, you’re in pain, it doesn’t matter; everyone is, again conceal it; drip sweat in rehearsal and spend hours on perfecting your solo; in group pieces don’t be the one making mistakes, those who make them will be called out don’t be the reason for shaming your group; don’t tell the teacher when you need a break, breaks are for those who don’t have enough stamina; it’s Sunday, no rest day; put on makeup you look exhausted, don't show signs of fatigue, curl your lashes; put on concealer, and please do conceal, drive to the studio, get your spot; put on your shoes and repeat, and please try to avoid being the failure you’re so bent on becoming;But what if I can never be 90

better, what if whatever I do I will always feel like I’m never enough?; you mean to say, after all your sacrifices to be the best, you will never be allowed to perform freely?

Thoughts Behind the Smiles Aziel Reed

Smile at your friends and start the conversation; smile when they gossip about people you don’t know and don’t have an interest in knowing; don’t stare too long a people, it looks weird; wear a sweet perfume; wear cute jewelry; when talking to someone you’re not that close with, make sure they aren't a double agent, because then you’d be starting drama; wait for your friends after class so you can walk together; tell a funny joke; barely smile when your friends make fun of someone else; always make sure your friends are okay, be more like the “Group Mom” your friends have labeled you as; this is how to give your friend advice; this is how to respond when youre friend doesn't take that advice; this is how not to be nervous when a friend is mad at you; this is how to make an Instagram post; this is how to comment on an Instagram post; this is how to side-eye a girl you don’t like; this is how to lie about liking a friend’s outfit; this is how you can tell your friend is mad at you; this is how you pick your profile picture; this is how you sit with your friends and scroll on social media, but I like talking to my friends; This is how to talk to a crush; this is how to act a party to be more like the “Group Mom” your friends have labeled you as; this is how to be nonchalant; this is how to laugh something you don’t find funny; do you have 91

a weird laugh?; when you tell a joke make sure other people laugh before you do; but I like my laugh; this is how to pray when you’re nervous; this is how to confidently know you’re worth: this is how to stand tall in front of the enemy; this is how to be your e own person, even is that is the “Group Mom” your friends have labeled you as. This is also how to grow fiercely in what God has planned for you to be.