Reflections 2025

reflect ions The Berkeley Carroll School

Vo l 5 4 , I s s u e 1, 2 0 2 5

History of Objects OLIVIA N GRADE 12, ACRYLIC

Dancing on the Clouds MAYA P GRADE 11 PHOTOGRAPH

reflect ions V O L 5 4 , I S S U E 1, 2 0 2 5

Mission Statement

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Reflections, the annual literary and arts magazine of The Berkeley Carroll Upper School, seeks to tap into the vibrant, creative energy circulating in the classrooms and hallways of our school. Berkeley Carroll’s mission is to foster an environment of critical, ethical, and global thinking; Reflections contributes by making space for artistic conversation and collaboration, in our meetings and in this volume.

Reflections What’s in a name? “Reflection” implies both a mirroring and a distortion: something recognizably strange and strangely recognizable.

In selecting and arranging the visual and written work in this magazine, we seek to create this experience of broken mirrors: reflections that are just a bit off, refracted and bent to reveal unexpected resemblances. Notice, for example, August A’s “In the Jaws of an Angler” paired with Clare M’s “L x W.” At first glance, this pairing— August’s rectangle-filled piece next to Clare’s rectangle-hating essay—feels cruelly ironic. Yet a closer look at August’s art reveals a tiny figure fighting to escape a massive anglerfish, much as Clare, in her essay, simultaneously swims and seeks to escape from the pool. And while August’s image includes a few lines as harsh and unforgiving as the lanes in Clare’s essay, its torn and jagged edges suggest the irregularity and escape she is craving. We hope that, as you page through the magazine, you will notice many similar odd connections.

Editorial Policy and Procedures The Reflections staff is a small, dedicated group of students that meets biweekly over popcorn, wasabi peas, and freeze-dried Skittles to discuss and develop a shared interest in art and literature.

In the fall, Reflections members establish the magazine’s high standards, solicit submissions, and refine their own works in progress. In February, the editors preside over small groups who read and critique anonymous student art and literature submissions. After the preliminary critiques—and with helpful suggestions from the art department—the editors carefully consider feedback from the entire Reflections team before choosing and editing the final selections and laying out the magazine, including selecting and designing the spreads. Editors then submit all materials to our fantastic printer, review the proofs, and distribute copies of our beautiful magazine—through our library, as summer reading for our writing courses, at admissions events, and to anyone lucky enough to find the pdf on our school website.

Reflections is a student-run, -led, and -organized coterie; neither the editors nor the staff receive class credit for their work. We are proud members of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. The striking artwork and writing in this magazine were all crafted by Berkeley Carroll Upper School students, sometimes to fulfill class assignments, but always from the engines of their own creativity.

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At Reflections, our layout process is old-school. We like to move words and images around on paper until everything looks right.

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Staff

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Editor in Chief

Assistant Editor

Staff

DEVRA G

ELLE C

Arts Editor

Faculty Advisors

ALEXIS SG

MS. DREZNER MR. GAVRYUSHENKO

AUGUST A HANNAH H JESSIE-PEARL L

Assistant Arts Editor

JULIANA M OSARIEMEN O RILEY R

TESSA G ULA K VERONICA M

AARJU F

Editor’s Statement Welcome to the 54th edition of Reflections! This beautiful book that you’re holding in your hands is made up entirely of art and writing created by our own BC Upper School community, and it’s the culmination of weeks and weeks of hard work. The Reflections staff spent the spring laying out hundreds of little pieces of paper on the ground every day after school—ordering and reordering, pairing and repairing, scribbling and re-scribbling. This book is made up of the challenges that we overcame as a team and the joy we found in spending time with one another.

There is no one without the other; this coexistence is the magic of creation.

This year’s Reflections would not have been possible without our faculty advisors, Ms. Drezner and Mr. Gavryushenko; our talented designer, Bob Lane, at Studio Lane; and the support of our faculty in the art and English

departments. And of course, Reflections would be blank without the thoughtful writing and intricate artwork that our students share with us each year.

Every spring, Reflections finds new ways to harness the creativity and passion at the heart of the Berkeley Carroll community. This is this year’s endeavor. We hope that you love it.

DEVRA G, ALEXIS SG

Editing Team, Spring 2025

cont ents z

Poetry 11

Fraying at the Shores OSARIEMEN O, Grade 9

18

argentina STELLA R, Grade 11

32

Pantoum: a Tryst with Resilience EMILE C, Grade 10

48

AFNG ALEXIS SG, Grade 12

70

Ode to a Paper Clip OLI E, Grade 9

78

Clouds, Not Smoke OSARIEMEN O, Grade 9

87

oh to escape DEVRA G, Grade 12

106

Pathetic!

ALEXIS SG, Grade 12

Brutal Music ALEXIS SG

GRADE 12, PEN

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5

Personal Essay

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6

24

LxW

Fiction 13

CLARE M, Grade 12

34

One of Us

SOEFI E, Grade 12

63

LAKE SP, Grade 12

41

44

Proud

Abandonment HESHEL R, Grade 12

ELLE C, Grade 10

The New York Public Health Fire Safety Department

House of Swing

SOEFI E, Grade 12

TESSA G, Grade 10

51

Tiny People

104

123

Circles DEVRA G, Grade 12

They Could Never Make Me Hate You DEVRA G, Grade 12

60

Cooking, Clothes, and Crime: Times with Grandma

Humor

RILEY R, Grade 10

82

MIND THE GAP, PLEASE . . .

21

AARON A, Grade 12

90

Skinless SARAH R, Grade 12

108

Messrs. Rossi ELI R, Grade 10

110

Taking Up Space MIRA G, Grade 10

114

56

Service Delays ZACHARY K, Grade 10

For Now ADDISON R, Grade 12

101

MIRA G, Grade 10

Do I Got This?

ELLE C, Grade 10

94

Screeching Violins in F Minor

0.04 Seconds JORDANA R, Grade 12

73

Kennedy Adventure ECHO M, Grade 12

Artwork COVER

5

ALEXIS SG, Grade 12

History of Objects OLIVIA N, Grade 12

10

Whalefall AUGUST A, Grade 9

INSIDE FRONT COVER

Dancing on the Clouds

Brutal Music

12

Limen AARJU F, Grade 11

MAYA P, Grade 11

17

Purple Hills MIA K, Grade 12

19

How Do You Live?

TESSA G, Grade 10

20

Invasion ULA K, Grade 12

23

Topaz MADELEINE K, Grade 9

25

In the Jaws of an Angler AUGUST A, Grade 9

27

Running Through the Light ARMAN M, Grade 11

30

Glimpse CASS O, Grade 10

33

Collage ULA K, Grade 12

35

The Urge to Create Stuff ALEXIS SG, Grade 12

39

Be Self[Ish/Less] KADEN W, Grade 12

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7

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8

66

Wheel-Thrown and Trimmed SARAH R, Grade 12

69

Decay IVAN P, Grade 10

71

Muted Vase JADA S, Grade 11

72

Portrait of a Secretary Bird AUGUST A, Grade 9

77 40

Chaotic Good

JESSIE-PEARL L, Grade 10

AARJU F, Grade 11

79 43

Handmade Botanical Teacups 80

Domestic Argument SAM B, Grade 11

49

50

55

62

81

Hollowing SOEFI E, Grade 12

86

Eternal Cascades MAYA P, Grade 11

Son CLARE M, Grade 12

58

Grade 12 & Grade 11

Periscope ISABEL C, Grade 9

Underglazed Cups with Deconstructed Faces DAHLIA G and JADA S,

Is This Love?

ZO D, Grade 10

It’s Giving Italy SORAYA G, Grade 11

ECHO M, Grade 12

47

We All Felt She was Asking for It

I Can’t Handle Change

I’m Not Your Evil Cousin, but I Could Be If You Wanted

ZO D, Grade 10

ULA K, Grade 12

Back Up SAM B, Grade 11

88

89

This Lady’s Kinda Indifferent . . .

ULA K, Grade 12

113

What You See in Others Exists in You VERONICA M, Grade 10

115

Pallas Athena AURORA P, Grade 9

120

Biking . . . Solo AARON A, Grade 12

122

Transparent SARAH R, Grade 12

INSIDE BACK COVER

Light DANIEL O, Grade 11

93

Pointillist Peacock CLAUDIA R, Grade 12

98

College Essay ULA K, Grade 12

100

Don'T Ever Try to Fly ALEXIS SG, Grade 12

103

Slow Food SAM B, Grade 11

107

Word Cloud MIA K, Grade 12

111

Attention CAMERON B, Grade 12

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Whalefall AUGUST A GRADE 9, COLLAGE

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A

Fraying at the Shores OSARIEMEN O

GRADE 9, POETRY

THING IS ONLY ITSELF FOR SO LONG. Bread left on the counter turns to stone, stone left in the river turns to sand, sand left in the wind is nothing at all. The sea knows this. It gnaws at shipwrecks like a dog chewing a bone, licks names from the lips of the drowned, swallowing prayers and coughing them up as foam. It is patient. It knows that even the strongest things go weak in time.

A fisherman drags his net through the water, and the sea takes a thread from his sleeve. A child presses an ear to a shell, hearing the sound of fabric thinning, a shirt worn too many times, unraveling at the seams.

Once, a Deity waded in, believing himself woven from something stronger. Something sturdier. Believing himself to be so tightly woven that even the sea could not undo his pattern.

The water climbed his shins, his ribs, his mouth, and still, he stood. But the tide is a slow rip, pulling at hems, fraying edges.

When the sea let him go, there was nothing left but the current, carrying scraps of divinity out to sea.

And still, as the world keeps ending, the sea goes on.

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Limen AARJU F GRADE 11, CERAMIC

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Tiny People SOEFI E

GRADE 12, FICTION

E WERE BORN IN THE GROUND.

transplant from the surface dwellers, meant to

We feel it’s important to be clear here, for

expose our home and send us all to death. Her

it’s our beginning. We were born in the hard,

mother, a small woman even for our size, said

grotty dirt with no fingernails. We were born

that she must be the dawn of a new era.

dewy and brown and sneezing.

We were a small people. A people fabricated from the dust and skin of our relatives who dwelled on the surface. A fraction of the earth

“I’ll tell you, I was endlessly hungry during my pregnancy, and now I see why,” she was heard telling her friends, “I was carrying our savior.”

That girl grew to be very large. As big as the

split into our souls and seeped into our marrow

squirrels who sometimes dug into the ground

when the first of us was marinated against the

and ate us. When she was five, she was the size

warm soft loam. And we were content, as well,

of a queen ant. When she was eleven, she was

living among the geckos and eating the ants

the size of a weevil. She grew petulant, for she

that God had gifted us. We much preferred

could not fit in the walls we had built, and we all

being small, for we had heard stories of our larg-

molded our lives around her, afraid she might

er kin, and all of the smog and plague that ailed

destroy us.

them.

But not all of us can be unified, always, even if we wish it were so.

One fall evening, while we heard the wind whistle above us, a baby was born. She was larger than usual, the size of a ginkgo nut at birth.

Her mother was weakened by the blow.

None of us knew why the baby was so large.

It was winter, a bitter one, with nothing but our hair to warm us, when she got wise.

“Why do we never leave the ground?” she asked us.

None of us had an answer, but some of us tried. Ms. Wheeler said: “Because up top, the birds would eat us.”

The girl responded:

Our priests figured it was either a gift or a reck-

“But I am soon the size of a bird, and I have

oning from our gods, meant to teach us an ulti-

fashioned a knife in order to kill those who try to

mate lesson. Our conspiracists said she was a

do the same to me.”

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We exchanged nervous looks. Mr. Baker said: “Well, our counterparts—big and strong—

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The girl blew out a breath, and the walls trembled. “But what if they don’t?”

when she chewed on the small grains we had to give, when we could not give her the answers she vied for.

“I will leave by the time I’m eighteen,” she

As she grew older and bigger, her questions

would boast, like a warning.

were full of wonderment we could not contain.

But this was not a threat to us. Some of us

By the time she was meant to start her second-

claimed she would grow to be as big as those on

ary schooling, she had the wild notion she would

the surface, and she would doom us all. Some of

leave us. She figured we were a stupid people

us wanted her exiled. Her leaving would be wel-

for not wishing to explore the things that would

comed, yet we still feared how it might come.

extinguish us.

Not one of us could remember a time someone

One morning her mother, tired with not

left the ground.

enough food to give, found her digging up into the ceiling. She then lined the girl’s room with tin, but she was stronger than us and peeled it off with ease.

Her mother was not the only one who was weary. We were pulled from our families, trying to give her a life as good as anyone else’s, but aiming to keep her from our children, despite their insatiable curiosity about the fourteen-year old-girl who stood two feet tall. We attempted to raise our walls, but there was nowhere for the dirt to fall except for atop our heads. And besides, did we mention, she kept on growing? It seemed endless, and we wondered if she would grow to be the size of the Earth. No matter how much we expanded our home, she would wake the next day and would not fit.

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may step on us.”

And despite our efforts, we also knew, this was no life for a child. It was evident in her face,

NO MATTER HOW MUCH WE EXPANDED OUR HOME, SHE WOULD WAKE THE NEXT DAY AND WOULD NOT FIT.

Of course, her departure was inevitable as she decreed. In fall, on her eighteenth birthday,

We shook our heads. It was not the life for us.

But she would not leave us be.

she dug her way out in fifteen large scoops. It would have taken any one of us a year.

By now, she was the length of a cat. She was

She eventually left for somewhere we could not see, bored and curious, but she always came

forced to crawl through our dark halls, for there

back. She would not leave us for more than a

was no room for her to stand. When she saw the

month. Reached her hand back into the dirt and

light from above, she stood and stretched her

felt around if we were still there. Begged us to

hands above her head tall, and we scrambled

explore with her. “I miss you all,” she would say

away, fearful she might forget our size and step

into the hole. But in her absence, we forgot the

on us.

girl we had all raised. We became convinced it

Her mother attempted to call her back, but it

was a ploy. We believed she wanted to eat us—

was in vain—she could not hear us from so far

she was part of the surface, now, and she could

up. When her feet touched the grass, she

no longer see us as kin.

crouched down to poke her face in the hole she had made and said:

Two years had passed without her return. We

“It’s beautiful!”

had repaired the hole, and we figured she under-

She had a very big impact on our children.

stood the divide and had resigned herself to find

They all were excited, had never thought it possi-

something better and bigger to eat. We held a

ble to leave, and now they wanted to follow in

celebration on her birthday for the fact that she

her steps. But we were all skeptical. We shouted

was gone.

back: “It’s beautiful down here, too!” And attempt-

But she came back, like she always did. She punched into the ground, searching for us. She

ed to cover the hole. But she dug it straight

came back with her hair shortened and foreign

back, stuck her hand down, and tried to grasp us

clothes. She came back without dirt on her face.

by the hands, by the stomachs, by the hundreds.

She came back hollering. She came back more

“You must see it,” she insisted. “It’s blue and green and brown and white! And there are things here that move—not just the ants and ourselves!

Things more than birds and squirrels, which crawl and fly and dance and jump!”

human than we ever were.

“I can’t stand to know my people suffer without knowing it!”

She destroyed our home. She pulled the dirt from the earth and tore roots to get to us. She

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stuck her arm in our town and pulled us up by the hair. We screamed and bit, and she held us

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firm and fast.

We died splintering, splayed, with the wind between our tendons.

Those of us watching pulled the girl’s hair

“You must understand! Look!”

and pinched her cheek and demanded she let us

We looked. The light blinded us, and even

go. Those of us watching cried and gasped.

then, we knew—it was beautiful. More beautiful

Those of us watching looked at the birds, and

than our home. Everything was filled with color,

saw them swoop too close.

with life, all sustained from our place in the

Our small hearts could not take what hers

ground. But that scared us. We felt vulnerable,

could; this she did not understand. Our bodies

naked with the wind against us where the

exploded in chunks, our skin turned white with

warmth of the dirt had cradled us. We felt we

the cold, our limbs fell clean off the bone, our

might freeze. She wrapped us in soft cotton and

brains told us we had a choice:

placed us on her shoulders and the top of her head.

Return to the dirt, or perish.

So we perished. For she would not let us go.

We yelled and hit and screeched. We awed

And we died in the air, in her arms, falling from

and oohed and kicked and punched. We shud-

the top of her head and her shoulders, in won-

dered and we felt at home and we felt so far

derment, in fear, in anger, in sadness, in nostal-

from home and we finally felt like we were part

gia, in hope.

of something greater.

The girl, still a girl, remember, cried at the death of her people. Guilt flooded her and

A lot of us jumped from her shoulders, claw-

poured out of her eyes, drowning our limp bod-

ing at the ground to try to get back. But it was

ies. Her tears flowed into a crater of the earth,

no use, and many of us died in the air, from the

picked up our bodies, and dumped us back in

shock and the fear, and more of us died on the

the ground, where we began.

ground, splat, trying to get in it.

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PURPLE HILLS MIA K

GRADE 12, PEN

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A

argentina STELLA R

GRADE 11, POETRY

BANDONMENT UNTOUCHED, dim, however, bright, vines joining the roots of shrubs, a lack of adoption, leaves trailing up the concrete.

comfort folded close, waiting to be harmed, a plop a plump a slump, screaming come collapse, still following the path of the wind, a wrap a shield a bundle.

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How Do You Live?

TESSA G

GRADE 10 ACRYLIC

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Invasion ULA K GRADE 12 COLLAGE

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P

Screeching Violins in F Minor MIRA G

GRADE 10, HUMOR

ICTURE THIS: IT IS 5:15 p.m. on a Tuesday

sical music pieces? Hearing “Some String

evening, and you have just found the will to

Instrument Sonata 3462 In G-Minor” does not

start your homework. You collapse into the

tell me anything about a song. And that is

couch, perfectly poised to go on Spotify and

because of a little secret I’m going to let you in

click your playlist: a chaotically curated blend of

on: they all sound the same. Oh sure, there

indie pop, indie rock, and my-sister-found-this-

might be a mood switch recognizable to the

on-TikTok. And then suddenly, and without warn-

more musically gifted—snobs—but for all I know,

ing, you hear your dad say: Alexa, play WQXR

“So and So in G-Minor” could be in A-flat-major-

radio.

minor and I would not bat an eye.

That name may sound unfamiliar to those of

There is no nuance in classical music artists,

you who are lucky enough to have normal

either. All of the artists sound the same. Every

fathers, listeners of Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen,

song consists of: build up, fall down, bam on the

or Stevie Nicks. WQXR is THE classical music

keys. While trying to listen to classical music to

radio station, best listened to while drinking a

annoy myself for this piece, I only managed to

unsharpened nub of a number two pencil.

Classical music is awful. It stresses me out— give me blaring drums and scream-metal any day. When I’m studying for a Mandarin test, I would much rather listen to German techno than screeching violins. All of the strings and minor keys of classical music end up giving eternal purgatory energy. Imagine that your nice little homework room turned into a combo grandparent’s moldy living room/doctors’ office waiting room.

Also, what is up with the titles of these clas-

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cup of lukewarm water and writing with an

WHEN I’M STUDYING FOR A MANDARIN TEST, I WOULD MUCH RATHER LISTEN TO GERMAN TECHNO THAN SCREECHING VIOLINS.

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make it 17 seconds through Mahler’s unfinished

an adult, the effects of this abysmal musical edu-

symphony before I crammed my earbuds into

cation have fully sunk in. When I am listening to

my ears and blasted Charli XCX at full volume to

music with my father, I have to skip almost every

cleanse my soul.

single song on my playlist. Any song I put on is

Classical music just sounds bad. No matter

going to have too strong a beat, too many

the sound quality of the speakers, classical

drums, too-loud singing, too much guitar, or

music sounds like it is being played on a half-

even just “ungrammatical lyrics.” 1

cracked CD player embedded in a mountain sur-

But this raises a disturbing question. Will the

rounded by wasps next to a loaf of white bread.

effects of classicalmusicitis set in for me, too? Is

What is the appeal of that?

this whole hatred of classical music meaningless,

But the worst thing about classical music

and only delaying the inevitable onset of classi-

isn’t the stress-inducing screeching—no, the

calmusicitis in my middle age? There is no way

worst thing is classical music enthusiasts.

to know for sure, but I believe that I can be the

Classical music enthusiasts think that they have

Goldhaber to break the curse.

immaculate music taste, and that they MUST

Now that I have established that I would

pass it on. And those poor little babies raised on

rather drown in a tub of room-temperature

classical music can never listen to anything else:

strawberry Jell-O than listen to classical music, I

no drums, no beat, no voices that aren’t soft and

have a few suggestions for how to fix it. A recent

quiet.

and beloved discovery of mine is techno remixes

This terrible effect of what I call classicalmu-

of classical music. Turns out that adding a beat

sicitis is directly backed up by firsthand evi-

REALLY makes a difference—who could have

dence! When my dad was a child, he too was

guessed? But there are so many other variations

subjected to classical music. While he lay on the

on classical music. There are amazing pianists

living room floor doing his homework, his par-

who combine hip-hop and classical. There is art-

ents would play WQXR on their radio—sound

pop classical (thank you, Bjork!). And, after all

familiar? As a child, my father did not especially

this, what if you still really really want to listen to

like the Beethoven, Bach, and Schubert that his

some lovely instrumental music?

parents would play for him. But now that he is

Just listen to jazz.

1 He got especially offended by a line in one of my favorite Remi Wolf songs—“We can lay around”—because it used the

word lay instead of lie. This is incorrect because lay only takes an object, you can’t LAY around, you have to lay something somewhere. The correct way to say this sentence would be “We can lie around.”

Topaz MADELEINE K GRADE 9 ACRYLIC

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CLARE M

GRADE 12, PERSONAL ESSAY

’VE COME TO FEEL CONFINED within the

above me, leaving me trapped. I swam back-

distinct lines of my neighborhood: Flatbush

stroke looking up at the fluorescent lights and

Avenue, Prospect Park West, Prospect

realized that the scariest thing would be coming

Expressway, and Fourth Avenue, which I used to

back tomorrow, and then the day after. I prayed I

cross in fourth grade with my friend, Sydney, to

would fall sick with pneumonia or something

go to Staples. Neither of us were allowed to

else that sounded serious.

leave Park Slope. I felt rebellious. But it’s not that

Swimming was a distinct part of my identity,

I don’t love home,1 Park Slope,2 or my High

and a distinct rectangle you could draw around

School, Berkeley Carroll.3 It’s about my contempt

ages ten to fifteen if you were to write all the

for rectangles,4 tiles, 90° angles, routine, and

years I’ve completed in chronological order. I

homogeneity.

never found comfort in the set distances and

I developed this feeling at the beginning of my competitive swimming career, a sport I allowed to become characterized by its playing field, a water-filled, imprisoning rectangular cavity. Pools were the first quadrilateral I demonized—for several reasons, some completely invalid and others less so. But I noticed rectangles as a pattern that followed or trapped me in my everyday life.

The LIU pool,5 where I trained five nights a week and one early morning, made me feel like every time I dove into the water, it would solidify

1

16' x 8" x 45'

3

200' x 60'

5

25 m x 50 m

2

7,920' x 2,640'

4

LxW

6

25 m x 18.29 m

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I

LxW

I PRAYED I WOULD FALL SICK WITH PNEUMONIA OR SOMETHING ELSE THAT SOUNDED SERIOUS.

In the Jaws of an Angler AUGUST A GRADE 9, DIGITAL

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to my left,10 thinking about my own sense of

Instead, the smell corroded my nostrils and

belonging. Everything around me was sickening-

burned my throat. The transitions were always

ly familiar: the relentless tick of the clock and

too jarring within such a confined and uniform

the cycle of practices, meets, and recovery, the

space. From block to air to deep water. From 0

pep talks from coaches begging me to give all

to 25 meters to flip to 50. From hands on the

that I could, when I had lost all drive.

wall to hoisting myself up, exposing my shivering body to those around me. From walking to div-

I quit the swim team in my freshman year of

ing, kicking, pulling, stroking, and turning. From

high school. I sat down for dinner with my par-

Park Slope to Fort Greene or Medgar Evers. I

ents one night, and they asked me how swim-

would escape from the water-filled, rectangular

ming was going. The conversation ended in

cavity to thrust my body against the bathroom’s

tears. I’d stayed so long because I was afraid to

heavy doors,7 so I could sink into a stall and stare up at the green and white tiles8 surrounding me—just to breathe for a moment, without the pressure of water.

I was a mediocre swimmer at best—which, given my generally insecure and anxious personality, made for a pretty intense period of constant self-deprecation.

But the issue was never really swimming, it was pools.9 I found it nauseating and pointless to swim back and forth in a yard pool. I quite literally felt stuck: in the sport, the routine, and in the shallow connections I had on my team— where the girls were funny, but we were middle schoolers at our cores, insecure and catty. I spent my laps looking down at the thick tile line

7

80" x 36"

9

8

2" x 2"

10

25 m × 18.29 m / 50 m x 25 yd .5 x 25 m

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walls of the various pools around the city.6

Everything around me was sickeningly familiar: the relentless tick of the clock and the cycle of practices, meets, and recovery, the pep talks from coaches begging me to give all that I could, when I had lost all drive.

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Running Through the Light ARMAN M GRADE 11 PHOTOGRAPH

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eight-year-old Eve, my cousin, and four-year-old

invested years in. We crafted an email to my

Everly, her friend from day camp. I lift them over

coach that night explaining: “Clare has decided

waves and guide them through their first experi-

to quit swimming,” and “it was a tough decision,”

ences on our family’s well-loved boogie board. I

but it’s “ultimately best for her health.” I felt

can’t understand a word that Everly says. But

guilty—like I had led the sport on.

when we stand together in the white waters of the waves, and she raises her hands high above

When I quit swimming, I didn’t realize that it

her head and squeals, I respond by lifting her up

wasn’t the sport itself but the sense of being

to eye level. Then, we have done all the commu-

confined to a pattern, or a rigid routine of com-

nicating we need.

peting, comparing, and conforming. When I slid 11

This summer, I began swimming with my

into the local YMCA pool “MEDIUM-FAST” lane,

brother and grandfather to the far buoy about a

it was no different. There was no real pressure or

quarter mile from shore. I remember getting my

stakes. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was

first invitation to swim to the buoy. It was as if

somehow out of place or unwelcome.

I’m still wearing my too-small-freshman year hot-pink swimsuit and a white latex cap. I am fast compared to middle-aged men with bare hairy chests, and so, so much slower than the tall girl in the “FAST” lane to my right. I feel like I’m back at LIU. I’ll swim for 20 minutes and race the girl beside me, but she won’t know.

Outside of any rigidity or routine, swimming in the ocean is one of my favorite things. The vast horizon and continuous waves couldn’t be more different than rectangular prisms. Every late August I spend my afternoons playing with

11

25 x 18.5 yd

,,

.

let go, afraid to walk away from something I had

I remember getting my first invitation to swim to the buoy. It was as if my father had cracked open a cool Narragansett beer and invited me to the driving range.

,,

my father had cracked open a cool Narragansett beer and invited me to the driving range. It is the ultimate symbol of coming of age. My cousin William, age 12, will ask to come but will not be allowed. We swam with our heads out of the water, usually talking about what was for lunch that day as we moved farther from the tall white lifeguard chairs and the tall white boys standing on them. We were only a quarter mile out, and we could swim for hours without touching, or seeing anything. I watched the shore: the yellow and white umbrellas and young children running across the sand while chasing each other with sticks, torn from the fence separating the beach from the dunes. It felt so much simpler by the buoy.

Only a quarter mile out, and we could swim for hours without touching, or seeing anything. I watched the shore: the yellow and white umbrellas and young children running across the sand while chasing each other with sticks, torn from the fence separating the beach from the dunes.

Back in Park Slope, I can’t just swim away.

There’s a concrete and asphalt grid, outlined in

backstroke comes with a side of chemical runoff.

grey on my phone’s map. From Flatbush Avenue,

But there’s something about Prospect Park, past

Prospect Park West, and Prospect Expressway to

the Prospect Park West border, that feels like it

Fourth Avenue. Berkeley Carroll, YMCA, home,

might offer the same kind of escape. At its core,

flip, and double-hand-touch. From hands on the

the winding trails and lack of boundaries are far

railing to calculus. From swim to Park Slope,

from rigid.

kicking, pulling, stroking, and turning.

So I spend 4:00–6:00 p.m. on weekdays out-

There’s no vast horizon, or deep water, to

side of my rectangle.12 Once I break the border of

sink into. That is, unless I wanted to take a dip in

Prospect Park West—which sometimes requires

the Gowanus Canal, a Superfund site where the

an acrobatic move over the limestone border—I

12

~6,336' x ~5,280'

13

17,688'

.

29

Glimpse CASS O GRADE 10

9

ACRYLIC

30

focus on hurtling up Prospect Park’s half-mile-hill

Maybe, sometimes, I lap. But only on bikes.

and weaving in and out of the park on the edge

Last spring, I would ride up to four laps of the

of Windsor Terrace. Part of it is that, well, I am

park, just over 13 miles, where all I did was try to

on the cross country team and if I miss another

think about how fast I could go and how my fin-

practice Mr. Huffman might just send me another

gers were growing numb. Sometimes I audibly

Google calendar invite to a meeting where I

cried rolling down the hill starting at 15th Street,

promise: “Yes . . . I’ll start filling out the absent

turning my handlebars ever so slightly left, count-

form” or “Sorry . . . I won’t miss any more prac-

ing my loops, and declining my father’s calls. By

tices.” Terrifying. But, the other part is that

mile 6.7 my breathing had usually evened; my

Prospect Park feels distinctly far from home.

movements became fluid, and the cadence of my

Once I cross my final corner and enter

pedals shifted into even strokes. From outside my

13

Prospect Park’s 3.35-mile loop, my inertia is

rectangular room, pill box, neighborhood, and

continuous; I don’t stop and turn, flip, and dou-

school, I’ve broken my confinement. I turn my

ble-hand-touch. Instead, I visualize the map of

head over my left shoulder, and I look back at the

the park—the trails, lakes, and paved paths—

hill I’ve just completed, checking for other cyclists

mentally planning my route for the number of

before I turn.

miles I’ve set out to complete that day; never out and back, never lapping, and never straight lines.

.

31

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T

Pantoum: A Tryst with Resilience EMILE C

GRADE 10, POETRY

HE RED, THE BLUE, THE ORANGE, PAINTINGS OF STRUGGLE, ENDEAVOR. Burning light, ashes contoured to believe.

The red, the blue, the orange, paintings of home.

Distorting the darkness with hope to prevail, Etchmiadzin the sanctuary.

Burning light, ashes contoured to believe.

Scents and aromas escaping through the desert, Deir ez-Zor. Distorting the darkness with hope to prevail.

Luminescence from a candle, only visible in wavelengths.

Scents and aromas escaping through the desert, Deir ez-Zor. Radiance from the blaze, only initiated by ignition.

Luminescence from a candle, only visible with wavelengths.

Element of destruction, given to humanity through a sacrifice, Prometheus, the creator.

Radiance from the blaze, only initiated by ignition.

The wax wilts toward the catcher, and the smoke blows toward the heavens.

Underlying element, given to humanity through a sacrifice, Prometheus, the creator.

The red, the blue, the orange, paintings of home.

.

Collage ULA K

GRADE 12 COLLAGE

33

LAKE SP

GRADE 12, PERSONAL ESSAY

MET JACK SHEEHAN IN 2021, my first year of

sold anything for that cheap in Park Slope,5 let

high school. He was 6'4", with a lethal collection

alone a gem like Trueys. My jaw dropped, and

of streetwear that left a cloud of swag behind

my face creased into a smile. I let out a “NAH,

him everywhere he went, like the fragrance of

WHAT,” stumbling as a wave of middle schoolers

WT McRae;1 from the moment I first saw him, I

pushed the two of us back on our journeys

wanted to be him.

through the passing-period.

I was 15, which means it must have been the latter part of the school year when I initiated diplomacy with the (then) junior;2 perhaps it was March or April, by the lockers outside BC’s cafeteria doors, when I noticed the young man taking comically large strides in his True Religion jeans, jeans I felt compelled to compliment him on. In response, he squeezed out a high-pitched, “You like ‘em brouu?”3 through the nearlyclenched teeth in his face that formed a massive grin, appearing as though he were priming his face to break out into laughter.4 “SEVEN BUCKS,” he continued, one and two-fifths of his hands spread open to communicate their cost to me visually. “L-TRAIN, bro.” I didn’t know they

1

They wear pungent cologne or perfume. I don’t know how WT actually smells.

2

My birthday is in February, the 27th if you feel like wishing me blessings.

3

/’brō-oo/

4

That may have been, and may still be, his favorite facial expression.

5

Hyperbole.

,,

.

34

I

One of Us

I DIDN’T KNOW THEY SOLD ANYTHING FOR THAT CHEAP IN PARK SLOPE, LET ALONE A GEM LIKE TRUEYS. MY JAW DROPPED, AND MY FACE CREASED INTO A SMILE.

.

The Urge to Create Stuff ALEXIS SG GRADE 12

PIXEL ART

35

During the following weeks, Jack and I start-

36

opportunity to cosplay as one felt like a cheat-

other formally and revealing more of our person-

code to self possession. I mean, it mostly was! I

alities to each another at each path-crossed

was used to a kind of perpetually joking way of

exchange of flattery. One day, as I was walking

carrying myself, having once or twice undergone

back from my Intro to Acting class at Sterling

introspective conversation with my freshman

place, he invited me to eat lunch with his friends

friends. Jack’s group took things more seriously

at the conservatory. Naturally, enchanted, I

than I was used to. In assimilation, I started to

agreed.

treat conversation with more respect, entering

My only memory of the lunch period is a visual of Jack’s friends giggling at some joke I crafted meticulously, an image quite telling about how I perceived the situation. For 15-yearold-me, this lunch was an audition. I wanted a part in this dude’s life, and getting it solely depended on the group’s reaction to me.

Whatever success I had in that front would prove worth in my character; it meant I would get to pretend like I wasn’t younger than they were.

(*w*) I’d venture to say that as a high schooler, it is universally ego-boosting to be accepted by a group of kids older than you, worthier, higher status than the rest of your cohort. As a freshman, being underclass (mind the context) was palpable for me. I, alongside most people 17 and 18 now, was intimidated and confused three years ago; older kids seemed so sure of them-

them more and more often prepared to listen to something my peers were struggling with.

Being in Jack’s group felt like being drafted into some exclusive league of steez, a space

,,

.

selves in comparison to me, so having the

ed a volley of sartorial kudos—introducing each

For 15-year-old-me, this lunch was an audition.

I wanted a part in this dude’s life, and getting it solely depended on the group’s reaction to me.

Whatever success I had in that front would prove worth in my character; it meant I would get to pretend like I wasn’t younger than they were.

acknowledgment of your belonging. It wasn’t just the laughs or the inside jokes, though those were currency too—it was the sense that I was one of them; I was sharp enough to volley banter and genuine enough to share the weight of conversations that mattered. Walking the hallways with them felt different, like each of my footsteps carried a little more weight, a little more rhythm. It wasn’t that I stopped caring what people thought of me; moreso, I started believing I was their version of me, and that brought me more worth. I was one of them.

Saying “I just feel . . . *sigh* more mature than the other guys my age” has never looked cool (and I hesitate to believe it’s ever been true), but, in starting to hang out with them, I

,,

where every exchange carried an unspoken

I was sharp enough to volley banter and genuine enough to share the weight of conversations that mattered. Walking the hallways with them felt different, like each of my footsteps carried a little more weight, a little more rhythm.

started to think it of myself. Let me say that I no longer hold this opinion, and I do hold that my

is genuinely so amusing to think about; like,

supposed maturity was fallacious;

when they would share something serious

This is for two main reasons:

with me I would act all, “That really pains

1. My “maturity” only existed externally,

me to hear. Myea.” Like Galinda or

6

fueled by a collection of opinions about

something.6 Genuine reactions like that

me that I consciously tried to control. For

would be someone’s response to serious

the first while of hanging out with Jack

experiences, someone feeling intense hurt

and Co., I only presented the most

in connection with the subject; my

cerebral corners of my personality, which

reaction was merely to appear as such.

I watched Wicked for the second time this weekend.

I cried half as many times as the first viewing (two and a half times).

.

37

2. I’m not even that mature now!7 I mean, unlike my freshman-year self, I can exist in

.

38

“Yo. That was MAD SILENT of you.” Jack responded, clapping.

a vulnerable space without the need to

I suppose all this is to say that the group’s

crack a joke, but I still don’t have a clue

willingness to accept me separates them from

how to respond when someone tells me

most 17-year-olds, myself included. In writing this

their dog died, or their parents are

essay, I’ve come back, again and again, to the

divorced; my lack of discipline makes it so

question, “Why did Jack invite me to lunch? I

I have to wake up early and finish writing

would not have randomly befriended a freshman

essays while my regular morning alarm

last year.” So I texted and asked him, to which he

goes off; I really want to be 6'1",8 and I

replied,

honestly can’t picture myself befriending a

“idk, u were lowkey chill.”

freshman.

“No like fr”

(*_*) “Lmao bra what do u want me to say” Within a year or so of meeting Jack, my conversational performativity started to melt. I could

“Well wouldn’t it be like embarrassing to

be immature with him and his friends, and they’d

befriend an underclassman? Thats what im tryna

love me for it, finding particular amusement in

get at”

banter of competitive stupidity between Jack and me: “Guys, I just peed completely silently. It was

“Ig if you’re looking at them like an underclassman.”

so tough,” I once said, flicking Jack’s bathroom sink water on his shaved head.

7

Saying that may be more mature.

8 Not even 6'4" just 6'1", God, please?

(…)

.

BE SELF[ISH/LESS] KADEN W GRADE 12 COLLAGE

39

Chaotic Good AARJU F

9

GRADE 11, CHARCOAL

40

ELLE C

GRADE 10, PERSONAL ESSAY

AD TAKES THE BEST SPOT FOR getting work

It’s 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday, but Dad and I are

done. It doesn’t matter that there are nearly

both awake because I inherited his sucky sleep

identical places to sit around literally the exact

schedule, and anyway there’s a soon-to-be-bark-

same table—that’s the best one. His fingers race

ing dog that needs to go on a walk and play way

against the keyboard; clicks can be heard from a

more fetch than can possibly be perceived as

few feet away. Heavy notebooks and folders—my

reasonable. So I grab my oversized sweatshirt,

school supplies—fill my arms, until I dump them

and he puts on a winter hat, even if it’s 55

all on the table beside him. I study, he works; I

degrees outside. (He’s a self-described “cold

get distracted, he doesn’t; I go back to my

baby”.) Off we go! As the dog pulls us to Central

homework. Hours pass. We get up and he makes

Park, I tell Dad about my classes. He smiles,

us both eggs for lunch while I flop dramatically

nods, and asks questions, and offers unasked for

into a tall, black chair at the counter as if I hadn’t

and shrugged-off advice, the type I’ll begrudg-

been sitting in one right behind it less than one minute ago.

“Productive morning?” he asks.

“Yup. Feeling confident on math but unsure about science.”

“You’ll keep working until you get it.” That’s not a question. It’s not even a command. It’s simply his prediction of what will happen, an acknowledgment of an attitude toward work I’ve watched over and over that I wish came naturally—I’ve tried so hard to adopt it. When he says it, I feels like I have. He gives me a smile before returning his gaze to the stove. Here, I can tell that he’s proud of me.

,,

D

Proud

IT’S 7 A.M. ON A SATURDAY, BUT DAD AND I ARE BOTH AWAKE BECAUSE I INHERITED HIS SUCKY SLEEP SCHEDULE . . .

.

41

.

42

ingly come back to later. He sings a little for no

“Oh.” Damn it.

particular reason, off tune and to the wrong

His tone sharpens slightly, “You have to work

lyrics. I make fun of him, but we both know I

on your spelling, honey.”

“Okay, Dad.” I mutter into my phone, slouch-

can’t do any better. Eventually, I ask him about his investment firm. It takes a while to get here

ing against the couch cushions. I stare at

since I like to talk about myself, and he likes to

Pinterest but don’t process it, shame tight in my

listen to me. He starts telling me about a deal

stomach. It’s not a big deal. It’s good he pointed

he’s working on; I ask about costs and margins—

it out. It won’t happen again. Oh, who am I kid-

something he’s taught me about in the past—and

ding? I always make those mistakes, and he

he smiles. Here, I can tell that he’s proud of me.

always comments and I can’t seem to get better, so why am I trying? But it’s fine, spelling isn’t

Dad and I are waiting on our comfy couch for the other half of our slowpoke family. We’ve

important, and even with this glaringly obvious fault I can still make him proud, right?

claimed the two best spots, the corners facing

A few seconds pass; Dad rubs his hand

the TV, and I’ve claimed the wonderfully soft

against his face, his equivalent of asking the uni-

orange fluffy blanket.

verse, “How do I fix this?”

“Where are they?” Dad grumbles, eager for

“I really didn’t mean to upset you honey.”

them to arrive so that we can watch the best TV

“It’s fine Dad.” I’m still staring at my phone.

show in existence: Survivor.

“I just . . .”

“I know.” I share his impatience.

I make eye contact.

I pick up my phone and incorrectly text the

“I know, Dad.” I say, tone softening. He sighs,

family group chat: “Guys! Hurry up! We’re board!

continuing his search for the right words. I’m

And Uncle Mike said the new episode is fablous!

surprised he’s trying—he hates conversations like

(my word not his)”

this.

Dad peers at me from under his reading

He lands on, “It’s fine if you’re not great at

glasses. “Elle, honey,” he says in a concerned, but

spelling. Everyone has strengths and weakness-

not unkind, tone of voice, “You used the wrong

es.”

type of ‘bored.’”

I smile, “I know, Dad, thank you.” I might not

“Oh.”

always be perfect, but that’s okay. Here, I can tell

“And ‘fabulous’ was spelled wrong too.”

that he’s always proud of me.

.

Handmade Botanical Teacups ECHO M

GRADE 12, CERAMIC

43

44

TESSA G

GRADE 10, PERSONAL ESSAY

HE MUSIC SWELLED AROUND ME, each note

it next year! So, when my aunt came to celebrate

unexpected, every song emerging like a butterfly

my 15th birthday with an eclectic list of possible

from the chrysalis—beautiful and unrecognizable

adventures, I jumped at the opportunity to see a

except for the melody at its heart. He had in fact

live jazz performance. We took an hour-long

played a song about every major American city

subway ride to see the Joshua Redman Group at

besides New York. Still, I was entranced.

Jazz at Lincoln Center, “the House of Swing.”

In a vague sense, I’ve always known jazz. For

Jazz at Lincoln Center is not, in fact, at

as long as I can remember, it’s been what my

Lincoln Center. Upon arriving at the plaza, we

dad plays as we eat breakfast or dinner; it’s in

were told the performance was actually in a

the background, yet somehow still swirling

building a good ten minutes away, although we

around us as we discuss what we’re going to do

of course made it in five since we’re New

or did with our days. I wish I could say this

Yorkers. Despite the added stress, I was relieved

instilled a lifelong love, or at least appreciation,

to get away from the sparkling opera and ballet

for the genre, but that really isn’t the case. Sure, I can hum “Take the ‘A’ train” and sing “Autumn Leaves.” Such good that does me. It was only recently that I began to truly listen to jazz.

I started with Laufey—let’s not argue about if she’s actually jazz—then moved on to Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone, and a whole host of jazz standards. I shockingly discovered that I don’t hate men singing as a whole, just in pop music. I even made my 2024 goal to learn how to scat, which clearly hasn’t happened, but I’ll do

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T

House of Swing

JAZZ AT LINCOLN CENTER IS NOT, IN FACT, AT LINCOLN CENTER.

,,

houses. I’d already begun to imagine the ways I would be out of place, fixating on a worry I’d had for a while. What if I just liked the pretty tunes?

What if I couldn’t appreciate the actual complexities? My musical education has told me it takes a great deal of talent to play and sing jazz, and if I couldn’t play it, maybe I couldn’t really enjoy it.

But my thoughts were cut short as we rushed to our seats. From the far back of the rafters, the whole theater was below us. It felt like I could reach up and touch one of the dimming lights.

One chord from the piano, and Gabrielle began to sing. Immediately it clicked for me. This was the missing piece; this was what I needed.

A single note floated through the air, electrifying with its possibility, and the band began to play. It was mostly Joshua Redman on the saxo-

Then, he introduced the band. It was the regular

phone, hitting high notes that should have been

shtick: “on the piano, on the drums, on the bass,”

squeaks, playing them in rapid succession. This

until he pointed to the singer. “Gabrielle Cavassa.

was the type of music that would make me say

From that microphone, she sings poetry.”

“wow” before asking my Dad to play something less intense during our meal. It’s different, I real-

I am self aware enough to know when to eat my words.

ized, to listen to jazz in person. I was impressed,

One chord from the piano, and Gabrielle

but as the first song ended I felt like something

began to sing. Immediately it clicked for me. This

was missing.

was the missing piece; this was what I needed. On

As if to answer my feelings, he picked up the

paper her melodies were simple, but they

microphone, and I groaned internally while he

wouldn’t be on paper because she was absolutely

told an ostensibly relevant, but exceedingly bor-

riffing and improvising them. It didn’t matter if

ing, story about himself and used the word

what she sang was simple; her voice was gor-

ostensibly three times. I concluded that his

geous. She flitted naturally up and down the

words were the least interesting thing about him.

octave, somehow keeping the same smooth-light

.

45

tone throughout. Nothing she sang was particu-

46

For the next thirty or so minutes, I was

ber, and on the top notes her voice seemed to

falling in and out of a dream state. I let the music

float around us, carrying through the louder sax-

wash over me, resurfacing when Joshua played a

ophone and constant drum beat.

particularly spicy measure, or Gabrielle sang

In choir, we’re warned against creating a wall of sound, where the technically correct music

,,

.

I could only listen to in amazement.

larly high, but her bottom notes had a rich tim-

What mattered was that I, along with everyone else in the room, was listening, feeling the emotions of every piece and enjoying every moment. That’s the price of entry. Emotion. comes at you straight on, with no variations from the transcribed volume. Yet this loudness was

something which made me come to the conclusion that I was quite possibly in love with her. I felt like I could understand the spirit of the music, like I got it. I didn’t need to understand the technical elements or be able to sing jazz myself. What mattered was that I, along with everyone else in the room, was listening, feeling the emotions of every piece and enjoying every moment. That’s the price of entry. Emotion.

And then it was over. They played their last chord, and the audience rose for a standing ovation. I sat there, shocked. What. How could it be over?

As we stepped outside into the cold air, I felt like the melodies were still swimming in my head. The crunchy harmonies of honking cars.

The beat of a subway rumbling below our feet.

Sensing my tiredness, my aunt decided to be

anything but. It felt more like a wave, ebbing and

kind and let us hail a taxi. As the nearest cab

flowing, coming to a peak near the end of each

slowed to a stop, I heard what the driver was lis-

song. It was always followed by a dissolve back

tening to.

into layered melodies, ending on high notes that

You must take the A train . . .

Domestic Argument SAM B GRADE 11 PHOTOGRAPH

.

47

.

48

O

AFNG ALEXIS SG

GRADE 12, POETRY

NE YEAR, I was an oscillating depression of attraction.

I found two cures and learned to echolocate.

They were a canyon I could smile in.

Kiss-marks on circuitboards is no way to live.

You are the half a fang that mangles itself.

You are stronger than me.

You are the 1950 film Rashomon to me.

You are air in Chicago.

I still kiss circuit boards.

Kiss-marks on circuit boards is no way to live.

You are the half a fang that pierces food.

You are stronger than me.

You are ink on paper to me.

You are Adonis himself.

I still kiss circuit boards.

This canyon was a sinkhole between two tectonic plates.

Echolocation is no way to live.

Echolocation is how bats catch bugs.

Echolocation is how girls catch feelings.

Is This Love?

ZO D GRADE 10 WATERCOLOR, ACRYLIC, AND

.

COLORED PENCIL

49

Periscope ISABEL C GRADE 9

9

CHARCOAL

50

M

They Could Never Make Me Hate You DEVRA G

GRADE 12, PERSONAL ESSAY

ANGO STICKY RICE WAS ALL I COULD

through her videos revealed a common setup:

think about,” said the pretty woman in a

her toddlers1 or husband 2 supposedly requested

soft, calm voice-over, “so I just decided to

a certain food, dish, or snack (SpaghettiOs,

make it myself.”

Flaming Hot Cheetos, blueberry bagels), and

Yum. I sat on my bedroom floor, transfixed,

instead of going to the store, Nara decided to

as the woman on my screen sliced and blended

show the world how to make the meal from

mangoes; whisked them with cream and sugar;

scratch. Also constants: her soft, soothing voice-

poured coconut milk into her rice; and plated the

overs and elaborate designer outfits. These how-

sticky rice, homemade mango ice cream, and

tos often bordered on absurdity, as when Nara

fresh mango slices—all while extremely pregnant

said in her signature soothing deadpan, “We just

and dressed in an extravagant yellow ball gown.

landed after a ten-hour flight, and the first thing

question: Who is this diva?

Naturally, I clicked on the comments. They were filled with praise; jokes; and one strange, repeating refrain: “nara smith they could never make me hate you.”

My curiosity was officially piqued. Who was this Nara Smith? And why should (or shouldn’t?)

I hate her?

In search of answers, I clicked on her account to find almost 11 million followers. A quick scroll

1

Memorably named Rumble Honey, Slim Easy, and Whimsy Lou—oh my god???

2

Named Lucky Blue. I’m seeing a theme with this family.

The theme is horse names.

,,

As the TikTok looped, I was filled with a burning

AS THE TIKTOK LOOPED, I WAS FILLED WITH A BURNING QUESTION: WHO IS THIS DIVA?

.

51

,,

52

are often relaxing, highly curated, and aspira-

of running to the store I just decided to make it

tional, burying their conservative values in aes-

myself.” She proceeded to make hot dogs. And

thetic “cottagecore” visuals. The most promi-

their buns. From scratch. In a strapless red

nent example of this trend is Hannah Neeleman

designer dress. After a 10-hour flight. (Frequent

of Ballerina Farm, a former Juilliard ballerina

comment: “girl how far is the store?”)

who gave up her dancing dreams to become

Hypnotized by her ASMR-y voice and yummy

a devout Mormon stay-at-home mother of

visuals, I let Nara teach me how to make cereal,

eight. She lives on a farm with her husband, the

Capri Sun, sunscreen, potato chips, toothpaste,

multimillionaire JetBlue nepo baby Daniel

bubble gum, Coca-Cola, and soap from scratch.

Neeleman. That’s another aspect behind these

Then I snapped to attention. It had been an hour.

tradwife videos: they’re often silently supported

I fled TikTok to the world of Safari, where I conducted more research into Nara Smith. Three new Wikipedia revelations: 1) Nara Smith is a wealthy fashion model.

2) Nara Smith is 23.

3) Nara Smith is married to fellow model Lucky Blue Smith, who is known for looking like Draco Malfoy and being a Mormon.

Wait. Mormon.

A sinking feeling washed over me. Was Nara Smith . . . a tradwife?

Some context if you are not aware: tradwives (“traditional wives”) are young female influencers who promote an idealized 1950sesque traditional housewife life of cooking, cleaning, religion (mostly Mormonism, which is its own essay), and having babies. These videos

by lots (and lots) of money, despite their

,,

.

my husband requested was a hot dog, so instead

The Black, glamorous, non-American Nara Smith slipped through my TikTok defenses without protection—but it only took a moment’s searching to find a video collaboration between Nara and Ballerina Farm.

It was official: Nara Smith was a tradwife.

,,

intended appearance of everyday traditional American living.

I’d heard of tradwives, but I always imagined them like Hannah Neeleman: white, rural outwardly religious ultra-American farm-dwelling mothers of many. The Black, glamorous, nonAmerican Nara Smith slipped through my TikTok defenses without protection—but it only took a moment’s searching to find a video collaboration between Nara and Ballerina Farm. It was official: Nara Smith was a tradwife.

Back to TikTok. I scrolled through Nara’s page again, searching for little gotcha details.

But honestly, there wasn’t much. Mostly, Nara

There have been no confirmations about Nara herself, but Lucky Blue has been recently outed online as a longtime Trump supporter. There was a lot of shock, and also a lot of hello, duh.

Glamorously detached or not, Nara Smith lives in this universe.

just seemed like a rich, somewhat out-of-touch momfluencer. Her videos were stupid, but they were also fun. Who doesn’t want to watch a

new way of policing women online? What’s the

model make Jolly Ranchers from scratch some-

relationship between whiteness and tradwife-

times? Why not?

ness? If they are near-synonymous, then what

Which led me to a second question: Was I being brainwashed?

If you search Google, there are dozens of

space does Nara Smith occupy? Is she even a tradwife? Is she even trying to be a tradwife? Can you be a tradwife without trying? Can you spread

think-pieces arguing about this very topic: trad-

messages you don’t believe in? Is it even that

wives, Nara Smith herself, a post-Dobbs online

deep?

shift to idealizing old-fashioned gender roles,

Some articles argue that Nara and her ilk are

social media and its subliminal messaging, the

vehicles to spread right-wing messaging, the

dangers of glamorizing motherhood. What’s the

canaries in the coal mine of a second Trump pres-

difference between a stay-at-home mom and a

idency. (There have been no confirmations about

tradwife? Is the tradwife movement really as

Nara herself, but Lucky Blue has been recently

ominous as it’s portrayed to be? Is it simply a

outed online as a longtime Trump supporter.

.

53

There was a lot of shock, and also a lot of hello,

other-girls phase; I refused to wear dresses for

duh. Glamorously detached or not, Nara Smith

years, claimed hatred of the color pink, and com-

lives in this universe. She does not exist in a vac-

plained constantly about “girly girls.” Later, also

uum. She exists in 2025.) Yet still others—like her

like many of my peers, I explored my gender

comment section—simply refuse to hate Nara

identity (and queerness) more seriously in lock-

Smith.

down. I experimented with pronouns. I cut my

As for me? Well, I’m not surprised that Nara came up on my for-you page. I’ve always been

short hair, my broad shoulders, my T-shirts and

partial to cooking videos, and I watch a lot of

jeans and button-up-shirts—I found myself long-

ASMR. I don’t think feminism is incompatible

ing for dresses. So I started painting my nails,

with plaid gingham picnic dresses (which I own)

thrifting vintage gowns, growing my hair and my

or with stay-at-home mom-ness in general. I also

earring collection. I don’t wear makeup, mostly

see how the tradwife trend is indicative of a larg-

for lack of ever having learned. I don’t cook, but

er social longing for perfection: in home, family,

my mom does. I am definitely not in support of

and food. It’s easy to long for the idealized world

the tradwife movement, but when a Nara Smith

that Nara Smith presents without clocking the

video pops up on my FYP, I usually watch it.

political implications behind it. And I don’t see myself as being truly influenced by any of these so-called influencers, but doesn’t everyone think that?

Is it a cop-out to say I don’t know where I stand? Like many of my peers, I had a not-like-

9 54

hair. And when I looked in the mirror—at my

There are worse guilty pleasures than fromscratch Oreos.

I think it’s probably fine.

Son

.

CLARE M

GRADE 12 CERAMIC

55

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56

ZACHARY K

GRADE 10, HUMOR

HH, THE SUBWAY. The fastest way to get from point A to point

over and end up with iced coffee spilled all over

B. That is, if it comes in the first place.

my new sweatshirt? Your TikTok will still be

Seriously, I should not have to wait 15 minutes

there, Jessica. In addition, whatever is on your

for a train to show up with no space, no air con-

phone doesn’t even matter because for some

ditioning, and people who refuse to move even

unknown reason we can’t get cell service on the

an inch out of the way so I can squeeze in. And

subway.

when we’re packed in like sardines, can we have a size limit for bags like on an airplane? You don’t need to bring your golf bag on the 2 train during rush hour. Your sand wedge is poking my arm. Besides, considering how slow our train is going, your buddies are going to be on the 5th hole by the time you get there anyway.

Somehow, the horror show New York attempts to pass off as a transit system is even worse when the car is empty. When it is 2:45 in the afternoon and the train pulls up with five people on it, including the conductor, you don’t need to shove past me to get a seat. Every single seat is empty and, I assure you, I’ll get out of your way. Is it really that hard to look up from your phone for three seconds so I don’t get run

For anyone who says “You’re underground, that makes sense!”—we put men on the moon

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A

Service Delays

FOR ANYONE WHO SAYS “YOU’RE UNDERGROUND, THAT MAKES SENSE!”— WE PUT MEN ON THE MOON OVER 50 YEARS AGO; WE SHOULD HAVE SERVICE IN THE SUBWAY TUNNEL.

over 50 years ago; we should have service in the

of M&M’s for 12 dollars because “It’s New York,”

subway tunnel. I will admit, I don’t need service

the tour groups from a country I didn’t know

to watch TikTok. However, I do need it for more

existed who are all shocked that we have a

important things. Like when we mysteriously

McDonald’s in a subway station, and the finance

stop in between stations, and I can’t figure out

bro who thinks his suit looks more expensive than

what happened because I haven’t had service

it is. You’re not fooling anyone with a TJ Maxx tag

since I went through the turnstile. My phone

sticking out of your collar, Tanner.

should work without having a stroke.

And did the MTA really have to raise the fare

Oh, and can someone tell me what the point

fifteen cents? At least invest some of that money

of having the subway is if I have to walk a quar-

in cleaning the train. I should not have to strategi-

ter of a mile to transfer? I’m looking at you

cally decide where to place my hand on the pole

Fulton Street. I want—no, I dare anyone to walk

to avoid gum, spit, and what I really hope is mud.

through Fulton Street without getting lost. It’s

Don’t even get me started on the stench. Getting

impossible.

on in the rain? Might as well bring a hazmat suit. I

“Just follow the signs.” Follow the signs your-

shouldn’t need a personal air filtration system for

self. Have you looked at the signs?! Do you have

the subway, but without it the wet-dog smell

any idea what an arrow pointing in three differ-

would kill me.

ent directions means? because I certainly don’t. I

So is there a solution for this? Probably, but I

have wasted years of my life trying to go

don’t get paid the big bucks to figure it out. For

between platforms. If you can’t afford a gym

the love of God, can we fix it? Or maybe not,

membership, just pay $2.90 to get into the

because I really like to complain, and sometimes I

Fulton Street Station and go from the 2 train to

need an excuse for why I’m not in school at 8:30,

the 4. I promise you, it’s better than a StairMaster.

even if I left the house 10 minutes late. And did I

Plus, it’s like American Ninja Warrior, with all the

mention they are raising the fare again? I hate the

obstacles you have to dodge: morons staring at

subway.

their phones, the newsstand trying to sell a bag

.

57

I CAN’T HANDLE CHANGE ZO D GRADE 10

9

ACRYLIC, GRAPHITE

58

.

59

60

RILEY R

GRADE 10, PERSONAL ESSAY

RANDMA’S KITCHEN. It’s a typical Friday afternoon, and my grandma opens the door with a smile. “What’s for dinner?” immediately comes out of my mouth.

“Cheeseburgers!”

I silently celebrate.

She approaches the stove and attends to the sizzling pan. Her kitchen hardware is orange, her signature color. The unused cookware is mounted to the wall in an orderly fashion. Parallel to this, a cooking board I bought for her hangs with the engraving, Grandma’s Kitchen. She swiftly moves from the stove to the table, making it evident she feels at home.

“Do you need help, Grandma?” I offer, as it is almost impossible to not match her energy. She spins around quickly: “Chop this lettuce!”

I chop lettuce while she goes on about the cheese she bought, emphasizing the importance of this ingredient. “I couldn’t find this anywhere, and I know you don’t like the other brand,” she points out. I grin.

I finish chopping lettuce and notice the pattern on the chairs is different. Where there once were deep-blue polka dots, there’s now a light-

gray chevron print. I say nothing and allow her the opportunity to rave about her latest Amazon find: “Did you see the new chair covers?” I knew it.

She sings Motown, swinging her spatula around as if it were a microphone. Of course she sneaks in the story about how the Amazon guy delivered her precious package to her neighbor.

She has the worst luck with online shopping, yet she perseveres.

She presents my meal in song, placing it rhythmically in front of me, simultaneously urging me to try her new garlic sauce. Without giving me much choice, she dollops a spoonful onto the burger bun. Curiously, I take a huge bite as my grandma awaits my reaction. I smile with a

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G

Cooking, Clothes, and Crime: Times with Grandma

SHE SINGS MOTOWN, SWINGING HER SPATULA AROUND AS IF IT WERE A MICROPHONE.

mouthful of food. “Was I right? Or was I right?” she grins. I realize that although she’s pushy, her intentions are good, partly because I’m the only grandchild who isn’t picky, and mostly because we share an equal love for cooking and experimenting with food.

THE FASHIONISTAS I watch as my grandma carefully turns the page of her new fashion catalog, completely immersed in the designs and color palettes. She points at something in the book, and I know exactly what she’s going to say. “Look at how pretty this blouse is!” she exclaims. I don’t think my grandma has ever said the word shirt in her life. The top is white, with zigzagged stitching running down the middle. “It is, and it would look nice on you,” I reply. She holds her hand out, immediately expecting a high five. We continue to browse through the clothing catalog, carefully pulling each page and examining every item.

When I was younger, my grandma decided that I was her model because I took her input very seriously. From berets to big boots and glittery headbands, she dressed me up in all of it.

Every time my mom made a clothing purchase for me, my initial instinct was to race to the basement, where my grandma stayed with my family three days a week. “Grandma, does this look good?” and as usual her response would be, “Fabulous, darling.”

THE SCENE OF THE CRIME I enter the living room, searching for some needed downtime after a long day. I wedge myself in between my grandma, who sits with her legs crossed, and my younger sister who is spread out across the couch. My grandma is glued to the cushion, captivated by the television screen. I look up and smirk. She’s watching A&E again, the channel that dominates her life. “How many crime documentaries do you watch?” I ask playfully.

“It’s just the programs that air on this channel,” she replies. I can’t help but feel nostalgic, having been fascinated by true crime since I was little. This interest is definitely a product of my grandma’s television addiction.

We commonly watched these unsolved mysteries together in my basement. After getting cozy and ready for bed, I would go downstairs into her air conditioning. Although it was cold, I always felt comfortable snuggled with my grandma, snacking on cookies, and invested in a crime documentary that an eight-year-old had no business watching.

On any day, my grandma’s explanation of the crime tops the documentary’s. She waves her arms passionately, describing the moments that infuriate her and bragging about how she solved the case before the detectives. I remind her that she’s the reason I might pursue this as a career.

Her face lights up, and in typical grandma fashion she says, “Groovy, baby!”

.

61

Back Up SAM B GRADE 11

9

PHOTOGRAPH

62

HESHEL R

GRADE 12, FICTION

LIGHT SNOWFALL DESCENDED FROM the Midwest sky, peppering the countryside.

Yet the air was far from bitter; the wind had abandoned the snow, and the mood outside

was quite pleasant. I sat on the front porch of the homestead, rocking my chair back and forth with a steady cadence, pausing every so often and raising my mug to my mouth. I was never too fond of herbal tea, but I heard it was good for the heart. I set the now empty mug down— the tea bag inside quick to freeze over—and pressed firmly on the arms of the chair, hoisting

,,

A

Abandonment

SHE WAS SIX MONTHS ALONG, YET STILL SLENDER; HER FIGURE SHIELDED HER PREGNANCY, ONLY DISCERNIBLE BY THE SOFT KICKS DRUMMING AGAINST HER SUBTLE BUMP.

myself up.

“You really need to stand up straighter, darling.”

Daisy stepped onto the porch, the door creaking shut behind her. She was right. Too

“I’m going to be here this time,” I said. “Here.

With you—” I pressed my palm against Daisy’s swelling

many months bent over my desk had done me

stomach, tracing my fingers around her belly

in. Business overseas had worn me out. My grey

button, mapping her circular shape. She was six

eyes, which Daisy had fallen for years before,

months along, yet still slender; her figure shield-

now seemed dull against my pale skin.

ed her pregnancy, only discernible by the soft

“The midwife stopped by earlier . . . every-

kicks drumming against her subtle bump. This

thing looks healthy,” she said. “Our little one is

would have been our second, though our daugh-

going to need a strong, tall papa.”

ter had died shortly after coming into the world.

Daisy smiled, her dimples dipping into her red cheeks, and stared up at me.

I didn’t get the chance to meet my baby—I was overseas.

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63

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64

“I know you will.”

grasp hold of his fleeting means, he had poured

Daisy picked up my mug and turned to walk

the rest into an overseas land auction. He says it

inside. I closed my eyes and inhaled. The crisp

was foresight. I think it was dumb luck. Whatever

air smelled faintly of the wet pine we burned

it may have been, it was clear that money didn’t

each cold spell. The world fell hushed, the dulled

suit him too well. The man satiated himself with

patter of snowfall cut by the occasional chirp of

meal after meal, his means funneling into folds

a winter bird. A low, yet honeyed voice splin-

of flesh spilling from his girthy neck and supple

tered my trance.

waist.

“What are you doing, Tom? You travel once to India now you think you’re the Buddha.”

“You’re a bit early for dinner, Harry,” I said.

“Never too early to see an old friend,” he

Harry hobbled up the steps, huffing with each pace.

“Hard to breathe in this winter air,” he said.

I nodded and held out my hand. He grabbed

said. “And I don’t like talking business while I

it, his doughy, knobby fingers dampening my

eat.”

winter-cracked skin, and shook it with a curious

“Well, what are you waiting out in the cold for? Come on in.”

I’d already known he kept food and business

strength. I opened the door and followed as he staggered through the entryway and into the foyer.

separate when I had invited him to dinner two

“I’ll tell Daisy you’re here—” I said.

months before. It would be laughable to say I

“No need. I’ll greet her myself later. We

reveled in his company, though I needed his official word on our agreement. The deal had

should be quick.”

He peeled off his woolen overcoat and

already been consummated—this was a mere

tossed it on my chest.

formality. To be honest I expected the rich sloth

“I suppose so.”

to show up late. He liked money too much and

I hung up his coat on a hook and turned

wouldn’t dare miss a meal.

Harry had gotten filthy rich after stumbling into a hundred mile stretch of oil clusters in the

back around, but he had already disappeared into my office on the left.

The room was fashioned entirely from a

Middle East. He’d assumed a decent fortune

deep-brown oak, save the shined marble floor

after his father’d passed, yet less than half a year

and stone fireplace. It was dim and vast, extend-

later had burned through the wealth recklessly

ing down the length of the home, yet choked by

on lavish estate parties. In a desperate bid to

shelves crowded with countertop lamps, antique

,,

pieces from the Victorian Era. An olive-colored carpet, embroidered with geometric constella-

He says it was foresight. I think it was dumb luck. Whatever it may have been, it was clear that money didn’t suit him too well.

The man satiated himself with meal after meal, his means funneling into folds of flesh spilling from his girthy neck and supple waist.

tions, led down shallow steps to a depressed lounge in the center of the room.

Harry paused his stride and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pipe.

“Got this from the Arabs,” he said. “Hand carved, from ivory.”

He reached into a small pouch, pulling out a clump of tobacco, and began stuffing it into the pipe.

“I only smoke the European stuff though—it’s cleaner. Spare me a light, old friend?”

I grabbed a lighter off the shelf and handed it to him. Harry lit his pipe and took a heavy drag, blowing a gloomy cloud, before offering the pipe to me.

“You know I’ve quit smoking,” I said.

“I leave you for two months, and you’ve become a woman.”

Harry reared his arm back and took another puff, a complacent grin now plastered on his round face.

“How about we get this deal done?” I said.

“No time for pleasantries with you, ah Tom?

him to hear until his incessant bout sputtered out.

“Awfully sorry,” he said, wiping water from his eyes. “But you’re right. Let’s. I was hungry anyways.”

With that, Harry shifted his gaze away from me and scoured the thin room.

“Another lesson for you—a good man only

You’re too eager to get started. Let me give you

does business when he’s made comfortable. You

a piece of advice—no one deals with a man who

really could learn a thing or two from me.”

has a stick up his ass.”

He lumbered along the sage green carpet and

Harry’s eyes bulged, his face now pink, and

toward the pit in the center of the room. I trailed

bellowed out a hefty laugh. I humored the foolish

behind, following him down the short steps, until

man and chuckled softly, just loud enough for

he collapsed on the near couch.

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65

Wheel-Thrown and Trimmed SARAH R GRADE 12

9

CERAMIC

66

“Start some kindling; winter can’t tell inside or outside apart.”

I said nothing but nodded my head, stepping out of the pit and over to the heath.

“And while you’re at it, how about some of that scotch?”

“Thank you—” “Fatherhood will look good on you. I reckon it’s too much responsibility for me,” Harry said.

“You do need to lighten up a bit before, though.”

“No really, I’m fine.”

I ambled toward the pit and onto the couch

The fire had long since burned out, and the

opposite him, placing his glass on the end table

once green pine branches were reduced to glow-

beside him. He gripped the glass and raised it to

ing embers. I reached for a log, slanted against

his mouth, swigging a quarter of the drink down

the stone fireplace, and set it gently against the

in a single sip.

half-consumed remains of another. The fire

“Nonsense. I’ll treat you next time you’re in

surged into a reborn flame. Harry, still wearing

the city,” Harry said. The ladies will love you.

boots, kicked his feet up onto the couch and

You’ll love the ladies.”

stretched his arms behind his head.

“I’ll say—I don’t have a clue how you stay satisfied,” he said.

I pulled a glass bottle and two tumblers from the drawer underneath my desk.

“What do you mean?”

“I just can never commit to one,” he said.

“The ladies at the whore house have grown quite fond of me. Pitfall of man—ha!”

Harry broke into a wheezing laughter once more.

“I’m happy for you, Harry. I really am, but Daisy is due in three months.”

I poured myself a short glass, before filling the other to the brim.

“Of course, let me not forget to say congratulations.”

Harry smirked, then swallowed another quarter of the drink.

“Let it rest. I love Daisy and no one else.”

“It’s bad manners to turn down a gift from a close friend. You’ll come around.”

There was no use arguing with the arrogant heap of a man.

“We really should be getting to business,” I said.

“So it’s set!”

Harry clasped his hands together.

“But, you’re right. We’ve wasted enough time as is. Remind me how much you’re paying me?” he said.

“Do I need to say it again? You’re no fool. This deal has been in the works since October.”

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67

“Humor me, Tom. I like hearing the number roll off your tongue.”

.

68

Harry put the glass down and took a drag of his pipe.

“Just under two thousand acres in Persia . . .

At two point five thousand per, you’re looking at an even five million.”

A smile crept across his face, creasing his

“Yes, I know. But my mens’ contract ends sooner than I had anticipated,” he said. “It must have slipped my mind. I can’t hold the land all winter without a team working it. I truly meant to tell you back in October.”

“Your pockets are already stuffed full,” I said.

“I’m having a child . . . Daisy needs me to stay.

The transaction was set for May. We had a deal.”

plump cheeks. He clamped his hands together

“It’s a dog-eat-dog world, old friend. I’m

and began fidgeting his thumbs against each

going to make you richer than you ever dreamed

other.

of. Sacrifices must be made—”

“So what are we waiting for?” he said. “This is all formality, no? Nothing but a nice excuse to see an old friend.”

“Of course. Let’s make it official. No need to keep Daisy waiting.”

I stood up off the couch and extended my

For a moment, the air was consumed by a stinging silence.

“I have people that would jump on this opportunity if you intend to waste my time.”

I stood up, hesitating, and reached my arm out.

hand out to Harry, but he remained seated, sink-

“Good man,” Harry said.

ing further into the cushioning.

With a great effort, he hoisted himself off the

“I just need one favor before I shake your hand,” he said.

“Sure—” “I can only go through with this if we move the transaction up . . . to January or February.”

“Next month? You can’t be serious, Harry.

Once I buy the land, I have to be there to oversee it. I can’t go overseas.”

I slumped back onto the couch and grabbed my near-empty glass.

couch, his face turning from its usual flushed pink to a deep purple.

“And really do reconsider coming to the brothel. This calls for a celebration—on me, old friend.”

I looked dead into his scheming eyes and pulled back my outstretched hand.

Decay IVAN P GRADE 10

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PHOTOGRAPH

69

.

70

T

Ode to a Paper Clip OLI E

GRADE 9, POETRY

HE DURABLE

calculations,

paper clip,

cover letters,

folded precisely to

maybe even poems never read?

its perfect shape.

Nobody writes an ode

Strong like the stack

to those who hold a story

of paper it binds,

together.

like a snake

But here you are,

to its prey,

bent,

pinned down

brilliant,

with force,

necessary.

but gently, like tension in a meeting that never bursts.

How many secrets, have you clasped, contracts, complaints, copies,

.

Muted Vase JADA S GRADE 11 CERAMIC

71

.

Portrait of a Secretary Bird AUGUST A GRADE 9 CHARCOAL

72

GRADE 12, HUMOR

ECHO M

COULD HAVE BEEN A KENNEDY—LET’S

had an eleven-by-fourteen, framed, black-and-

TALK ABOUT IT.

white portrait of JFK, his pearly whites consis-

This is a story about my Granny Gilda. Some

tently shining through the glass.

What comes next is paraphrased directly

things you need to know include the fact that she was a businesswoman in the 1950s, 60s, 70s,

from her archives. She typed up her most inter-

80s, and 90s. If you were in New York’s media or

esting stories and compiled them into boxes to

public relations industry from the 60s through

be unpacked at a later date by her two sons.

the 90s, you knew Gilda—a professional trailblaz-

This story is titled: “Kennedy Adventure” It was 1960, the year of a big presidential

er for women in the spirit of feminine icon Mary Tyler Moore. Gilda loved glamour and would never have been caught un-accessorized, even in sneakers. She loved a good hat, especially one specific broad-brimmed sun hat with a pink ribbon, but only if it

election—Kennedy versus Nixon. At twenty-five,

,,

I

Kennedy Adventure

Gilda was an enthusiastic Kennedy supporter, read everything about him, and was active in the Tilden Democratic

IT WAS 1960, didn’t mess with her hair. She THE YEAR OF A BIG rocked chunky gold earrings and bracelets, blingy neckPRESIDENTIAL ELECTION— laces, and bedazzled broachKENNEDY VERSUS NIXON. es—anything you would conAT 25, GILDA WAS AN sider tacky now was most defENTHUSIASTIC KENNEDY initely a staple in her closet.

SUPPORTER, READ She also loved John F. EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM, Kennedy. Right as you walk AND WAS ACTIVE into her apartment, where with IN THE TILDEN others you might find a family photo or a crucifix, my Granny DEMOCRATIC CLUB.

Club. On the professional track in the public relations agency Ruder & Finn, one Saturday morning she found herself at the Biltmore Hotel, Democratic Headquarters in New York City. There, she ran into Tom Fitzgerald, the treasurer of the local Democratic Party.

He said he was going to a fundraising meeting with Senator Kennedy and invited

.

73

her to “come along.” According to her writing,

.

74

INVITED BY SENATOR KENNEDY

there were about a dozen men in the room, and

PERSONALLY TO TRAVEL WITH HIS PARTY

Kennedy gave a short speech. She writes that

REMAINDER CAMPAIGN [stop] COULDN’T RESIST

she was thrilled and got his autograph on a small

[stop] KNEW YOU’D UNDERSTAND [stop]

piece of paper, which she has since lost. The day

WILL TRY TO CALL MONDAY, MAY BE DIFFICULT

before, her boss had been to a Kennedy event

[stop] PARTY ALWAYS ON MOVE [stop] IN

and had press credentials that he gave to her. It

MAINE TONIGHT PROVIDENCE NEW HAMPSHIRE

was while she was wearing these credentials that

BOSTON TOMORROW HYANNISPORT TUESDAY

she met a photographer who asked her if she

[stop] STAYING STATLER HILTON BOSTON

was going on Kennedy’s bus trip to New

MONDAY NIGHT [stop] VERY EXCITING [stop]

England that was happening soon. She said no,

FEEL LIKE CINDERELLA [stop] GILDA

but he replied that with those credentials she

He replied,

could go.

YOUR ACTION ALMOST PERSUADES ME TO

And go she did. First to a giant rally in the

VOTE FOR NIXON

Bronx, then to Providence; New Hampshire; and,

Her supervisor, Harry Levine, telegraphed,

ultimately, Boston. The other guys on the bus at

YOU’RE GOING TO BE IN HOT WATER IF

that point knew his speeches by heart, but she clung to every word. She went to a rally in

NIXON WINS

The next evening she arrived at Grand

Columbus Circle near the end of the campaign

Central Station, where she found her name on

where JFK spoke from an elevated platform.

the staff list. The group took a bus to Boston,

When he finished his speech, he walked down

where her seatmate was an elderly gentleman, a

the steps and approached Gilda, seated under

friend of Senator Kennedy’s. When they got off

his podium, first row. “Are you coming with us on

the bus, he said he was going to see the senator

the rest of the trip?” he asked. Keep in mind this

and asked her if she’d like to come with him.

is now three days before the election. She

In a short time, the two of them were headed

responded emphatically, naturally keeping her

to Kennedy’s suite in the hotel. She wrote that it

cool: “Yes!”

seemed like the longest room she had ever seen

Since she was away from her office, she sent a telegram to her boss, Charlie Lipton, that read,

and Kennedy was at the end of it. Suddenly, she was alone with him—except for a steward who was preparing a lobster. I feel that it is important to mention here that lobster is classically known

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And go she did.

First to a giant rally in the Bronx, then to Providence, New Hampshire, and ultimately to Boston.

The other guys on the bus at that point knew his speeches by heart, but she clung to every word. She went to a rally in Columbus Circle near the end of the campaign where JFK spoke from an elevated platform.

from New Jersey,” to which he said he “knew exactly who I was and where I was from.” We chatted a little more about the election until he was called out of the room.

Now, had she been alone with JFK on any Tuesday night this would have been crazy. Not to mention the fact that he was already married to Jackie, with kids, but there she was, alone in his hotel suite, with nothing standing between them but a lobster, only a few hours before his last campaign rally at the famous Boston Garden, in front of 20,000 people.

In less than twelve hours, John F. Kennedy would be elected 35th president of the United States.

When she got back to Ruder & Finn, one of her coworkers had her hold a press conference to tell her story. There were many innuendos about why Kennedy invited her, but she wrote that she

to be a romantic food, and more important, an

was too innocent to understand. While reading

aphrodisiac. I honestly can’t imagine what she

her archive, I was struck by this sentence:

could have been thinking at this point but, for

Now, I’m writing this fifty-three years later,

my Granny, I’m not entirely sure that it held

and after all I have heard about Kennedy’s

either appeal. Regardless, in her archives, she

womanizing I have come to believe that he

wrote:

was hitting on me but, at the time, I was too

He was very handsome and tan with steely

naïve to realize it. A few years ago a book by

blue or green eyes. I asked him “if he was going

Mimi Alvond, a teen intern of the President,

to win” and he said, “It would be a close elec-

wrote about an affair she had with JFK, which

tion.” He asked if I was “going to Washington

had some similarities to how I came to meet

with the group,” and I said, “No.” I said “I was

the President.

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Like most encounters she left with her head held high, dressed fashionably, and with the things important to her intact—her vision to pursue a successful career in business and her true love for the Democratic Party.

moment while simultaneously following her instinct. Like most encounters she left with her head held high, dressed fashionably, and with the things important to her intact—her vision to pursue a successful career in business and her true love for the Democratic Party.

This vibrant woman, though different from the Granny I grew up with, embodies authenticity and independence. I love that this is the woman she was, true to herself, as always. Had I known this rich lore surrounding my Granny, I probably would have been more eager to visit her in New Jersey all these years, yearning for the stories that now ignite my curiosity, but alas.

I know that I opened this very tongue-in-

Here’s to my Granny Gilda, the glamour queen

cheek, but in looking back and considering her

who, scandalously, nearly surfed the political

experience at the time, I can now see so much of

wave with JFK!

her through her remarkable knack for seizing the

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We All Felt She was Asking for It.

JESSIE-PEARL L GRADE 10 COLLAGE

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Clouds, Not Smoke OSARIEMEN O

GRADE 9, POETRY

T BEGAN WITH THE HUSH OF A STALE WIND: stale like something sat too long, forgotten, and the sky, drunk on distance

How many times have we named it something harmless?

bends low to sip the gray rise

Just to sleep through the night, just to dream

curling from the earth’s open wound,

in color, just to pretend the ash in our window

not knowing, not caring

sills was only dust

whether it was an offer or an escape or a warning; we chose not to name it.

We called it weather and called it cloudwork and the hush before the storm and

Dust gathers on windows

something holy, something harmless, something

(not the kind you brush away,

distant, something sacred and slow and not

the kind that settles on the memory)

ours to see—

soft, granular, like an echo,

to bear,

like something to forget.

just to pretend that it wasn’t ours.

Still the sky cooed, What a lovely veil the world wears, when it means to end itself.

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It’s Giving Italy SORAYA G

GRADE 11, ACRYLIC

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Underglazed Cups with Deconstructed Faces DAHLIA G & JADA S

9

GRADE 12 & GRADE 11 CERAMIC

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Hollowing SOEFI E GRADE 12

STONEWARE CLAY

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AARON A

GRADE 12, PERSONAL ESSAY

NE HUNDRED SEVENTY ONE THOUSAND, ONE HUNDRED FORTY ONE WORDS. That is how many individual words exist in the English language—excluding another forty seven thousand, one hundred fifty six words most scholars consider to be “obsolete,” thus creating a near-infinite number of sentences, to convey an approximate near-infinite number of ideas. As I love to tell so many other people: I am a writer. Yes. I am. To achieve this status one must be two things: 1. Completely insane so as to even think about grappling with the intangibility of words to try and create characters with stories and complex ideas, from scratch, for fun; and 2. Be good with words.

As I am decent with words, I find myself delving deeper into the insanity as I try to figure out how to say what I can’t. Despite being literate and very capably articulate, I find myself sometimes having trouble saying what I mean, specifically in regard to some emotions. I can process and name basic emotions like joy, disgust, sadness, anger, and anxiety but not the deeper ones like . . . well . . . that’s the point: I can’t describe them.

So what is it? What is it that renders me

sometimes unable to speak, assert, declare, articulate my exact meaning? Anxiety? No, see, that starts in my chest and works its way down to each nerve ending in my body. Fear? Nope, see, fear starts in the temples of my head and knits itself tightly around my face like a mask, then travels, migrates, commutes, navigates down to my throat and cuts my air supply.

Stress? No not that either. See, stress works

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MIND THE GAP, PLEASE . . .

I CAN PROCESS AND NAME BASIC EMOTIONS LIKE JOY, DISGUST, SADNESS, ANGER, AND ANXIETY BUT NOT THE DEEPER ONES LIKE . . . WELL . . .

THAT’S THE POINT: I CAN’T DESCRIBE THEM.

more into my stomach, like the butterflies that were once floating, buzzing, flapping, fluttering because of a girl I had liked, but that have died or maybe just hibernated, with their surprisingly heavy mass creating a divot in my stomach. Not one of these individually, yet, all in tandem, can create the thing I am afraid of: my inability to name it. Yes, I mean my inability to characterize, name, indicate, express the one thing I fear. But, as Hermione Granger in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets puts it, “Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself,” so to spite IT I am going to characterize, name, indicate, express the one thing I fear.

It comes when I least expect it. It comes when I least want it. It renders me unable to coherently illustrate the relevant actions occurring in the still working part of my synapses. It is always ushered in along with a wave of emotion, and it stalls my basic motor skills. These bouts of intense, overwhelming, heightened emotion caused me to forget my words. While normally the words would all be within an arm’s length, there for me to reach out and grasp, utilize, bend to my will, they have now become largely inaccessible during a time of need. It’s as if the wave

of my emotions being dragged in created a large canyon separating me from my lexemic allies; and against all common reason I jump, without minding The Gap, hoping to clear the distance and once again be reunited with my articulate nature.

So, The Gap comes when I least expect it. The Gap comes when I least want it. The Gap, then, therefore, renders me unable to coherently illustrate the relevant actions occurring in the still working part of my synapses. The Gap in language is between what I feel and what I can say.

The Gap is everywhere, too. Between the station platform and the trains, between my two front teeth, and between the seat cushions where batteries tend to get lost. How, then, do I say, declare, articulate, express, something intangible?

What materials do I need to bridge or avoid The Gap, and connect my deepest emotions, and my connecting language? Lyn Hejinian examines this dilemma partially in her essay “Rejection of Closure.” She says, “To prevent the work from disintegrating into its separate parts—scattering sentence-rubble haphazardly on the waste heap—I used various syntactic devices to foreground or create the conjunction between ideas. Statements become interconnected by being grammatically

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congruent; unlike things, made alike grammatically, become meaningful in common and jointly.” But this doesn’t exactly solve the problem, as grammar can’t be spoken, and in order to “foreground or create the conjunction between ideas” I need to know what it is I am connecting to.

Enter: The Bouts of Intense Emotion.

For a long amount of time, language in our brains was thought to be controlled by the left hemisphere of the brain, specifically in two areas: First Broca’s area, which is associated with speech production and articulation; and then Wernicke’s area, more related to comprehension.

However, now a study shows that words are associated with different regions of the brain, depending on their subjects or meaning.

Language is actually processed all throughout the left and right hemispheres depending upon specific word association. In contrast, the emotions of humans are processed, and then interpreted, in the amygdala—a small almond-shaped region in the bottom backside of our brains. But emotion is still relative and open to interpretation. In the 1970s, anthropologist Paul Ekman first noted that humans only had six functioning emotions: disgust, joy, sadness, anger, fear, and surprise. However it is still often disputed how many there are. Some say there are only four, while others count up to 27.

The Gap arrived once when I was talking to my mother. To say why would be no simpler feat

than finding conclusive evidence of the meaning of life. It was late one night (or early morning) as I struggled to stay awake while reading yet another chapter of Lord of the Flies. Though one of my favorite novels, now it caused me some bouts of intense emotion that I could not express. The overwhelming stressful moment of needing to abide by a deadline, coupled with my mothers lurking “supportive” presence, in tandem with the end of William Golding’s novel still about fifty pages away—I wanted to quit. I wanted to carefully rip out every page, fold it into an airplane, and throw them off my roof. I wanted to let the comfort of my bed whisk away all my sorrows that emanated from between the covers of that book. All of these feelings I wanted to express, and so much more, but they were unfortunately drowned by the rageful tears that shot my eyes and stained the pages of the novel. As I jumped into The Gap trying to grasp at words, I only cried harder. I was crying not only because I was tired, 10 and (at this time) probably tempted to run away, but because the newfound confusion of jumping into The Gap left me angry and wondering. “Why am I crying? Why can’t I speak? What should I say? Is there anything I can say?” I never got any answers that night, and the questions never left me—neither did The Gap. The Gap wedged itself between me and words once more while I was talking to a friend.

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I never got any answers that night, and the questions never left me—neither did The Gap.

Though I must admit that the word “friend” seems insufficient. It serves its purpose but does not nearly do any justice to what this friend means to me. I had realized this when hanging out one day. As we walked with the cool dusk air brushing our faces and the gold, orange, and purple hues of the sunset blessing our eyes and talked of nothing important, I really wish that there was something I could have said. As I was thinking of what to say, “I love you,” “I really admire you,” and, “You’re such a good friend” all came up as possibilities. But with the slew of unrelenting emotions teetering between love and partial anxiety, I once again found myself immersed within the depths of The Gap. And so I stayed: silent, muted, noiseless, quiet.

Language is processed in the left and right hemispheres of our brain and emotions in the amygdala. Does my minding The Gap mean I have a larger sensitivity to my emotions or smaller for not quite understanding them? Humans

are designed with similar brain functions—we all have nerves, synapses, two brain hemispheres, gyri, and an amygdala. But are we all of the same mind? If I were a different person, could I have said something to stop the tears? If I were different would I have been able to find the words to share with my friend? Or would I have thought “I love you” was enough? Though I have no answers, I have some comfort and a new hypothesis: our connection between emotion and language is disconnected by The Gap. Along the way it was decided that fear is the feeling you get when something is scaring you. Also along the way a similar decision was made that joy was what happened when you see a distant friend and you still share a bond. And along the way decisions are still being made to signify new emotions. The language is young and can be shaped, changed, improved, questioned. The questions do not leave, and neither does The Gap. Next time I ride the subway I will pay more attention to the sign on the yellow tape.

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Eternal Cascades MAYA P GRADE 11

9

PHOTOGRAPH

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oh to escape DEVRA G

GRADE 12, POETRY

IKE DAPHNE fled apollo: by becoming something stagnant, skin blossoming into brilliant branches, hair spinning into looping leaves, legs stretching into ready roots, and when he tried to grab her she was already gone—in a blur of motion she rendered the god meaningless, nothing but negative space in her shadow, and daphne smiled, because she had won, and oh, she was grand and oh, she was mighty, and oh! she was no longer beautiful.

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I’m Not Your Evil Cousin, but I Could Be If You Wanted ULA K GRADE 12, GRAPHITE

88

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This Lady’s Kinda Indifferent . . .

ULA K GRADE 12

SILVERPOINT

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ELLE C

GRADE 10, PERSONAL ESSAY

HE WALLS PRESSED IN AROUND ME AS

ing eye contact with anyone, the barista will

I stood in the center of the Cafe Regular, ques-

need to call “next!” a few times before you

tioning all my life choices. Or some anyway. Why

notice you’re holding everyone up.

did I get so caught up in my fantasies of becom-

As I waited for my coffee, I looked around

ing a star interviewer that I declared to my friend

for possible interviewees. I spotted two duos,

Julius that I would interview a stranger? How did

one of which was quietly discussing politics—not

I forget that interviewing strangers involves talk-

ideal. Everyone else seemed absorbed in their

ing to strangers?

own technologies, drowning out the rest of the

I have two qualities to blame for my predica-

world—also not ideal. No one screamed,

ment: I’m both a dreamer and a fan of This

“Approach me, random stranger!” Odd. I must

American Life.

have thought that’s what would happen because

This American Life is an interview podcast, but of random people instead of celebrities. The producers exceptionally edit interesting stories, loosely tie them to broad themes, and share them with 3.5 million fans. The result? An entertaining podcast and my undying admiration. And on Friday, November 8, my new ambitions and terrible challenge—could I master my fears and find interesting stories from strangers?

The Cafe Regular is tiny. As in, take one step from the entryway and you’re already in a fastpaced line, and if you’re unaware of this speed because you have your head down scribbling notes on a class handout in order to avoid mak-

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T

Do I Got This?

NO ONE SCREAMED, “APPROACH ME, RANDOM STRANGER!” ODD. I MUST HAVE THOUGHT THAT’S WHAT WOULD HAPPEN BECAUSE ONLY THEN DID MY TOTALLY RATIONAL FEAR COME CREEPING UP ON ME.

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only then did my totally rational fear come creeping up on me.

Yet I had run out of reasons to procrastinate (always a terrible moment). The duo not discussing politics felt like the safest bet. I took a step forward. And another. And I wanted to take another because it would have enhanced the Hollywood-style montage I was building in my head, but tragically, there was not enough room.

“Hi! Hi. Can I please interview you for a school project?”

“Yes! Of course, oh that’s so fun. Please sit.”

Phew.

My teacher and I confirmed it: interview two would certainly happen.

Yet it didn’t sink in until two weeks later, when she asked when this interview would occur. Immediately, the nerves came back in full force.

Their names were Chelsey and Eleanor, and they could chat endlessly. They recount their own stories of approaching strangers: each other.

weeks later, when she asked when this interview

If they hadn’t “been friendly little cats,” they

would occur. Immediately, the nerves came back

would still be sitting in their favorite cafe all

in full force. Instead of taking deep breaths, I

alone. I learned how there were many regulars

thought of ways to control everything possible.

who were now a close-knit group of friends from “cross sections of people [who] wouldn’t normally meet.” Their faces glowed as they answered my questions and laughed—soon, I was laughing too. I walked out bragging to Julius about an interaction that actually did occur.

Back in class, I decided I would conduct another interview in another random cafe. My teacher and I confirmed it: interview two would certainly happen. Yet it didn’t sink in until two

Before my interview I decided to:

● Not reveal the actual assignment (Why? Wonderful question)

● Create a fake assignment beforehand as the reason for the interview

● Create a fake handout for said fake

assignment (that no one even asked to see!)

● Avoid anyone sitting alone

● Not bother anyone obviously working d

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The dreaded day arrived. Armed with my fake handout and favorite pen, a light-blue eras-

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friends with any of the other regulars.

As she talked, I found myself instinctively sit-

able, I speed walked to a random cafe near my

ting up straighter. I took care in spacing my

apartment. I took one step in and immediately

notes out well and constantly rechecked my

detected the massive flaw in my extremely care-

speaking volume. When she praised the way I

ful planning: only one customer sat in the cafe.

took notes by hand, I couldn’t help but mentally

And she was working.

cheer. Yet there was something I really wanted

I calmly ordered a coffee and settled into a table far from my fellow cafe-goer. I took some

her to commend: my writing.

Marsha is an author. Her memoir, The Wrong

totally necessary notes on how I was feeling and

Calamity, came out last year and has won three

whatnot. Please ignore the one saying “I’m pro-

literary awards.

crastinating.”

I love writing. I have spent a great deal of

I breathed, then approached: “Hi! Could I

time developing a voice and a style, attempting

interview you for, uh, a school project?” She did

to improve more and more. I have many pieces

not look impressed. “I have a handout?”

I’ve worked hard on and am extremely proud of.

“Fine. But be quick. I’m busy.”

My dream is to become an author.

“It’s okay, really, I’m sorry to disturb you . . .”

Marsha complimented me.

“No, it’s fine, just don’t take too long.”

She appreciated my deep, thoughtful ques-

“Thank you so much.” I sat; we shook hands.

tions. She said, “You seem like a good writer.”

Her name was Marsha Jacobson; she was 70,

A good writer. Me.

with glasses, white hair that didn’t go past her

I keep smiling at the memory. Her voice has

ears, and a cast on her arm from an old injury.

joined my collection of small moments to replay

For every question I asked, Marsha answered

whenever I doubt my writing capabilities. It’s

enough for three. As my notes expanded, so did

another piece of evidence for the braver side of

my curiosity. She referenced a class she took; I

me, forever stuck arguing with the side attempt-

asked about her relationship with the teacher.

ing to run from strangers. But maybe, maybe,

She mentioned living in different countries; I

the part making random declarations can win.

asked which stuck with her the most. She said

Maybe I can believe that I can be a good writer.

she frequents the cafe we sat in; I asked if she’s

.

Pointillist Peacock

CLAUDIA R GRADE 12 ACRYLIC

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I

For Now ADDISON R

GRADE 12, PERSONAL ESSAY

T’S INCREDIBLE HOW LITTLE GENETIC

Diane. She came to visit us, but she would sulk

mutations can change a human being so that liv-

on the couch, and I would avoid any conversa-

ing with others becomes complicated and

tion with her because I was afraid of how

fraught. Mutations in up to seven genes can

depressed she was. Additionally, I wasn’t sure if

cause Noonan Syndrome, or NS. People with NS

she knew I was her niece or thought I was some

often have square-shaped faces, widely spaced

other friend.

eyes, short stature, a deep groove between the

One Saturday, I was alone in the apartment

nose and the mouth, a smaller lower jaw, a short

with her. I stood in front of my bed, scrolling

neck, and poor teeth. They are prone to heart

through Instagram reels, with the door wide

disease, bleeding problems, and seizures.

open. “Addie, I did it again,” Lila cried from the

Developmentally, they have anxiety, poor self

bathroom. I imagined bloody lines on her wrists.

esteem, depression, panic attacks, and intellectual disabilities—like my aunt.

Why did I assume that she was hurting herself? Did I know because my mom told me she

About six years ago, my aunt Lila went to

was in a vulnerable mental state? Or was it

the hospital for a brain bleed. When I called her

because I was also hurting myself, though no

on the phone, she thought I was her cousin. Lila

one else knew? I began to gasp for air as my

didn’t sound energetic or playful anymore, like I

chest constricted with each breath. Tears

remembered. When I was little, she used to run

dripped off my chin as I scanned the room for an

around the house and play hide and seek with

answer. I didn’t want to be the person she went

me, she used to be my student when I played

to for this, but I also didn’t want to be the per-

school, and she played Candyland with me and

son who ignored her when she was crying for

my babysitter at restaurants.

help. I sat on my bed while I pressed my palms

A year after the phone call, when I was in the seventh grade, my mom told me that Lila needed to take a break because she was unhappy in Alabama, where she lived with her caregiver,

onto my eyes, asking myself what to do. At last, I tapped the door closed. I didn’t help her.

Later that afternoon, my mom and I argued over something unimportant, and she lost her

,,

WHY DID I ASSUME THAT SHE WAS HURTING HERSELF? DID I KNOW BECAUSE MY MOM TOLD ME SHE WAS IN A VULNERABLE MENTAL STATE? OR WAS IT BECAUSE I WAS ALSO HURTING MYSELF, THOUGH NO ONE ELSE KNEW?

have sympathy for Lila; she was just staying with us for now. I left the room, and she didn’t come after me. I let myself disconnect—from my mom, from Lila, from the situation, and from myself.

As is true of many people with NS, Lila has the mental capacity of a first grader and needs assistance with everyday tasks. She is eager to be useful and always wants to help, but she lacks coordination for simple tasks like tying her shoes, buttoning shirts, or anything with fine motor movements. Additionally, she cannot cook, make food for herself, or travel alone farther than a block or two away from home.

For most of her adulthood, Lila lived with her caregiver, Diane. Two years ago, Diane retired,

temper at my attitude. In an attempt to defend

and at that point, my mom and Diane put Lila in a

myself, I told her, “Lila and I were alone in the

residential home in Boston with other people who

house, and she just invited me to look at what

have disabilities. When the home closed eight

she had done to herself.”

My mom responded, “That’s what happens when you have an aunt who suffers.”

My mom did not ask me if I was okay, if I needed to process it, if Lila went into my room, if

months later, Lila came to New York to live with us. Shortly after Lila arrived, Diane passed away.

At that time, Lila acted like a black hole, sucking the positive energy out of the room.

When I’d come home from school, she wouldn’t

I needed someone to talk to, nothing. I went

acknowledge me. When I asked her how she

blank. There was no point in talking to her fur-

was, she would reply with one word. When I

ther. In the silence, I imagined her telling me to

asked if she wanted to go to the playground or

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play Sorry!, she’d say “I’m fine” and stare at the black-screen TV.

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because they were mumbled.

Schizophrenia is a psychiatric disorder that

After a few months, Diane’s son invited Lila

can make people have disorganized speech, hal-

to visit him in Los Angeles. She returned more

lucinations, delusions, trouble with thinking, and

engaged, cheerful, and motivated to spend time

a lack of motivation. It affects less than one per-

with me and my mom. Now I didn’t have to drag

cent of the United States population, but Lila

her out of the house to spend time with me. She

was diagnosed when she was 18. She takes med-

would ask me to go to the movies or would sit

ication for it and normally enjoys all her favorite

on my bed while I did my homework. She was

activities, such as basketball, dancing, and the-

finally back to her old self.

ater. After she had to move out of my sister’s

A year later, everything changed because my

room, though, she refused to leave the house no

sister and brother moved back into the house.

matter what anyone said, sleeping three hours a

Since Lila had been staying in my sister’s room,

night and taking naps all day.

she then had to move into my mom’s room, onto

One day, I was doing my math homework

a mattress. As a form of protest, she slept on the

and felt a graze on my arm. I looked up and Lila

couch. I’d hear the rapid thumps of her footsteps

was standing right beside me, her eyes bulging

up and down the hallway and her grumbling,

with intensity, her eyebrows raised, her lips tap-

“I’m going to move to LA,” and “I hate Jenny”

ping repetitively. “What are we going to do with

(my mom). I asked her what was wrong, invited

Diane’s ashes?” she whispered.

her to the park, and offered to read a book with

I’d never been asked a question like that

her, but she continued saying no. When Lila

before. I replied that we would figure it out. In

would threaten to leave, my mom would tell her

the following nights, I’d hear footsteps creaking

to do whatever she wanted, but I knew my mom

up and down the hallway. When I would peek

was devastated because she had just become

out my door, I would see her carrying a portion

Lila’s legal guardian, and there was nowhere else

of Diane's ashes, which were in a small jar

for her to stay. My mom said this was Lila’s reac-

attached to a cross. She would knock on our

tion, for now, but she would get used to it and

bedroom doors after midnight while whispering

her behavior would pass. Lila would walk around

our names and repeating phrases like, “I am

the house yelling-whispering my mom’s name,

autistic” (she’s not); “I need Adderall” (she does-

my name, and my babysitter’s name as well as

n’t); “I’m not going to take my medication any-

other words I couldn’t completely understand

more” (no way); “I want to live with Diane”

(who’s dead); and “I miss my friends” (she

night, claiming that a woman she knew in LA was

doesn’t have any).

going to pick her up; that David, Diane’s son,

When a person enters a state of psychosis,

was going to pick her up; and that a limousine

they have difficulty comprehending what’s real

was going to pick her up. During the day, we

and what’s not, and sometimes they even have

would interrupt the conversations she was having

hallucinations and delusions. One night, Lila left

with people who weren’t there. She’d speak

the house at 2:00 a.m. and walked around the

briefly to us and then return to her imaginary

streets until my older brother coincidentally

conversation. We finally brought her to a hospital

bumped into her and brought her home. After

on 34th street. Upon arrival, she bolted out of the

my mother took away her keys, we would find

door, and a security guard and my mom sprinted

her in the building’s staircase in the middle of the

after her.

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One day, I was doing my math homework and felt a graze on my arm. I looked up and Lila was standing right beside me, her eyes bulging with intensity, her eyebrows raised, her lips tapping repetitively.

“What are we going to do with Diane’s ashes?” she whispered.

According to the New York State Mental Hygiene law, the standard for voluntary admission is that a person must have a mental illness that the hospital can take care of and treat. For involuntary admission, the law states that the care and treatment for the person is “essential” for their wel-being, that their judgement is “impaired” and that they can’t understand why they need treatment; and, finally, that because of their mental illness, they pose a “substantial threat of harm” to themselves or to other people. Lila did not want to be there and didn’t meet all of the criteria for involuntary admission because she wasn’t a threat toward herself or other people. Therefore, the hospital held her until the next morning and then released her.

My mom began searching for residential facilities, but finding one that Lila liked would take a long time. For now, we have put a new bed in the office, where I used to do my homework, so that

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College Essay ULA K GRADE 12

9

COLORED PENCIL

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Lila can have her own private space. At first, she

it took some time to convince her to go. After we

refused to sleep there, but after a week she

would check in, she’d begin to pout, so I’d tell her

accepted it. I began volunteering at the theater

I’d squash her in a game one on one. She would

program she had been attending so I could

smile and spring out of her chair laughing, telling

encourage her to return to it. I’d take her, and

me she’d sweep me.

over the following weeks she would cry and run

After a couple of months, she stopped pan-

out of the room sporadically. Over time, I’d

icking and enjoyed basketball and dancing again.

encourage her to raise her hand more often and

Finally, I could make her laugh again. It really did

to dance during certain acts of the show. To con-

take waiting out her behavior and encouraging

vince her to return to her basketball lessons, I

her, to get back the Aunt Lila who would break

went with her to the gym on the Upper West

dance to Michael Jackson, make fart jokes, claim

Side. She’d cry on our way to the subway about

that she can beat me in a race, and sit with me

how much she wanted to live back in Alabama

while I do my makeup. Now we watch The

and see her former therapist from Montgomery. I

Cleveland Show together, listen to Biggie Smalls,

would hold her hand and ask her questions as I

and write our Christmas cards together. Our fami-

led her to the subway. We would take the train

ly is lucky that we have the resources to take care

together and I’d let her play Drawing Animals, a

of Lila, and we know that she is happiest at home

coloring app I’d downloaded for her on my

with us. We will always be figuring it out. Every

phone. Before we got to the gym, I would text

solution we have is for now.

her coach that we were going to be late because

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99

Don'T Ever Try to Fly ALEXIS SG GRADE 12

9 PEN

100

L

Skinless SARAH R

GRADE 12, PERSONAL ESSAY

IFT A CRISP SHEET OF METAL, FLIMSY beneath the pressure of a thumb, but substantial enough to puncture the waxy surface. Slide it along the almost indistinguishable edge beneath the first layer of raw flesh. The flay must be thick enough to free the fruit from its seeds, but transparent enough for you to see the gleam of silver through the red film. Dissect with a light grip: pull steadily downward, imagining a weak magnetic force between you and the blade.

The elegant movements wash over your thoughts—a focus so intense it smooths every wrinkle in your brain.

There are three standards by which the skinned fruit is measured. The first is obvious: appropriate depth. There must remain a continuous slimy face, vulnerable without any shielding barrier and uninterrupted by a rogue seed.

Meanwhile you must be minimally invasive of the flesh; lose as little redness as possible. Second: fidelity to the original form. We must preserve the shape that the fruit naturally grew into.

Minimize polygonal edges, resistant to the instinctual vertical edge of the knife. Last: low fluid loss. We are looking for scant mess on the work surface. Be precise and intentional. The more of the precious juices lost, the less power-

ful the flavor experience in the end. These three parameters determine the caliber of your peeled strawberry.

There are a couple of scenarios in which it is appropriate to peel a strawberry (at least in my experience—you may [and I encourage this] think of more strawberry-peeling situations). The first is in one of those pristine high-end restaurants that is snotty in its prestige. The business model is backed by a constant striving for a more elite clientele, a task that requires an infinite increase in the inventiveness of the experience in order to temporarily entertain the rich folk. Or in the rarer case, provide a level of luxury in order to make the more reasonably rich feel unreasonably so. This model involves the service of fussy foods that you sometimes have to convince yourself to like in order to justify the price. Examples include fish-flavored foam, duck fat, a plate of grapefruit curds, and peeled strawberries.

The second situation is only plausible in the case that you wake up particularly optimistic on a certain Wednesday morning and decide to use your free period to go to your high school, where a sculpture class is taking place in an eclectic ceramics room with a certain bald, buff,

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and often philosophical teacher who gives you the assignment to peel a strawberry. This one, I admit, is quite niche. If you do happen to find yourself in this scenario, I implore you to revel in it. Take your time. Despite multiple desperate pleas from the philosophical teacher toward the class to complete this task with patience, the majority will not.

Be different. Observe the form. Run your finger along the curves. Feel the slightly bristly texture, the divots where the seeds clutch the plush fruit. Plan ahead. What is the state of your berry? Are there any browning spots where you can anticipate a mushy surface? If so, take them as omens of your future hurdles. Compare the quality to that of your neighbor (your competition). Think of time management. Does yours have more surface area? More inconsistencies? Is it more ripe? (This could be your downfall.)

Less?

You wedge the blade under the final strip of skin, peeling back to reveal a beautifully coherent surface. You delicately grip the green leaves suspended above the berry to avoid the slick surface between your fingers, the right side of your mouth slightly crooked upward in satisfaction of your masterful work.

The time has come to taste the slippery strawberry. It has been described as a novel sensation, superior and new to the novice strawberry eater. You could’ve been sleeping right now.

You could’ve gone to a cafe and gotten a hot

BE DIFFERENT. OBSERVE THE FORM. RUN YOUR FINGER ALONG THE CURVES. FEEL THE SLIGHTLY BRISTLY TEXTURE, THE DIVOTS WHERE THE SEEDS CLUTCH THE PLUSH FRUIT. PLAN AHEAD. cup of coffee and a pastry to ease yourself into the day. You probably should be working on your English essay or finishing your college application due in two days. But you’re here, staring at this naked, labored-over strawberry, anticipating its flavor.

The first bite is surprising and pleasant. A burst of fruity sweetness and slight tang uninterrupted by the waxy skin. As you chew, the consistent texture and lack of crunch is delightful.

But as the flavor fades and the pulp left behind slides down your throat; it is still just a strawberry. A slightly speedier delivery of flavor and amusing mouth feel, yes, but was it worth the tedious task? Would I peel another strawberry?

To be honest, probably not. But am I sorry I did it?

Definitely not.

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Slow Food SAM B GRADE 11

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SOEFI E

GRADE 12, FICTION

T SMELLS OF ANTISEPTIC.

So you’re a little concerned. Because it’s a

It’s an underwhelming thought to have,

little . . . murderous . . . up here. And you never

maybe, being on your roof for the first time, but

pegged your family for secret evils, but there’s

what do you expect? You live in Brooklyn; there’s

always room for something hidden. Your mother

not going to be anything more magical than

and her mother have always stressed the neces-

cancer coming out of your vents.

sity of secrets, of keeping your cards close to

But, hey, shut up, stop being so pessimistic, just soak it in, because there is magic in the air—

your chest, of doling out trust like it was about to go extinct.

you can taste it: it’s metallic and on the tip of

There’s not a single room in your entire

your tongue and, oh, God, it’s getting in your

apartment building that you have never been in,

eyes, and it burns a little. But hey, that’s magic.

Back to the antiseptic. It’s strange, because nothing in your house ever smells so clean.

There’s always the smell of germs, even though your family hates it, and wishes they could be minimalistic and clean clean clean all the time.

But it’s true, in the apartments below you, there’s always a personal smell, dead skin and hair balled up and turned to dust in the corners and underneath the furniture.

But up here, it’s sterile. There’s nothing but the salt-licked rain and the quiet twinkling stars, and the bubbling of something that is bound to kill.

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I

The New York Public Health Fire Safety Department

BUT UP HERE, IT’S STERILE. THERE’S NOTHING BUT THE SALT-LICKED RAIN AND THE QUIET TWINKLING STARS, AND THE BUBBLING OF SOMETHING THAT IS BOUND TO KILL.

your mom if you’re allowed to go up here, she looks affronted and says: “Of course not!”

So now you see why. Hear why. Smell why.

The trees rustle and crack toward you, breaking their bones in a swift sound that probably feels so good. It sounds of whispers and joints, of cold winded breath and breaching a nonofficial NDA. “I swear, I won’t tell!”

Well, where has that gotten you, ever?

Everything is decomposing. You can hear the flies buzzing their last attempts at freedom, from

,,

yet the rooftop is forever elusive. When you ask

This is bitter, this is cold, this is sterile, this is dirty, this is decomposing, this is digesting, this is exclusionary, this is natural, this is your nature.

the digestive mouths of the two most popular

movements. You scoop the cold bones off the

carnivorous plants in the Americas. The water

ground and feel them, small against your palm,

sloshes in the torrent of wind, laps up the sides

and pop two into bubbling death, which turns a

and hits you, cold, in the calves.

little tangy, and three in your mouth. They scrape

This is bitter, this is cold, this is sterile, this is

against your teeth before they settle against your

dirty, this is decomposing, this is digesting, this is

molars like second skin, and suddenly you know.

exclusionary, this is natural, this is your nature.

The moon is setting, and you want sleep.

And, though all these years you have agonized over your mother tongue and disconnect and linguistics and studying, what a laughable thing, you move across the rooftop in swift, sure

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Pathetic!

ALEXIS SG

GRADE 12, POETRY

HERE’S NO REVENGE FOR ME TO WISH FOR IN THE FIRST PLACE. I am at your mercy with the prerequisite belief that there is none to speak of.

You’re boys and girls. Children.

I have nostalgia for memories that haven’t happened yet and might not.

What am I sentenced to for my preposterous arrogance?

You don’t know the fear that pours and drapes around the little lungs of a subway rat when one of us sees you. You’re terrifying.

Visions of high heels stepping, pressing down onto my tiny skull. Stilettos piercing into my brain. Stilettos mangling my head.

Lipstick marks. I wish when I bit you it left lipstick marks.

Word Cloud MIA K GRADE 12, MIXED MEDIA

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Messrs. Rossi

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ELI R

GRADE 10, PERSONAL ESSAY

NEW BEGINNINGS Thump thump thump.

The hallway shakes as my dad rumbles down

first night with two houses, two lives, and two families.

We wrap ourselves together in one blanket,

the long bare hallway into the large, also bare,

insufficient in the dead of January. The food in

living room.

the restaurant-documentary takes our minds off

“Eli! chair!!” I spring up and slide him the

of the chilly climate, but it still looks much better

black stool from the corner of the room, watch-

than the leftovers we’re munching on. “This chef

ing as he sets down the desktop he’s been heav-

was an even better cook than your grandfather,

ing through the hallway. After he plugs a key-

Mr. Eli.”

board and mouse into the desktop-stool creation, we awkwardly settle down on the stiff, wooden floor.

“How are we supposed to watch a movie on this?” I ask.

“Trust me, we don’t need a TV.” He shuffles through his millions of video files, swearing he knows where his almost two-decade-old film is located.

BALLLL “Dad.” He doesn’t hear me. He’s had a hearing aid for three years. “Dad!” He walks back into my sight. “It’s the first game of the season.” He rolls in my sister’s now-matured-TV-watchingchair and slumps down next to me.

“How was the gym?” I ask. The top two reasons he goes out is for the gym or to restock the

“Look, right there!” We dim the lights, and

almost-always-empty fridge. I can also scent his

begin watching Le Cirque: A Table in Heaven in

black sweatpants and shirt that he weirdly keeps

the new, naked apartment.

on after his workout.

A Table in Heaven was my dad’s first “new

His first question of many is who’s playing. I

beginning” in life, his first movie after leaving

point to the abbreviations, “BAL” and “KC.”

law school to fully commit to filmmaking. My

“Ballll,” he takes a long pause, searching for a

first “new beginning” in life is this night—my

word that starts with Bal.

“Balenciaga!” he shouts.

of the desserts: baked chocolate cake, melon

I remember that just last week he finished

frozen yogurt, and Sicilian date cake. My sister

shooting his series about Demna Gvasalia, the

and I immediately dig in, whipping our spoons

artistic director of Balenciaga. “Balenciaga versus

through every dish. My father and grandfather,

KC.” He begins to laugh hysterically, overpower-

the self proclaimed connoisseurs of the group,

ing the noise from the TV. A few more

delicately approach the desserts.

“Balenciagas!” later, he takes out his phone, and

“So did you like it guys!?” My dad yells from

snaps a picture of the 60-something inch TV

across the table, only appropriate in the loud

that’s squeezed against the walls. “I have to send

restaurant ambiance. My sister and I quickly

this to Demna!” His reaction is funnier than the

glance at each other, knowing the answer he

joke.

wants. “Yeah, but not as good as Parioli!” I shout

As he pulls down his phone, I begin to think.

back.

Why is he texting the artistic director of

Parioli Romanissimo, my grandfather’s fancy

Balenciaga at 10:00 p.m. on a Thursday?

Italian restaurant he used to own when my dad was a kid, has become almost like a meme on the

TRADITIONS The candle-stained affogato and flash from

Rossi side of the family. Though my sister and I have only ever seen outdated photos of it, it’s all

my dad’s camera flicker in my eyes. After the

my grandfather and father talk about when we’re

“Happy Birthdays” end, my dad begins his typi-

together at the dinner table.

cal dinner-spiel, discussing how important 15 was for him.

“What!?” No one can hear him, and he can’t

“I agree, Eli!” my grandfather says to me. He and my dad love being Italian and the traditions they carry with it. With each generation, they

hear anyone. The roaring restaurant chatter cir-

pass on their own trademarks, slightly changing

cling us overpowers our conversations. His

with each wave, like the game Telephone.

thoughts are passed around the table to me like

Stepping out of the restaurant, we exchange

the game telephone, and my grandfather is the

our cheerful goodbye-hugs, and stroll to the sub-

middleman.

way we once took here just a few hours earlier.

As we de-candle the frozen affogato in a large martini glass, our waiter slings out the rest

“Hope you had a good birthday, Mr. Eli.”

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Taking Up Space MIRA G

GRADE 10, PERSONAL ESSAY

LAY SPRAWLED OUT ON THE FLOOR, my newfound height taking up the entire width of the enormous school hallway. The culprits behind this sprawl—pink, fluffy, with 5-inch platforms—were swallowing my feet. People were staring from around the corner. How on earth had I thought this was a good idea?

My decision to wear five-inch-hot-pink-fluffyplatform-boots to school came out of a deapseated desire to be tall. I probably base too much of my personality on my 5'1¼" height. As a result, I have always been curious about platforms. Curiosity about platforms, however, was nowhere near enough of a motivator to get me to actually BUY platforms. Historically, I haven’t typically tried to stand out with what I wear. For all of ninth grade, I wore the same hand-medown ugly gray hoodie and an endless cycle of disgusting outdated jeans. I just recently stopped wearing my hair in a low ponytail every day. So, when I decided to wear “giant pink shoes” and then write about the experience for an English essay, I wasn’t thinking about the mortification that those shoes would entail or whether height would be the biggest experience to come out of wearing fluffy pink boots.

When the boots came in the mail, I was horrified. They weren’t light pink like in the photos I

had seen online—they were pink. They had a little cleft halfway through the middle of the body of the boot that made them look like part of a school mascot costume, and they were furry. I was half hoping that they wouldn’t fit so that I could have an excuse not to wear them. They fit perfectly.

It took me until lunchtime to muster the courage to change from my trusty sneakers into boots. I was considering calling it all off, finding a new essay topic, and letting myself have a peaceful afternoon. That was until I looked at my phone and spotted no fewer than 12 pissed-off texts from my sister telling me to get my ass to the first-floor lockers now before she let her friends take the shoes.

Reluctantly, I headed to the lockers, where I saw my sister handing the boots to various friends of hers to try on. One friend, Sofia, was strutting down the hallway. She didn’t seem to care that her red lipstick clashed wildly with the boots. My sister’s other friends were all cheering her on. Meanwhile, I waited for my turn, growing more and more worried about my boot-filled afternoon. Gulping, I slipped them on.

When I stood up, I was suddenly about 5'6".

My friend, now inches below my eye level, told me to “Give us your best model walk!” I

Attention CAMERON B GRADE 12 PHOTOGRAPH

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obliged—well, I tried to oblige—but I just ended up speed walking to the end of the hallway. I could see people staring. “Now strut back!” I tried to imitate the confident way that I had seen Sofia walking, but I just ended up biting my lower lip and looking mildly confused. My friend paused. “Well, um, maybe not.”

I sank to the floor in an attempt to hide.

Unfortunately, as I tried to find a comfortable way to sit, my body slid until I was just lying on the floor. I could see people walk by and do double takes as I picked myself up into a sitting position.

I knew that it wasn’t my height that made them look—it was the damn boots! I didn’t realize until hours later that some of the people standing closest to me hadn’t even noticed my falling; it wasn’t as mortifying as it felt at the time.

Most of the discomfort I felt came from my own anxieties. As I traveled between classes, I felt like there was a spotlight on me. I couldn’t fade into the crowd as much as I normally might—there were fewer people to hide behind.

Going down the stairs in the boots felt borderline hazardous, so I took the fire stairwell in order to have a direct route to class. And to avoid people. I walked into class feeling extremely self conscious and was immediately greeted with “Mira, what’s up with your shoes?” I responded that it was for my experience essay, and I didn’t know why I’d chosen these shoes.

Well, I do know why. I chose the shoes because I thought they would be awesome. And

sitting there, I knew they were awesome—but not on me! Normally, I could fade into the background if I felt small. But in these boots, I was forced to take up space. In theory, that sounded great, but in reality it just made my insecurities louder. Turned out, the only thing worse for me than feeling invisible was being the center of attention.

So I tried to hide my shoes by keeping them within the desk. It was hopeless, and I ended up untucking my jeans from my shoes and bringing them over the boot. I regretted leaving my sneakers in my locker. I continued to avoid most people until I got back to the lockers. I had 45 minutes left in the school day.

And at that point, I thought: What the hell?

I’ve been wearing these outrageous shoes all afternoon anyway. If I’m trying to do something new and outside of my comfort zone, I need to actually stand tall and commit to taking up space. I’m already wearing these shoes—I might as well have fun with them. What do I have left to lose?

So I rolled my jeans back up and prepared for questions. I brought up my shoes in conversation because it turned out that half the time people didn’t even notice I was wearing them. I relished the feeling of being almost at eye level with my sister. I noticed the compliments: being told to wear them every day, people saying my outfit was impeccably matched. A kid asked to pet my boots, and I thought it was hilarious.

What You See in Others Exists in You VERONICA M GRADE 10 COLLAGE

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0.04 Seconds JORDANA R

GRADE 12, PERSONAL ESSAY

E’S SPENT FOUR YEARS TRAINING FOR

stands, your dad’s leg bouncing up and down,

the moment of his life. Three practices a day, a

hands in face, as your mom places her head-

lift, and sleep: that’s all he ran on for four years.

phones on to block out the noise. Instead, you

When you’re an athlete, there’s no consideration

should go to volleyball practice, work, and not

for your mental health, only your physical health,

watch the finals of the 200 meter butterfly1

because that’s all that matters.

because you knew he won’t make it in that

He only gets one shot—50 seconds, that’s all it takes.

You’ve been going to your brother’s swim

event. Instead, you text him good luck, don’t say you’ll be there watching him (that’s too much pressure), and tell him you love him and hope

meets for your entire life. Ever since he was little,

he’s doing well. All of these moments will lead to

you’ve been his number-one supporter (but not

success. (They have to).

the other way around). He hasn’t always been

That night, you’ll go on YouTube and watch

the nicest, and most loving, but swimming was

the two hundred meter finals to see him

his first love, and he didn’t have the capacity for

absolutely devastated, but he still has another

anything else. Competitive swimming took your

chance to make it, so you sleep. The video

brother away from you. Between world champi-

repeats in your head as you drift off, seeing how

onships in Hungary, Japan, and Qatar, to swim-

he faded at the end, hoping he won’t have to

ming fifty two weeks a year for college—all for

feel this devastation again. The next day you

the Olympics. It’s all he’s thought of since he

make your way to Indianapolis, Indiana (you hate

was nine months old, diving into the deep end at

it here) and sit alone on the flight, texting your

his first swimming lesson.

parents who are frightened out of their minds,

You don’t go to the first week of Olympic trials because it’s too stressful, and your life mat-

Wishing you the best of luck today! as you won’t be there for prelims.2

ters too. You know the feeling of being in the

1

Although not his top event, he received fourth overall in the United States, but it’s not enough.

2

The least stressful time of the day—take a breath.

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Pallas Athena

AURORA P GRADE 9 ACRYLIC

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When you get off the plane, all there is plas-

stand. You talk about family trips every summer,

tered on the walls is the Olympic trials. You take

daily train rides together to swimming practice,

a picture of your brother’s face on the side of

and your daily rowdy fights.

the moving escalator (you always forget he’s

When prelims rolls around the corner, you

kind of popular) and send it to the family group

put on your California swimming shirt, not the

chat to lighten the mood. You know your dad is

USA, because you don’t want to jinx it. You

stressed out of his mind, telling your brother

believe that these little details can make him win.

how to perform better, to eat a healthy meal, to

Ever since he began swimming, your family and

rest. But as a twenty-one-year-old, he thinks this

you have been doing this. In part, you believe it’s

to be a waste of his time. When you finally arrive

because of your anxiety, but now’s not the time

at your hotel, your brother will ask you to get

to fix your anxiety—there are other things at

dinner because the mood at the hotel could not

stake. You don’t text in the morning. Instead, you

be more solemn.

say a prayer for him because you know how

Every single one of his teammates has lost.

much it means to you. If you text, he won’t

Everyone is going home because they aren’t

respond anyway; he’s so locked in at that

going directly to Paris afterward.

moment and feels pressure to succeed and do

He feels terrible for them, but has to focus on himself.

He strives for an escape because he hasn’t

well for his family and not for himself. You know he’s lost his love for swimming slowly but surely, but he does it to make his family proud. He

lost and doesn’t want to feel like he has, ever.

forces himself to wake up at four in the morning

You don’t wear your USA jacket to dinner

for practice, lugging himself to competitions

because it could be bad luck or extra pressure.

across the country and never returning home,

Instead you wear neutral colors because he had-

other than for Christmas.

n’t made the USA national team yet. At dinner,

You sit at the top of the stadium, overlooking

you talk about life; you don’t talk about swim-

the fifty-meter pool, because the coordinators

ming or the Olympics. You talk about childhood

couldn’t care less for the families of the swim-

because the last thing an athlete wants to talk

mers, and especially Black swimmers.3 You watch

about is their sport; knowing this from personal

in silence for the first ten events, looking at the

experience is something most won’t ever under-

time every once in a while, making sure you

3

Your brother is one of the only Black swimmers at this event, and Black swimmers aren’t loved in this sport.

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THE SECOND DAY (SEMIFINALS), YOU DO THE SAME THING AS THE DAY BEFORE, BECAUSE YOUR ENTIRE 4 FAMILY HAS OCD.

And he dives. Fifty seconds from start to finish. Nothing is said in these seconds; instead, you watch in detail, your heart pounding. ll you can see is water splashing; all you can hear the commentators yelling. You don’t look over at your parents because it’ll stress you out even more.

When he finishes his race, you immediately look up at the black score board because it’s too fast to tell whether or not he made the semifinals.

Once you see he made it, you look over at your parents taking a sigh of relief, leaning back in

don’t leave in crucial moments. You bounce your

their seats and onto their phones. Immediately

leg up and down, anxiously yawning every so

after, you leave because you don’t even like swim-

often (not from being tired). You distract your

ming; you just love your brother.

parents from thinking about your brother; you talk about school, summer, and trips because all they are focused on is Paris.

His event pops up on the lofty black screen

The second day (semifinals), you do the same thing as the day before because your entire family has OCD.4 Your family runs on nerves, and so

hanging over the Lucas Oil Stadium in Indian-

these rituals help you feel in control of your life.

apolis. Your body tenses up, nervous, not for him

You wake up at the same time, (9:00 a.m.), put

to succeed, but for him. He always has the most

on the same clothes, eat the same food, and do

awkward introduction video—he crosses his arms

the exact same things. It’s scorching hot when

and points at the audience through the screen

you leave the hotel, and you take a twenty-minute

looking around confused. You let a smile arise

treacherous walk to the stadium to relieve your

from your lips knowing he probably hated every

stress and delay what might be inevitable. Once

moment of recording it. He walks out in style,

you make it to the stadium, you stop talking, the

shoulders back, chin up, and slowly. He makes

air becomes thick, and the only scents are pop-

everyone wait for him. Your dad loves this.

corn and chlorine. You make your way to the

You watch him take four deep breaths.

4

absolute top of the stadium, legs shaking at every

Like actual OCD, not just organizing things. Ever since you were born you knew something wasn’t right, you just didn’t know it was an actual condition.

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single step of the escalator because you’re afraid

hung up in the stadium.

Dare Rose: 1. He won. He’s going to the

for him. You sit down and rest your back against

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the hard, plastic green chairs as the opening cer-

finals.

You don’t smile, and you don’t cheer; you

emony starts.

It’s the same shit every day.

just feel relief hanging over your body telling

It takes an hour to get to his event. It’s 7:04

your parents you want to go back to the hotel

p.m., exactly. The cringe video begins playing,

because you know tomorrow will be the same

introducing him to the audience; he does the

feeling of worry and anticipation. You should be

exact same walk as he did the day before, in

excited for your brother to be in the semifinals,

style, shoulders back, chin up, and slowly. But

within arms length of the Olympics, but you

you know he’s shaking inside, scared out of his

can’t shake off the feeling of not being able to

mind because he only has one shot to make the

see him until Christmas (It’s July).

finals.

Only the top two swimmers make it to the

He dives once again as his number-one rival, Caeleb Dressel, is right there in the lane next to

Olympics—fifty seconds, 100 meters.

him. “GO DARE! COME ON” You hear your dad

Your family and you are wearing the exact

yell, as your heart drops because he might not

same outfits from yesterday (because he did

make it. Your dad is the only one who knows

well). You had on a maroon and red tank top,

swimming, so when he begins to panic, you

black jeans, and Adidas sneakers. Although

should too.

scorching hot outside, you couldn’t risk your

His specialty is the hundred-meter butterfly,

brother losing. You sit in the same seats. Your

one of the shortest events. There’s only two laps

brother puts his sunglasses in the same spot,

and fifty seconds. Any longer than that and you

and you cross your legs the same way, to the

don’t make it. He makes his flip turn swiftly and

left.

smoothly. You look over at your dad nodding his

He stands up on the platform, taking four

head (this means something good). He takes his

deep breaths before taking his stance. All he

last lap as you close your eyes and ears because

needs to get is second, not even first, but it’ll

it’s too much; you don’t want to know if he

need to be fast. You close your eyes in anticipa-

makes the finals or not. You feel your dad shak-

tion and fear, as your dad begins tapping his leg

ing you as you take your hands off your ears and

up and down, shaking the green seats. It makes

open your eyes looking at the large jumbotron

you nervous. Your stomach is a washing machine

at high speed, as you take deep breaths to calm

hearing muffled screaming and yelling as you

yourself down (it doesn’t work)

intently try to block out all the noise. It’s too

He dives.

much. Your vision is blurring. The race is extreme-

All you can see is the water splashing again

ly close, too close to tell. He puts his head down

as his stroke is smooth and lengthy. He’s moving

for the last 25 meters and you hold your breath

in slow motion. His arms come over his head, as

with him. He’s in second. All he has to do is keep

his butterfly kicks come shortly after, gliding

his pace the same and remain calm—all he needs

along the water. You look over at your mom with

to get is second. Your dad is still standing, hands

her noise-canceling headphones on, eyes closed

held tightly on the metal bar in front of him. And

and tearing up out of stress. Your dad is up out

then he touches the wall; you couldn't even

of his seat, leaning over the edge to get a better

process what happened. Fifty seconds and it’s

look, fist pumping, and yelling at the top of his

over, but it’s like forever. Looking up at the jum-

lungs.

botron once again, you search for his name.

“COME ON DARE!! GO! MOVE FASTER!” he yells.

Dare usually is an entire head in front of the other swimmers and at ease. He’s falling behind and looks sluggish. When he turns at the 50-

Dare Rose: 3. 50.84 seconds. He didn’t make it. You look at second place: 50.80 seconds.

Losing by 0.04 seconds, now he doesn’t get to go to the Olympics.

You look over at your dad: “This can’t be real,”

meter mark, he’s in sixth (Damn). All you can

he exclaims, eyebrows furrowed in confusion,

think about is defeat: the look on his face after

because how did he not make it? No one was

not making the Olympics, how devastated your

expecting another outcome, other than for him to

parents will be, and how he will never recover

win. You sit there in shock, as you sigh, finally

from this moment. He will isolate himself in his

releasing your breath. Your entire family puts

room, get drunk on every occasion possible, and

their heads down, in disbelief. You look up at your

have dreams about it every night (more like

brother on the jumbotron, as the two winners

nightmares).

jump into his lane, celebrating and rubbing it in

But he begins moving faster (maybe this is some strategy that you had no idea was happen-

his face.

He just stares at the board, blinking a couple

ing.) He begins catching up to everyone else,

of times, as he sighs, looking absolutely devastat-

arms moving faster, the splashing getting more

ed. Your heart hurts. You know how much it

intense. You close your eyes and ears once again,

meant to him, and his face kills you. He stays in

.

1 19

Biking . . . Solo AARON A GRADE 12, PHOTOGRAPH

120

the pool for awhile. He just can’t believe it. Your

calls, until he answers, quietly. You can barely pick

heart is being ripped out of your chest. It hurts.

up his voice.

You sit there for around ten minutes before

He doesn’t want to be seen by everyone else.

abruptly getting up from your seat, ignoring

He’s embarrassed, ashamed, and still in shock. He

every single parent who attempts to congratu-

immediately ran out of the Olympic Trials stadi-

late you (on his swim), but what’s there to con-

um, hood up and eyes down, making sure he did-

gratulate?

n’t run into anyone he knew.

All he wanted was to make the Olympics.

You find a secluded area, and when he slowly

He’s been dreaming of this moment since he was

makes his way downstairs, shoulders down, he

a little kid, and now it’s as if his dream was

sluggishly walks toward you. Immediately, you’re

snatched right in front of him.

out of your seat; you look into his eyes. He stops

He usually hides his emotions well, but you

in his tracks, looking at you once more before

don’t think he’s ever had a more devastating

gasping for a full breath of air, the tears stream

moment than this one right now.

down his face, as they begin streaming down

You just miss him on the way out of the grand Lucas Oil Stadium, as his car dashes off to

yours.

You embrace him, tightly but comfortably,

his hotel. Your dad tries to chase him down the

also gasping for air; your chest tight. You can

street but then looks back, shaking his head.

hear his rapid breaths, while his head drops on

Fuck this, you think to yourself. The hotel is a

your shoulder in defeat. You’ve never seen your

ten-minute drive, but in this moment it’s a five-

brother cry, so you know the hurt he’s feeling is

minute sprint. You take off with your dad shortly

too much to handle. But you don’t care about his

behind you, as everyone looks at you confused,

vulnerability at this moment—all you care about is

but you don’t even care. All you could think

him. Because he'll fall out of love not only with his

about is your brother.

sport but also with himself, which is like looking in

Flinging the hotel doors open, you rest your

a mirror. The Olympics would be another event

hands on your knees bending over, picking up

taking him away from his sister, so in a way, you

your sweaty phone to call him, taking short

are oddly content with the results.

breaths, attempting to catch a break. Ten phone

.

1 21

Transparent SARAH R GRADE 12, CERAMIC

9 122

T

Circles DEVRA G

GRADE 12, FICTION

HE WOMAN WAKES UP AND GOES TO

The dog barks. The sound snaps through the

work and comes home and eats her dinner and

frigid early morning. He barks again and it soars

gives the dog a bone and goes to sleep.

down the street.

The dog wakes up and waits and waits and

The dog trots down the block, his front legs

wags his tail and chews the bone and goes to

crunching through the fresh snow. He continues

sleep.

to bark, louder and louder. The barks sound like

Outside the window, the seasons are passing.

knocks on a door.

Spring blushes pink and yellow petals and ripens

“Ruff!” Woman, come back home!

into summer, which slips into autumn, which

“Ruff!” Woman, I miss you!

plunges into winter.

“Ruff!” I’m so cold!

One day, the woman does not come home.

When he reaches the corner, he stops and

The dog waits and waits by the door, even

sniffs: left, then right. Then he looks straight

though it’s the coldest place in the house.

ahead.

melting like butter into gold and pink and orange. The dog doesn’t wag his tail. He doesn’t chew the bone. He doesn’t go to sleep. The sunset fades into a sea of dusk, then navy, then black. The dog keeps waiting. It begins to snow.

In the morning, everything outside is blanketed under a heavy layer of white. The dog scratches the front door with his claws until the wood chips off. Soon there is a hole in the door big enough for the dog to squeeze through: first his head, then his front paws, then his body, then his hind legs, and finally his tail (which wags when it is free).

,,

Outside the window, the sun is setting, blue sky

THE SUNSET FADES INTO A SEA OF DUSK, THEN NAVY, THEN BLACK. THE DOG KEEPS WAITING. IT BEGINS TO SNOW.

.

1 23

.

1 24

Huge puffy pink winter coat.

posed to,” says the woman. “Now everything is

Fuzzy thick woolen scarf.

happening at once. Now we can all see that it is

Big loud clunky snow boots.

a story.”

It’s the woman, just across the street.

The dog barks more rapidly this time. The woman’s face pales. “Oh no.”

The woman and the tall man and the little girl all look around and see a story, in the quiet of the snow and the still of the block. The sky is

“Ruff!” says the dog. I found you!

very white, leached of color, as though the world

The woman is not alone. Beside her stands a

is hardly breathing.

very tall man. And between the two stands a little girl with fuzzy hair. They look like a family.

They are all holding hands.

“What are you doing here?” the woman shouts. “You were supposed to wait at home!”

“Ruff!” says the dog. I’m so happy!

“Rex, you’ve lost the story! It’s all happening too early! You are a bad, bad boy!”

“Ruff.” The dog deflates. I thought I was a good boy.

“Rex, go home,” says the tall man. “That way,

The dog doesn’t see a story. The dog sees his woman, and he begins to run.

“Wait!” calls the woman. “It’s the end of a flash fiction piece! Something terrible is going to happen!”

The dog does not know what flash fiction is.

He gallops into the street.

“Stop!” shouts the woman. She races toward him.

Just in time: the honk of a truck.

The tall man screams.

the woman will return, and give you a bone and

The woman gasps.

a belly rub. And one day soon,

And all at once, she freezes, arms out, still in

she will come home from work with me,

the middle of the street. The truck freezes too.

and you will jump up to say hello but only

The tall man freezes mid-scream; the little girl

reach my knee,

freezes mid-laugh; the snowflakes freeze in

and I will sleep over every night,

midair. The story freezes mid-story. Everybody

and we will throw a big party and exchange

waits for the end.

rings, and one day we will come home with a baby, who has a fuzzy head of hair.”

“Ruff,” says the dog. I’m confused.

“You clawed a hole where you weren’t sup-

Except for Rex. The dog is tired of waiting.

He runs in circles, chasing his tail.

Light DANIEL O GRADE 11 PHOTOGRAPH

181 Lincoln Place Brooklyn, NY 11217 www.berkeleycarroll.org

P: (718) 789-6060 F: (718) 398-3640 Enrollment: 340 Faculty: 94 Reflections@berkeleycarroll.org Typefaces: Berthold City, Gotham Paper stock: Endurance cover / Endurance text Computer equipment: iMac M1 Software: Quark XPress, Adobe Photoshop Number of copies: 500 Design: Studio Lane Printer: William Charles Printing