The Heliconian
Beaver Country Day School The Annual 2012 Issue 1
Heliconian
Annual Issue, 2012-201 Beaver Country Day School
Heliconian Staff Editors-in-Chief Joseph Randles Amanda Saker Staff Najwa Aswad Courtenay Barton Nolan Flaherty Taylor Hayes Emmy Kuperschmid Christina Lelon Emily Levesque Nick Laycox Sara Radin
Faculty Advisor Matthew Lippman
Table of Contents: Writing Oceans...................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 10 Connor Laubenstein ‘12 The imposter..............................................................................................................................................................................................................12 Emily Magee ‘12 Respawn................................................................................................................................................................................................................................14 Chandler Shapiro ‘13 The great frog Genocide.............................................................................................................................................................16 William Harrington ‘12 Gamer’s remorse.................................................................................................................................................................................................18 Chris Quinn ‘13 We are afraid..........................................................................................................................................................................................................20 Sophia Ardell ‘13 We are afraid..........................................................................................................................................................................................................22 Abe Hyatt ‘13 We are afraid......................................................................................................................................................................................................... 24 Maggie Chernoff ‘13 dreams...................................................................................................................................................................................................................................26 Alex Volcy ‘15 I write because..................................................................................................................................................................................................... 28 Zack Mills ‘15 tired...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................30 Abraham Gobel ‘13 on the bus mall..................................................................................................................................................................................................32 Connor Laubenstein ‘12 The nostalgia farm...................................................................................................................................................................................34 David Taus ‘12 A brief history of squirrels.....................................................................................................................................................36 Rachel Flammy ‘13 true love..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................39 Alex Volcy ‘15 a brief history of bmx..........................................................................................................................................................................40 Liliana Pierce ‘13 A brief history of basilicas........................................................................................................................................................42 Will Harrington ‘12 Pumpkin spice latte.....................................................................................................................................................................................44 Toast Phillips ‘11 untitled.............................................................................................................................................................................................................................45 Jordan Schecter ‘12 untitled.............................................................................................................................................................................................................................46 Abraham Gobel ‘13 strawberry flavored water.................................................................................................................................................... 47 Ben Logan ‘12 burned and torn..........................................................................................................................................................................................49 Sophia Ardell ‘13
Table of Contents: Writing a night with her.......................................................................................................................................................................................... 51 Tim King ‘12 in dispraise of tears..................................................................................................................................................................................53 Annie Mangone ‘12 the red road to jd’s................................................................................................................................................................................ 55 Jason Flashner ‘12 bien............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 57 Joseph Randles ‘12 the nostalgia farm....................................................................................................................................................................................58 Ivanna Mejia ‘12
America Section:
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America............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 62 Toast Phillips ‘12 my america right?.........................................................................................................................................................................................64 Alexys Butler ‘12 America................................................................................................................................................................................................................................65 Diego Fiori ‘12 America................................................................................................................................................................................................................................66 David Taus ‘12 america............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... Ivanna Mejia ‘12
Mashups:
Barrelhouse pleasantries................................................................................................................................................................. 70 William Harrington ‘12 and Matthew Lippman, Faculty Memories.............................................................................................................................................................................................................................71 Anonymous You.............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................. 72 Sarah Jane Devins ‘12, Kelsey Taylor ‘12 all things go......................................................................................................................................................................................................... 73 Imogene Edson ‘12 Lili Welch ‘12 vibrations......................................................................................................................................................................................................................76 Taylor Hayes ‘12 Emma Banta ‘13 overloaded laund.ry..............................................................................................................................................................................77 Sean Daly ‘12 Margaret Gegler ‘12 Adam Goodman ‘12
Table of Contents: Writing
Essays, Stories, A short play:
This I believe.................................................................................................................................................................................................................81 Lauren Lapuck ‘13 Five dollars................................................................................................................................................................................................................83 Annie Tsui ‘12 I believe in the sailing live............................................................................................................................................................85 Danny Getz Rifelman’s creed..................................................................................................................................................................................................89 Will Harrington ‘12 Why I will always love Soccer..........................................................................................................................................93 Rodney Yeoh, Faculty
Table of Contents: Art Prints......................................................................................................................................................................................15 Sara Radin ‘12 Tacks........................................................................................................................................................................................19 Sara Radin ‘12 Untitled......................................................................................................................................................................... 21 Jack Leffel ‘14 cranes.................................................................................................................................................................................25 Amanda Saker ‘12 Walk on water..................................................................................................................................................27 Sara Radin ‘12 29 Untitled......................................................................................................................................................................... Melissa Alkire, Faculty Untitled...........................................................................................................................................................................31 Melissa Alkire, Faculty Drip.............................................................................................................................................................................................33 Amanda Saker ‘12 35 red and green........................................................................................................................................................ Emmy Kuperschmid ‘12 untitled...........................................................................................................................................................................48 Jack Leffel ‘14 untitled..........................................................................................................................................................................50 Jack Leffel ‘14 boy in red......................................................................................................................................................................52 Sara Radin ‘12 Broken night........................................................................................................................................................54 George Wright ‘14 Lettuce Truck.....................................................................................................................................................56 Emmy Kuperschmid ‘12
cover Ben Logan ‘12
backcover Sara Radin ‘12
Editor’s Note As you hold this titanic volume of literary and visual art in your hands you may be wondering: What happened to the cozy little Heliconian? Well this year we decided to pool all of our submissions into one supreme collosus of an issue. Within this issue is the incredible work of an active artistic community. These students and faculty members offered their cherished works to us so we could in turn present them in this lovely issue. We would like to thank them for trusting us with their art, I hope we did okay. We would like to thank Mr. Lippman, our club advisor for his help and unique spirit which inhabits the core of what the Heliconian has come to be. We would also like to thank Jenna Wolf, to whom this issue is dedicated for without her the issue would be extremely ugly. Last but not least we must thank the Heliconian staff who’s dedication and enthusiasm is unmatched. Enjoy! Joseph Randles Amanda Saker Editors-in-Chief
For Jenna Wolf In deep gratitude
Connor Laubenstein ‘12
oceans I am terrified of the ocean. So why do I want to spend my eternity on it? It fascinates me as much as my Grandfather with Alzheimer’s so bad that he doesn’t know who I am. He is living in a prison. It doesn’t happen like this In Heaven, if Heaven exists. But we’ll never know ‘til the moment we’re finished. The rest of us believe that there is a Heaven in the clouds, and a gate, and little people flying everywhere. And the instance is exciting when you have to dodge those bastards with wings. The Sun might blind me on my ascension and I might get lost and ask for directions. Hopefully they’ll give me a GPS and not Mapquest directions. Mapquest directions are faulty and the estimated time is never right. But I might not be going to Heaven. Maybe none of my friends are going to Heaven. But we’ll never know ‘til the moment we’re finished. 10
The rest of us believe that there is a Heaven in the clouds, and a gate, and little people flying everywhere. And the instance is exciting when you have to dodge those bastards with wings. The Sun might blind me on my ascension and I might get lost and ask for directions. Hopefully they’ll give me a GPS and not Mapquest directions. Mapquest directions are faulty and the estimated time is never right. But I might not be going to Heaven. Maybe none of my friends are going to Heaven. But we’ll never know ‘til the moment we’re finished. Chances are very strong, that most of us won’t see people with wings. So we have to make our own Heaven, just until we know for sure. So my Grandfather, who they won’t even let him on a plane anymore, will come with me when I kidnap him from his holding cell and he and I will spend the rest of our lives together on the ocean. Exploring, and sleeping, and it will be our Heaven. 11
Emily Magee ‘12
the imposter The cardboard coffee cup Emblazoned with the green lady, makes me feel like a Kardashian Gives me edge as I walk down street by street Turning each into 5th avenue as I whisk by, but I am an impostor The cup I clutch onto has a secret It does not hold pungent stuff, required to keep up with the life of a socialite. My coffee does not support my wallet My wallet supports my coffee, my Chai Tea Latte Need I remind you that I am an impostor? It has the spice of a gingerbread house at Christmas But my Chai Tea Latte, does not have the taste of glamour She carries her ice coffee, see through cup, sometimes they hand it to her shoved in a foam cup used for hot coffee A pink straw sticking cheekishly out of the cup With the cartoonish scrawl of Dunkin’, her running shoes are still plastered to her feet I’m jealous. She delights in the drink that just tastes so wrong in my mouth That would feel so right in my hand And she doesn’t even notice or care Never revels in it, doesn’t understand the privilege she has been granted Maybe it’s better I would have played it up Gloried in the self importance 12
Gloried in the self importance Ripped away the Styrofoam of Dunkin’Donuts and slid on a pretentious accessory A cardboard ring to stop me from burning my hand I would have gone up to the counter and ordered a Grande Americano Black, with Two Sugars and a Little Bit of Cream Guiltily laughed at the indulgence Then request a bit of vegan dark-chocolate biscotti I would have handed over a $20 Dollar Bill And winked at the barista.
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Chandler Shapiro ‘13
Respawn Respawn the game goes on. Suspended upside down, Blood rushing downwards, To my flesh covered skull The weight of my body supported by, And trusting the delicate yet powerful web I hang there just waiting Waiting for nothing I have no super strength or ray vision All i have is web, Web that propels Created with my DNA, my blood, and my sweat Webbing arising out of my skin, How does this make me a superhero? What enables me to be a superhero? Spiders are not suppose to change the world and fight for justice What makes me any different than any other spider?
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Sara Radin ‘12
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William Harrington ‘12
the great frog genocide I think all the houses are abandoned because the people killed all the frogs and fled the guilt. It was the farmers who painted messages about our own impending genocide on tarps now tied to railroad bridges. They left all the frog bodies in the still pools of the river, behind the house on Emery Road. At the dirt banks where their sons shared their cigarettes with their daughters. And after killing the frogs everybody went west to choke on dust. They plucked all of the nails so the wood from their barns and houses would fall down neatly. While the parents packed their lives onto 16 foot flatbeds the sons and daughters spent the last evening with their prom date behind the pile of wood now that the nails are gone. 16
that their parents had killed the frogs. I think some of the children were left behind. I think the frogs are still all dead. I think the tarps are a way of saying sorry.
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Chris Quinn ‘13
gamer’s remorse the groove, the beat the rhythm in my hands the Cello, the band all weapons my team the mere, face of the game I look around and drown the world from the problems I can feel the dagger in my back the swagger I lack the fragger I am the leet fry and my enemies die. video games the escape pod from the people I wronged in the life that I take in the life that I fake the mere sad dream of a good life defined by the lines you place my lines are trenches like dents the failure shows as you drive on thought the streets with no names. left in the wake of my destruction. the fact is that living is fake all people do is take, take, take. relax and see the feeling in me about my K.D. but I digress 18
Sara Radin ‘12
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Sophia Ardell ‘13
We are afraid We’re Afraid... We are afraid of stepping on sidewalk cracks Just in case this time it might actually break our mother’s back. We are afraid being the first one at the buffet table at functions. We are afraid of singing along to the radio if friends are with us. We are afraid of being hypocrites But we’re also afraid of what will happen to us when don’t act like we believe in something our peers do We’re afraid of those moments before the elevator doors open and it seems like we might get stuck in that tin box for hours on end with a bunch of strangers We’re afraid of high school students driving We’re afraid of the bad guys in horror movies being real, that Jumbi will come to possess us even though we never had an unborn twin or we’ll get sewn with other people into a disgusting, centipede formation because we asked the wrong stranger for help We’re afraid of buying clothes in the wrong size because we didn’t feel like trying them on We’re afraid of when winter gets warmer each year We’re afraid of that monster behind the shower curtain when we go into the bathroom to brush our teeth at 11:30 at night We’re afraid of reading poems in class Because we know that everyone is paying attention to something only we came up with And maybe they’ll judge us But chances are they’re spacing out and waiting for class to end That’s what we tell ourselves 20
Jack Leffel ‘14
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Abe Hyatt ‘13
We are afraid We are afraid of Cubans, and their tentative missiles and subjectively maniacal leader. We are afraid of doctors, because everything gives us cancer. We are afraid that one day we’ll get mugged by a couple of urban teenagers outside of Starbucks, and they’ll break our ribs, and take our wallets, and beat every living thing out of us; but most importantly, we won’t have any money for a latté. We are afraid of Mitt Romney. We are afraid that one day, Dick Clark will retire, and it will just be Ryan Seacrest making a fool of himself, alone on New Years Eve. Just like us. We are afraid that Michael Moore is right. We are afraid of homeless people, because we’re afraid that one day they will cease to exist, and the street corners and 7-11 doorways will feel eerily empty, and the benches will be clean. We are afraid of Texas. 22
We are afraid that one day we’ll run out of corn, and then the next day we’ll run out of everything. We are afraid of Africa, because one day maybe their problems will be our problems, and then we’ll be forced to unturn our blind eye, while they turn theirs. We are afraid that the day we move to another planet, global warming will scatter away, and there will be no turning back. We are afraid mostly of ourselves, which is fairly legitimate. We’re scary.
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Maggie Cherneff ‘13
we are afraid We are afraid of donuts and their cream filled glaze covered goodness We are afraid of spiders and bugs crawling over us in our sleep sneaking under the covers and nesting in our hair We are afraid afraid of microwaves and aspartame and cancer and We are afraid of doing laundry in the dark We are afraid of children with their dripping noses and their sticky fingers and their curious need to eat glue and play doe and dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets We are afraid of broken locks on bathroom stall doors and We are afraid of airport security We are afraid of eating at grandmas for dinner but We are even more afraid of the leftovers
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Amanda Saker ‘12
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Alex Volcy ‘15
dreams Everybody’s got dreams in their lives And everytime they get closer they feel more alive But there’s a catch to this system Everytime you fall further away You just give up, knowing that dream is not gonna stay But you always gotta try to achieve That thing in your mind when you fall asleep A dream I’ve got dreams too And I’ll work as hard as I can to make it true I will put everything else aside for now So I can make myself, and everyone around me feel proud I’m in control of my life I am the king with the crown. I am the boss that everybody’s crowding around I hope that my dreams and everybody elses become reality But for this to happen, you got to have the right mentality. I’m only fourteen, but it doesn’t matter to me I’ll work as hard as I can to make my dream true And for now I’m saying peace dream I’ll see you soon.
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Sara Radin ‘12
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Zack Mills ‘15
I write because... I write because rage, pain, isolation I write because proof existence I write because can’t draw I write because don’t forget I write because words don’t lie I write because words don’t mock I write because words don’t die I write because escape I write because grandfather multiple sclerosis I write because inspiration I write because on paper, problems look small I write because nobody knows I write because locks away insanity I write because don’t know what say I write because I read I write because voices whisper. Voices whisper dark I write because no one listens I write because death I write because life I write because when I’m gone, all that shall remain are my words, my stories, my gifts to the world
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Melissa Alkire, Faculty
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Abraham Gobel ‘13
tired I’m tired, of the ones who think fat guys can’t run who think just cause I don’t try I’m not smart that I’m a lost cause in school that I can’t help my grades I’m tired of always being happy of keeping my emotions in and my smile fake and protruding like a very expensive boob job I’m tired of the late nights and early mornings the lack of caffeine and the dire need for me to always be focused I’m tired but that is selfish of me because so is everyone else. Everyone is tired the girls are tired of fitting in and pretending and being fake and the guys well we are tired for the late nights we can’t explain so it isn’t fair for me to say I’m tired cause everyone is tired but at least I’m standing up and saying something about it
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Melissa Alkire, Faculty
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Connor Laubenstein ‘12
on the bus mall I can see your fear, so don’t worry. I’m fearful too. We can be fearful together. We had it made when we were young. Like when we were 10 and we jumped from that cliff. We jumped together. Ready to embrace our contact, We thought about the chance that we might drown. So we sucked our lips into our lungs as we were falling. But we were falling together. The countless nights in hotels, Or countless nights home alone. Scared about the one fictitious man who we knew wasn’t there, but we were scared anyways. And we were scared together. The irony when we were freezing in Florida. Waiting for the bus after the midnight showing of Prom Night. But we were cold together. We fused as a family. I don’t know the specific number of miles That separates us now, But I like to remember that when we were younger, We were kings among runaways We’ll always be kings together.
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Amanda Saker ‘12
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David Taus ‘12
the nostalgia farm I can’t go to the nostalgia farm anymore I just don’t have the time I want to revisit all those happier times When I would play with Mira for hours on end Or when we made a fire and I’d watch as she inched herself closer and closer to the warmth of the flames I want to reminisce about when she would bite the mail and Dad had to explain to the bank why his bills had tooth marks I still wait for the day she warned us about The day when the mailman attacks I’ve thought about it, about how he will do it He’ll come at us with an ax But I’ve locked all that away I say its because I don’t have enough time But that’s a lie It’s just too painful to visit the nostalgia farm or rather It’s too painful to come back
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Emmy Kuperschmid ‘12
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Rachel Flammey ‘13
A Brief History of Squirrels The most common visitor to the backyards of the Northeast small or medium sized rodents relatives of beavers and dormice. Family: Sciuridae Order: Rodentia Phylum: Chordata People are given names at birth but the squirrels endured namelessness until 1327 dubbed squirrel from Anglo-Norman esquirel from Old French escurel from Latin sciurus all in honor of the bushy tails flaunted by their owners Graced with thumbs but poorly developed and soft padded feet for perching on fences the edges of trashcans a squirrel uses large incisors to gnaw at a nut or acorn. And though it may be a bird of prey’s next meal at least a squirrel can be devoured 36
with the knowledge that they saw it coming with their extremely good eyesight. The oldest ancestors are close kin resembling their “flying” descendants though the grey blurs stealthily stealing your birdseed could be one of any number of subgroups or families or tribes which strikes me as funny for it seems these creatures are more diverse than we give them credit for and who would have guessed that those little chipmunks scurrying around the feet of their cousins are even squirrels themselves? My mom always liked watching the birds in our backyard but when I was 9 it became war the squirrels evaded her every tactic furry projectiles onto feeders scaling narrow poles only two inches in diameter ignoring the promised slippery surface of my dad’s special fishing wire and every time feasting on their easily acquired delectable prizes. 37
And so my parents’ resignation came in the form of humor with my dad pointing an imaginary paint gun marking the frequent furry offenders
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Alexander Volcy ‘15
true love Goose and I love sports Like basketball and football We love b-ball courts We always got the freshest shoes and the freshest shorts We ball like Kobe and Wade used to in the fall Goose and I love to buy sneakers Every single day we are checking sneakernews Everybody is staring at our shoes when they’re sitting in the bleachers We got every shoe and we’re always showing our teachers We got all kicks, from hyperdunks, to hypermax, to hyperfuse Goose and I love to listen to rap, it’s fills our soul It helps us cheer up, when we’re feeling down We listen from Jay-Z, to Lil Wayne, to J. Cole. And the Cole World CD isn’t something we stole And Drizzy Drakes Take Care will help him get the crown. Finally, Goose and I love girls They run the world that’s what Beyoncé taught alex and me. We especially like when girls have the hair with the curls And we love the girls with the nice pearls Our favorite type of girl is the one whose an MC
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Liliana Pierce ‘13
a brief history of bmx A phenomenon by the mid-1970’s The sport in which the main goal is extreme racing on bicycles in motocross style (Motocross being a form of motorcycle racing held in off-road circuits) Tailwhips Bar spins Front flips Back flips No-handers 360’s 540 Caballeros Barhops &Boomerangs (That’s about as scientific as BMX can get) 1970’s kids and their Schwinn Sting-Rays burning rubber in California Racing standard bikes on off-road courses 1977 came with the American Bicycle Association 1981..International BMX Foundation. My personal favorites: Dennis Enarson, Scotty Cranmer, Brett Banasiewicz, & Garrett Reynolds Dennis Enarson’s that really handsome blonde from California that won all three events in one Dew Tour...I think I may be in love. Brett Banasiewicz, the “Mad Dog” from Indiana..had a perfect triple tailwhip in the Dew Tour at 15 years old. Incredible athlete. Scotty Cranmer landed the first ever frontflip-tailwhip combo BMX has 40
seen. Talk about talent! Garret Reynolds took the gold at X Games - Brazil, X Games - Mexico, & X Games - Dubai in 2007. Yepp..he is that good. BMX is extreme It’s hardcore It’s friggen boss.
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William Harrington ‘12
A Brief History of Basilicas The Latin word basilica was originally used to describe a Roman public building; the term came to refer to a large and important church. He told me all of this except without the Latin bit. He told me about the basilica and the campus and big buildings, stone with flying buttresses and all that. Stained glass windows, too. Glass isn’t a liquid. People think that because it is thicker at the bottom than the top it has settled. But they’re wrong. Glass is blown in sheets. only it is a liquid when heated and formed a concave in the pan, like water in the beakers that we used in life science, which causes the edges to look as if the glass has settled. We have found three thousand-year-old glass in the pyramids that was still formed. I haven’t talked to him since. I am afraid that I will leave to study and I will leave things and people behind not because I particularly want to but because I have new things. 42
At university I will wander and read my Eliot sleep to Op. 64 burn my draft card He was very excited he was considering converting again. He keeps up better with the theology of the last 1800 years, better than anybody I know. Evangelical, originally, at first. Then to Arminianism, you know, the heresy. Now he was considering Eastern Orthodox. Is whatever is now now broken? My other friend mourns the loss of many things because they still worked goddamn fine. The steam trains got us from here to there and did so without wearing out their wheels.
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Toast Phillip ‘12
pumpkin spice latte This is a new experience The pumpkin spice latte burns me from the inside out I wait for the heat to subside Sam introduced me to coffee Not officially of course That would be coffee hour at church But he made me at least somewhat enthusiastic To be drinking this beverage That would have been my first 9th grade year Defined by depressed sleep deprivation Poor academic performance And something oddly human about it all As I sat in the Linden Street Starbucks on a cold winter day and was dubbed Toast Or saw Wellesley’s psychopathic hippie making his way through the snow While watching sam put down shot after shot of espresso Myself, being the lightweight I was, putting down two Just so I could feel some sort of belonging in a bleak world But the pumpkin spice latte evaded me for years Maybe it was some sort of symbol of rebirth Coming on like a comet before impact As I realized that life can be as sweet as you want it
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Jordan Schecter ‘13
untitled Your day begins. You pull off the covers and stretch, hitting her in the mouth. She doesn’t move and you slither out of bed, barely touching anything. Splash water on your face, rub your eyes, in the mirror is someone you don’t recognize. Open the cabinet, get a glass from the top shelf. Pull the fridge open and the cool air wakes you up a little. Grab the juice and chug straight from the carton. Put it back, turn around, see the empty glass, and curse. You always forget. Such a pig. Turn the shower on hot and stand there, naked, until the steam rises. Get in your little box and stare at your hands, the beads of water forming a maze right before your eyes. Last night was a mistake. Maureen yelled. She yelled about money. What else? She hated me last night. I hated me. I walked out of the apartment building, kicking the wall on the way out. Walking at 2 AM helps sometimes. I crossed the street and into Mike’s. I ordered a beer. No. Whiskey. I ordered another. Two more. A pretty girl started talking to me and we kissed. I didn’t like it but she smelled nice. I thought of Maureen the whole time. I love her. You shake your hands and the maze disappears. You hear the bedroom door open and close. She’s up. She gets into the shower and wraps her arms around you. 45
Abraham Gobel ‘13
untitled Pushing, shoving, poking. Smooth jazz, full of interruptions, mistakes, life. I hear names being whispered instruments being tuned in the dark. More pushing. More shoving. More names whispering. My hand is shaking like an organ trill, “I should put one of those in my solo”. Wish I had that skill. More pushing. Hands shaking. Shoving. Names flying through the air. Hitting my head and bouncing around me until finally the lull of voices is broken. Clapping. Lots of clapping. More poking, on my arm this time. Oh yeah that’s me. Who’s poking me. And then the face that I have been waiting to see for hours. The face I always miss. I am not sure what to do. The names have stopped. The shaking is gone. The jazz has fallen. The people are non-existent. It’s just me. And her. And I realize what I have wanted all day. Not to preform. Not to be clapped for. Not to be hungry. Not to be sad. Not happy. Not full. Not calm. Not relaxed. Just to feel her in my arms. That feeling. Nothing more. That indescribable feeling that changes a person. That no matter who you are you crave that feeling you get when you wrap your arms around the one you...love, and everything else just seems to disappear. But life interrupts everything and I pull away. I turn around. I roll up my sleeves. Shake my head. Clean my glasses. And take the stage.
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Ben Logan ‘12
Strawberry Flavored water Strawberry flavored water it sizzles as it opens it sizzles that we are safe it sizzles like the fizzing of a spray can like the fuzz of night and the buzz in my head Strawberry water is our ritual it goes graffiti strawberry water lime chips I hate lime chips I dont mind strawberry water I love graffiti so it all works out The bottles condensation cleans my paint stained fingers usually we have the environmentally friendly bottle with a smaller cap I feel better about myself my previous pollution balances with this drink making vandalism acceptable I still feel my best friend is relateble its the small things that make a friendship last its the smaller caps the lime flavored snacks and the reliance on something so unnatural as strawberry water. 47
Jack Leffel ‘14 48
Sophia Ardell ‘13
burned and torn She was born to be empty; they didn’t have the time to make her broken. They took away her heart, leaving love forgotten and unspoken. She was beaten, burned and torn. They said it made her tougher to see the world with scorn. They thought it was a favor when the drunken whip stung, since you won’t get hurt for the rest of your life if your spirit’s stolen young. She keeps getting older, followed by the past. Nothing feels real. Nothing ever lasts. She never had an identity, so she uses other faces instead. She shares her hollow smile, but lives inside her head. You want to really know her? To try and break down her walls? Good luck then, kid. They built ‘em tall.
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Jack Leffel ‘14 50
Tim King ‘13
a night with her Walking through the sand- the temperature still perfect between my toes Her shadow silhouettes her figure in the pale moonlight, We walk through the sand, a comfortable pace accentuated by the rush of the water The surf rushes in a torrent, blocking out my hearing for a second, I panic-Life starts again, and I stare at her face, the moonlight emanating behind her. It takes a moment to comprehend what I see before me, a girl- no, a woman, stares at me. A silent question on her lips. I smile and sit down, the only thing that my body can do, I’m trapped within myself She sits, we turn as one towards the moon, mindless chatter ensues. I stop, turn, look, mutter a mindless syllable. There is no more talk.
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Sara Radin ‘12 52
Annie Mangone ‘12
in dispraise of tears She sat there on the couch the TV sit light. The tears started rolling down her eyes. His head was bowed the whole time he could not look up. Her mind flashed the images before her eyes. The saltiness of a tear reached the corner of her mouth. There was a river flowing of tears hitting the floor. The depressing music rang in her ears. The tears reappeared this time falling onto her blanket and rolling off onto the couch. His friends tried to comfort him but he could not even speak. She sat on the couch until the credits had finished rolling. The box of tissues sat there mocking her. He flinched at the touch of someone unfamiliar. He stayed in the church long after the service was over. She finally left the couch after the box was empty. The floor was littered with the casualties of the day.
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George Wright ‘13
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Red Road to JD’s Classic bottle, not so classic label there is no old man on this no palm tree with a golden sunset background this contains a classic family station wagon cruising down the Iowa Streets like the car Mike got around in as a kid a small town kid with a big town personality he teaches canoeing but hates it stuck on the dock not able to explore the world he wants to be a pioneer, like the red rambler who hears Iowa and thinks beer? No one red rambler is original in flavor and look
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Jason Flashner ‘12
Emmy Kuperschmid ‘12
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Joseph Randles ‘12
bien 1:00 in the morning and I was hungry burger king was open, bien And as I sat there and absently picked at the table in the burger king which was covered with a waxy residue I saw on the tv that egypt had rebelled as had tunisia, libya and even syria was giving it a try bien, bien and bien bien for all of the people running the streets hands thrust in front of them holding signs and their faces have a constant look of -no more no bien the puppy dog eyes of the politically down, always gets me well the first few times anyway while im still in the mood just like me and these fries after this meal I wont want to see a double cheesburger for weeks maybe even months, but then just like that: bien I would love a double cheeseburger And right now I wouldn’t mind another democracy in the middle east... I wouldnt mind one of those so bien chicken nuggets 57
Ivanna Mejia ‘12
the nostalgia farm Jessie’s pink dress is ripped apart. My dolls all have suffered of homelessness and hair loss. I have styled Jessie’s hair into a mohawk, but I have no idea what that is. I don’t even like them in the first place. I attempt to dye her hair with blue pen and pink highlighter. These streaks of difference that will help Jessie be unique. But the highlighter marks fade away as soon as my index finger touches her hair. Now my finger is stained with pink. I hate the color pink, but it describes Jessie. Pink: the mix of two contrasting colors: red and white. Patriotic, bright and difficult to stare away from, and there goes the white, blank, plain and simple but even within the simplicity of the white, it is outrageous. So Jessie’s pink streaks don’t satisfy me. You either have to be one thing or the other. You can’t have any combinations. Then, I shove Jessie back underneath my other collection of dolls. Her ripped jeans and pen stains in her body sicken me. I need a new doll. Maybe this time I’ll get a Barbie.
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America:
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Toast Phillips ‘12
america Burn the red white and blue So that all the people can watch Fireworks spiralling up into the void A stolen golf cart Stoned on the Fourth of July Wouldn’t Uncle Sam be proud? But the people on the streets see something else And the people in the Middle East really see something else Because America es la policia del mundo At least that’s the mantra we’ve drilled into our heads
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Alexys Butler ‘12
my america right? The place where dreams come true The place where cultures and styles mix and melt like jalapeno cheese on a nacho Every one’s included..coming together nations upon nations, coming together to create one big nation, a purpose, a concept, a dream and a fantasy As simple as that may seem, it’s rather complicated See America is bogged down, oppressed, bourgeois and highly ignorant Refusing to see the issues right in front of them We are the country that sends out the elephants in the room We abuse our privileges We despise justice...that’s why we killed Troy Davis right? We ignore the rights and worship the wrongs... We don’t accept love in it’s many forms We don’t know what it’s like to go against the grain We are obsessed with genitalia, selling it and buying it, glorifying and worshipping it It seems as though we don’t know the definition of sanctity or privacy We’re so materialistic, running races to see who can get the nicest car, who has the nicest hair, who has the biggest house? Who owns a private jet? We don’t know how to come together, we just know how to separate Integration has never been America’s thing You’d think that because of the success of the Civil Rights Movement racism would tone down a little bit, innocent black people wouldn’t be penalized....those who live in the inner city wouldn’t drown in their own blood, 20 minutes away from Harvard, the school above all schools We’d learn to appreciate education and all the things it has to offer It’s sad now because those who don’t look like the majority, those who 62
live in the inner city wouldn’t drown in their own blood, 20 minutes away from Harvard, the school above all schools We’d learn to appreciate education and all the things it has to offer It’s sad now because those who don’t look like the majority, those who look like me...with a permanent skin tan and coarser hair, they drop out of school like flies, running to the court to play basketball....flying to the studio to record the next hit song, objectifying the beautiful women that birthed all the children? You’d think because of our progress...we’d try to move forward But now, we move backwards, we think it’s fine that the richer get richer and the poorer get poorer We think it’s okay for Boston to be the place where homeless people live.... traveling the streets at night in the dead of winter It’s disgusting sometimes how we think that this place we call America possess a dream...The American Dream You offered to welcome me as long as I believed in your dream...but unfortunately for you, I know that dreams like yours are only possible for those who are silly enough to believe and stupid enough to fall asleep.
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Diego Fiori ‘12
america The land of the free The business man leaving his home to go play capitalism The truck driver scanning the horizon for another McDonald’s The unemployed man setting up a tent on Wall Street They all have one thing in common America But I too am America I embrace the fast food, the thousands of cable channels, the media, the politics, Is it all really that bad? The best part of America is that no matter how bad it gets There is always someone who loves their country There are always the kids who choose to go to war There are always the old men who stand by this land There are always bumper stickers on the backs of cars on the highway God Bless America That’s the important thing The pride The love The loyalty The land of the free The home of the brave America 64
David Taus ‘12
america America is a world of extremes where everyone is brilliant but the people are idiots America is full of extremes full of facts full of absolutes YES or NO no maybe America reminds me of star wars “Do or do not there is no try” yoda said or as obi wan said “Only a sith makes an absolute” which is funny because that statement is an absolute it is also true someone willing to listen will use maybe America doesn’t use maybe it uses bombs
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Ivanna Mejia‘12
america America I was once proud of you, now I reconsider if I should be. I trusted your superiority in the world, the freedom and liberty you give us, but instead you decide to laugh in my face while you lie. Sure, there’s freedom and liberty and justice but its all like white chocolate covered pretzels, just a coat of sweet white chocolate covering the salty truth of the pretzels. There, we have Barack Obama as our president, but what about the discrimination our society still accepts? How can you look at me and classify me, another blank piece of paper placed in a folder labeled Illegal immigrant, because of my ethnicity. I love you America. Thanks for teaching me English and for providing me with your culture. I now know as much about techno as I would know about salsa. With you, I’ve also learned how to love Indian food, Thai food, Italian and of course, American. I believed in you so much, that I once decided to defend your wrong-doings. Muslims are terrorists and we should be in fear every time we see an Arab in our airplane. I refuse to travel with any type of connection or destination flight in New York City. And thanks to you, an x-ray machine screens and outlines the only property that I will forever own, my body. And I onced celebrated with you the deaths of Osama Bin Laden and 66
Ghaddafi, until I realized that you would laugh if I died too. I will now refrain from trusting you. Lowering our reputation in a glance because we forgot the definition of humility. Thank God, I never did. We’ve learned to criticize our allies and our enemies, forgetting to fix our own problems. America has decided to play monopoly. Buying properties and working with imaginary budgets, but there’s no game over because there’s no jail. Only consequences that continue to worsen as the game goes on. And I have to agree, I am American because I chose it for myself, because by preferring to be Chinese, I would have started from an invisible number, I, instead of the value zero, And zero equals nothing, but at least there’s hope for an addition to something.
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Mashups:
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Also known as “exquisite corpses“ mashup poems are collaborative poems in which a group of writers take turns writing each line of the poem.
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William Harrington ‘12 and Matthew Lippman, Faculty
Barrlehouse Pleasantries There were no dulcimers for me to play, in a crowd of 68,000 people to make you a drunk madman with no cosmology. In the chaos you said all the madness was the envelope of winter. It was all lucid and you were still alive the way red and orange wildness can do that to a planet so your bright green words can do anything and make everything beautiful. Everybody was awake with a shaking voice and it’s barrelhouse pleasantries were all out of control. It was cold. It was nippy. So the woman in front of you set herself on fire and smashed the sky into a thousand baby orchids from dawn to dawn and ever on. That big beat bounce of Bonham’s bass drum protests the death of chrome wing-tips on the car because you want to fly off the roof. All the concert writers said it. Lift off, they said, and you know that you can do anything.
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Anonymous
Memories He has the ability to generate smile and laughs I remember how he weaved humor into a situation with voice, words and mannerisms. Memories inundate my body As an escape from reality, and a happy adventure into bigger and better things. A rainy day, a sad story, and a steaming cup of hot chocolate, Small sandy picnic table on the beach, And burrowing into pillows situated next to the warmth of a powerful radiator, covered in a drowsy kind of comfort often mistaken for laziness.
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Sarah Jane Devins ‘12 , Kelsey Taylor ‘12
you You lie, lie, lie, but there’s nowhere to hide You are an addiction and I just want to build a sweet loving chemistry So you can be all mine all the time all these obstacles you are putting me through I’ll find a way through them whether I have to climb, run, jump, hurdle for your love Because you are simply easygoing and always want to have fun it makes me care for you, wanna hear from you, just want to be with you You are confident and courageous and some reason I cherish our moments You are my best friend and I love you
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Lili Welch ‘12 and Imogene Edson ‘12
all things go This parochial view of life called television leaves me hungry That takes you on a magical almost trippy journey to another universe I squeezed the luck out of my name and now I am searching for it I was small and everything was large One piece has traveled through the hole that I dug Casting a magical spell on all who are captivated by it Maybe Emma thought I could manipulate it because sometimes I manipulate her running from fears Maybe it’s a lie because light refracting on a droplet of water creates only an illusion The imagination that one holds in his or her hands is more powerful then anything else in their fantasy world Where all of my toys come from and afternoons that slowly turn into cool nights But Neverland is a cartoon on a cereal box What can be said about the NeverEnding Story that hasn’t already been said? The place where I was born As a dark Nothing begins to fill Who was my distant cousin to get into the state of mind, that magical world Where X chromosomes mix with optimism
What can be said about the NeverEnding Story that hasn’t already been said? 73
A novel turned movie An antique book stolen because it is mysterious That takes you on a magical almost trippy journey to another universe The imagination that Bastian holds in his hands is more powerful then anything else in his fantasy world Morals are woven in and out of the plot line like thin gold string, from the Grimm Brothers tale Or perhaps that it is depressing As the young hunters horse dies in a sand pit While the young princess dies and her land starts to waste As a dark Nothing begins to fill or that they are depending on a young boy running from his fears to save them The NeverEnding Story casts a magical spell on all who are captivated by it Leaving watchers wanting more and more they get with sequels upon sequels that don’t measure up to the original but I still watched those pretended I was sick, just to come home from that hell hole Belmont Day School to get into the state of mind, that magical world Henry: He wasn’t even born yet. Still in my mothers stomach which was all big and swollen. I remember being in the hospital, in that narrow bed that 74
was just big enough to let me climb into a little space if my mom moved over all the way. I think she was in labor...not sure? But all I do know is that the hospital room was big, probably because I was small and everything is large when you are 2 and 9 months. What I can recall specifically from that day is the present I got. It wasn’t Henry. I don’t know if he was born or not, I don’t
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Taylor Hayes ‘12 Emma Banta ‘13
vibrations Diving into worlds cramped in bound paper Voices in the background I need to block out these noises Hoping for just a moment to escape into the calmness Constant moving around me But, then I dial it back Vibrations spread through my fingertips She helped me embrace it That thought alters my whole world It takes me away It always takes me away It’s so strange to think of what life would be like Am I too attached? I guess all I have is what I know The decision was Cara’s Making me think This is when I become worried My insides moving The back of my chest Thump Thump Thump In my ears and through my body.
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Sean Daly ‘12 Margaret Gegler‘12 Adam Goodman ‘12
overloaded laundry I accept others’ morals, ways of life, whatever you want to call it For some reason my sister loves to be a good person I hate to say it but when I was younger, I had always felt like “the better child” or “the favorite.” For some reason, I felt more important. The first time this was apparent, we were both under the age of ten. I was a 10 year old boy and I had a mom who was more than perfectly happy to do house chores Like when my family would come to visit, she’d pull out the bed in the couch to provide a place for part of our family to sleep at night However when our my mom asked for help, my sister would sometimes looked out into the open or simply pretend to be asleep. We all are equal but separate or separate but equal, right? My sister and I would have the weirdest conversations However, it was not that big of a deal . Maybe it was the fact that we were both afraid of a possible higher power because we have come to think that we are actually the ones higher than those “below us” It seemed that all sounds were on mute during our past conversations because I failed to hear her screams of help as her head slowly disintegrated into the black pit of the bed made from a couch.
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Essays: Stories: A Short Play: 79
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This I Believe: By: Lauren Lapuck I believe in little American flag pins. The small piece of 20-cent metal represents so much more than a section of land, a group of people live on. The accessory symbolizes the pride and confidence of the citizens of this great nation. When our home hits rock bottom, when times are at the lowest, and when it seems as if no positive advancements are being made anywhere, the people of this country work together and help each other to create a better tomorrow. Athletes of all ages and backgrounds, flock to Boston to prove that they are capable of representing the organization that we call Hayden. The Haydenettes team is a prestigious, elite and competitive synchronized skating team. Synchronized skating is a sport which the public is generally uneducated about. Though misconceived as trivial and prissy, the sport is extremely dangerous and difficult with 16 skaters, 32 blades, lifts, lightening speed, and risky formations; the stakes are high every moment we step on the ice together. Each April 20 girls are carefully chosen to not only represent the organization, but also the country. Their lives become complex balancing acts juggling school, work and a demanding and rigorous fulltime training schedule where being “normal� is an unclear idea to them. I am lucky enough to be one of those 20. As a team, we travel outside our usual, our everyday, for the opportunity of a lifetime. Thanks to the teams’ success each year at major international competitions, the Haydenettes are members of Team USA. Ecstatic to compete and execute our best, we 81
family, our friends, ourselves, our team and our country. These ladies originate from completely different backgrounds. Coming from all different states, countries, skating styles and previous teams, but we have one thing in common: our love of the sport. The important factor that brings us all together is the simple, yet utterly complex: the dedication and passion in our hearts. This passion is most evident when we first step onto the ice. When waiting for our team to be announced, the crowd starts to roar. The boards around the sides of the rink shake because of the booming noise and then the announcement comes, “Representing the United States of America, the Haydenettes!” It is in that moment when we are so close as one unit working together in perfect unison. We fulfill our first push, and I am able to look into the stands. I see red, white, and blue waving, in the form of our nations flag. This instantly reminds me of the little American flag pins; worn by fans throughout the rink and the one I wear proudly on my coat. I see them on men’s suit jackets and little girls’ scarves. With our country behind us performing is pure joy. I believe in the power of passion and the power of unity. I believe in the ability of a group made up of dedicated individuals, together working to achieve more. I believe in the power of a team. End
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Five Dollars By: Anne Tsui I’m from the way a cat can soak up anything nice; sunlight, soft blankets, the middle of your bed so you’re left to dangle part way over the floor as she stretches out and luxuriates. This is all your fault, you glare. She blinks slowly. Who invited me in here, anyway? Darn cats. I’m from the snippets of other people’s lives that I capture in words, smoothing them out like a crisp twenty that doesn’t yet resemble limp green leather or an old stray dog that’s seen much more of the world than you have and wears it as he does his tail. Smoothing them out and folding them neatly down the middle and saving them. It wasn’t as much a span of mountains as it was the absence of one; seeming to have been carelessly torn out from the pale expanse of skypaper to reveal the endless dark beneath it. A silhouette. The space stolen from the sky. I promise that sounded better in my head. I’m from my brother, the kindest and most genuine person I know hidden beneath the best sense of humor I’ve ever heard. “Where are you going to take your first date?” our mom coos, leaning forward eagerly. Old habits die hard. He doesn’t miss a beat. “Some motel.” You really have to hand it to someone like that. 83
I’m from his collections of songs; Radiohead, Modest Mouse, Arcade Fire. They’re the metaphorical carrots of music. All you really want to do is inhale that cheeseburger, but you plod through carrot stick after carrot stick because it is healthier and makes you look thinner. You sit through these songs one after the next in the hopes that you’ll look more sophisticated to anyone who may be watching, in the hopes you’ll get to say: “Oh, hi there. I was just listening to 2+2=5 (the Lukewarm), by Radiohead.” Not making that up. “Really?” The kind of voice you’d use if a five-year-old declared he’d drawn that “all by himself.” “Yep. Great song. You should check it out sometime.” “I’ll take your word for it.” What did you really expect to happen? I’m from arguments with the voice in my head I call Shianne. Come on, you can’t just put me on the spot like that! Oh hush. Let’s finish this for once. Maybe if you hadn’t procrastinated for so long, and actually used the provided template, I wouldn’t have to pitch in. And I hope that English teacher of yours puts this on your grade. It’s called artistic license. Just because nobody understands you doesn’t mean you’re an artist. The least you could do is insult me with something you came up with yourself. I’ve done that plenty of times too. I’ve never won one of these arguments yet. And it’s going to stay that way. I am from reading I am from writing I am from dreaming 84
I am from hoping I am from playing I am from fighting I am from wishing I am from me. End
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I Believe in the Sailing Life By: Danny Getz
The day started off with a blanket of deep, dark fog. The dreary skies discouraged me to the point where the only thing I felt comfortable doing was sitting, like a statue, in the cockpit of the boat. The confidence in my father’s ability to sail slightly eased my fear, but not enough. The crushing of waves slapped against my eardrums but quickly faded into the muffled silence of the ocean. As the day went on, the waves began coming in steeper and soon they looked like dark, blue-green walls which boxed in our boat. Scared and a little pessimistic, I sat gripping the boat’s limbs with my pink fingers. All of a sudden my dad demanded, “Take the helm!” I froze. I thought steering the boat was a little much to expect from me. I was certainly flattered to be trusted enough to steer the thirty foot white whale of a vessel, but the responsibility still haunted me. The waves scraped past the boat’s hull with a harsh slap and a lethargic nudge. 86
The rocking of the boat had always been my favorite thing about sailing, yet today, it might have been my least favorite. The bow of the boat slit through the deep grey fog as the moisture gently tickled my eyelids and cheeks. All this provided me with a peaceful kind of fear. We could only see ten feet to any side of our boat, we were in complete solitude. The waves got bigger and stronger. Every wave looked like another stampede of blue buffalo heading directly toward our boat. As my dad hopped from one side of the boat to the other, I caught a glimpse of my sea-sick older brother attempting to nap in the boat’s cabin. His stomach faced the ceiling with his forearm placed over his eyes. You could see the expression on his face which reeked of confusion, discomfort, and worry. Normally seeing someone older scared would worry me, but for some reason seeing my brother uneasy brought a slight raise to the corners of my lips. No one could see the smirk on my face, but I knew it was there. I looked up into the bright blur of grey sky that was blanketing my vision and was surprised at what I saw. I told my dad to look up. He did. Now we shared the smirk. I pointed to my brother and he laughed, too. The tip of the mast, rocking from side to side, had cut a seam through the thick clouds of grey and a bright streak of blue shined across the sky. The waves grew weary along with the day. The sunlight had past its peak and was descending into the mountain tops, while the waves seemed to be rippling into the depths of the ocean to sleep. The calm was nice. That day...was nice. I...felt nice. My hibernating brother had finally seen the light of day and we sat with drinks in our hands relaxing with the breeze. Looking back, the boat had become a perfect model of my life. The waves were obstacles and the fog was the confusion which life holds. It was that hint of courage and passion to strive forward that allowed me to overcome the intense moments of steering the boat that day. Life is the most ruthlessly beautiful thing. It can whip obstacles forward in a way that is so sporadic it can seem mean and unfair. It becomes not whether the obstacle is dodged but rather the little things that can be done in order to 87
keep momentum after being struck. At certain points in life, a person is required to make adjustments. These alterations often reach beyond his or her comfort-zones. Sailing, like life, requires many adjustments in order to reach a destination. Yanking frayed ropes and changing courses are actions which are necessary in sailing as well as in life. From the age of three, I have watched and studied the harsh reality of an unsuccessful marriage. Divorce has been the frayed rope in my life. Family members, brothers, and friends of mine have all attempted to yank on the frayed relationship between my mother and father. My family has been split apart for as long as I can remember. The close bond my brother and I share, acts as a keel in my life, which allows me to stay level. Together, as brothers, we have managed to navigate through our lives while coping with the adversity of a divorce. At times the waters were rough, but never-the-less, we’ve broken through the waves which have stood in our way. that dreary morning. Deaths, injuries, illnesses, and more, are unfortunately common in life. Yet, you can cry because a loved one is gone, or, you can smile, knowing that they have lived. I believe in the power to move on. I believe in moving on, yet not forgetting the past...the power to overcome. I believe in the wind in my sails and the sun on my back. Even when life gets hard, ruthless, yet beautiful, I believe in the power to get back up. End
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Rifleman’s Creed By: William Harrington The play is to be performed in any proscenium, the larger the better. The set consists of a raised platform at the center back with two staircases descending from either side. The stairs are to twist so that their first step is facing the audience and parallel with the lip of the stage. The raised platform is to be approximately at the height so that a child of around 6 years kneeling or crouching on the platform would be at eye level with any adult standing on the stage. The entire stage, occupied and unoccupied, is painted flat black and extremely well lit. On the ground immediately in front of the platform is a spectacular battle. Oversized green army men are blowing each other up with a great arsenal of tanks and cannons. A boy of about 6 years is on the platform with a pile of parachute men preparing to drop one down on the field below. Man enters. He is wearing a full-body spandex suit. It is of a solid primary color, preferably red. Man: What are you doing? 89
Boy: I’m a general and this is my fort. The green berets are about to drop down and win the day. Man: How are they going to do that? Boy: There going to land on top of the enemy. Man: Wouldn’t that hurt? Boy: It’s a battle. Man: (considering) I guess that answers my question. Now it’s your turn. Ask me a question. Boy: I don’t have time. If I wait the enemy will beat the good guys. The Boy drops the parachute men, one after another, down onto the battle. Boy: Look, they won, but only just. If I’d waited another minute then they would have lost. Do you understand why it was so important that I drop the heroes right then? Man: That’s your question? It started when I was seventeen. There was a friend of mine who I didn’t see anymore. One time I did see him, so I asked him why he was never around to chill anymore. He told me it was because he was a dancer, and he said he didn’t have time anymore. All he could do was dance. Then it happened again in college. I was walking across the college from my dorm to the dining hall during a blizzard when I saw my friend running out of a lab building being chased by a hundred rats. He had set them free because he objected to animal slavery. It’s just what they have to do. If a hero is in a plane, he has to jump out. 90
A fanfare can be heard, faintly. Better yet, a long and joyous rendition of the Star Spangled Banner in the most classical form. Boy: I like animals. Yesterday my mother took me to the zoo and I saw an elephant and a giraffe and a cheetah. The cheetah looked like my little cat only it had spots instead of stripes. I don’t like my cat; she spends all his time sleeping and knocking over my battles. She’s like a hurricane and she doesn’t say sorry. Man: She knocks them over when she is sleeping? Boy: Of course not. She wakes up to knock them over. Then she sleeps again. Man: You know why she knocks them over? It’s because she loves you. Boy: Yeah? Man: Yeah. Boy: yeah… Man: With a love like that, you know you should be glad. Fanfare fades. Boy: (As if for the very first time the Boy looks at his battle. The scene creates awe in him; it is no longer about winners and losers.) Without having their cats with them, what do my heroes jump out of the plane for? Man: Before God I swear this creed. My rifle and myself are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my 91
life. The Man runs offs chanting ‘one, two, three, four, United States Marines Corps...’ The Boy walks down from his fort and begins the painstaking process of reorganizing the destruction. End
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Why I will Always Love Soccer By: Rodney Yeoh Why I will always love soccer I love soccer - it is in my blood and will always be. What is it about a game involving 22 players on a rectanglar field, chasing around a ball with the goal of getting the ball into the net using their feet, that makes it so enchanting, so beautiful? Pele, one of the greatest soccer players that ever lived called it “the beautiful game”. Why? I think it is the simplicity of the game. You can play it anywhere and you do not need much except a few bodies, a ball and some space. In spite of this simplicity, soccer, to me, means much much more . Soccer is a big part of my life. I still play indoor soccer with a group of South and Central Americans. I also play in a men’s soccer league in Boston. During the weekends, I always watch soccer games from the English Premier League following Liverpool, a team that I have supported ever since I was 5 years old. How did I end up following Liverpool? I did not grow up in Liverpool. I did not visit England until recently. So, why do I end up in anguish when Liverpool loses and scream in delight when they win? Liverpool’s victory or defeat during the weekend league games either make or break my weekend. Some simply cannot understand and think that I am crazy to support a team that I have no direct connection to. But I can explain this craziness. Soccer is our national pastime in Malaysia. Every weekend, the sports pages in newspapers will be plastered with 93
news on both local and international soccer, especially on the English Premier League. Families and friends talk about the English games that will be coming up. Our weekend schedules literally revolve around soccer. There is also a more personal story behind this national obsession with this sport. I still remember the first time I fell in love with soccer. I was 5 at that time and it was around midnight when I woke myself up to watch a FA Cup Final (similar to a Superbowl final), featuring Liverpool playing against another team with my dad (there is a time difference between Malaysia and England). I have two very distinct memories from that game. I remember being fascinated by a Jamaican born English player named, John Barnes, who was playing for Liverpool at that time. He was gliding down the left wing on the soccer pitch gracefully with the ball stuck to his feet. I was mesmerized by the sheer beauty of it. It was like watching a ballerina dance on stage. I also remember my dad explaining soccer to me - what the game was about, the rules, the positions. It was one of the few times I had such a wonderful conversation with my dad. From that moment on, I started following soccer religiously. My dad would take me to watch the local soccer games in our state stadium filled with 25,000 supporters. I still remember the sound of the stadium’s roar every time a goal was scored in the stadium, and along with that, the sheer ecstatic joy of the supporters. Of course, I will always remember the exhilarating beauty of the “Mexican wave”. My parents enforced a sleeping curfew on my siblings and I. However, there was only a short period of time when I did not have to follow the curfew, and this was when the soccer World Cup took place once every four years. Depending on where the event was being hosted, the time difference would sometimes force us to wake up at 3 or 5 in the morning to watch the games. My dad and I would wake each other up to catch it, and of course, when one of us dozed off, we would insist on being woken up every time a goal was scored. When the event entered into the final stages of the tournament, we would follow it so intensely that when a goal was scored we would clap and scream in delight, oblivious to my mom and 94
sisters who were still sleeping, as well as our neighbors. But my dad and I understood why we needed to do it. It wasn’t because we were trying to be rude or anything of that sort; it was simply because we could not contain our joy. I used to stutter at a very young age. As a result, I was a very nervous child when I was growing up, as I could not express myself without being laughed at by my friends. Soccer allowed me to express myself without speaking. I could express my joys and frustrations without words and channel them into soccer, especially by making or breaking plays. Even today, the moment when I control a soccer ball, it still is a liberating experience for me. Last year, my dad suffered a stroke and I flew home to tend to him. He had 3 brain surgeries in a week to repair the damages from the stroke. As a result, he suffered from short-term memory loss as well as extreme lethargy. The stroke also left him unable to read for a short time and this was awful as he is an avid reader. He would ask me to read for him and he would insist on me reading the sports page first, especially the soccer scores for that week. We would discuss the games that were played and predict the scores for that week. During those moments, it was difficult for me to hold back my tears seeing my dad reduced to such an incapacitated state. It was painful for me to think that I might not be able to have those “soccer moments” with him again. Luckily, he has improved tremendously from his stroke and we still discuss soccer when I call home these days. Soccer is beautiful not only because of the way it is played. It is much more than that. For me, the sport is a reminder of who I am - my connection with my past of growing up in post-colonial Malaysia, as well as my connection with the globalized world. I am reminded of this when I play soccer with my Latin American friends. Most importantly, soccer is my very own symbolic way of embracing my dad. It is a way for us to show our affection for each other. This is why I will always love soccer. End 95
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