Reflections 2026 by Berkeley Carroll School

Vo l 5 5

Issue 1 2026

Exposure

SORAYA G l Grade 12 l Digital Collage

Sublime HENRY B Grade 9 l Photography

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Issue 1 2026

MISSION STATEMENT Reflections, the annual literary and arts magazine of the Berkeley Carroll Upper School, seeks to tap into the vibrant, creative energy circulating in our school’s classrooms and hallways. 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, Alex B’s “The Things We Ignore” paired with Osariemen O’s “Pale Blue Flash.” Both pieces alienate us for a moment, and take an extra beat to comprehend. In Alex’s photo of a microchip, we might first feel that we are floating above trees, fields, buildings. Reading through Osariemen’s poem, we reach for understanding before the disastrous details pile up (smoke, weeping, “skies painted wrong”), and we infer that some sort of holocaust is unfolding (in fact, Osariemen shares that she was imagining the bombing of Hiroshima). As we sift through these meanings, connections form: both works involve technology, Osariemen’s formal villanelle echoes the grid of the microchip, and Alex’s image could be the aerial view of a doomed city. Nothing is certain, but much is swirling. We hope that, as you page through the magazine, you will notice many similar odd connections. 2

EDITORIAL POLICY AND PROCEDURES The Reflections staff is a small, dedicated group of students that meets biweekly over popcorn, wasabi peas, and a bottomless box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch 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 coterie that students run, lead, and organize; neither the editors nor the staff receive class credit for their work. We are proud members of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. Berkeley Carroll Upper School students crafted the striking artwork and writing in this magazine, sometimes to fulfill class assignments but always from the engines of their own creativity.

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

STAFF Editor-in-Chief Elle C

Assistant Editor Osariemen O

Activities Editor Hannah H

Faculty Advisors Ms. Drezner Mr. Gavryushenko

Staff August A Helen F Tessa G Eva G

Taylor J Tobais L Octavia L

Veronica M Libby S Joshua V

EDITOR’S STATEMENT Welcome to the 55th edition of Reflections! The Berkeley Carroll Upper School community has created all of the wonderful work in this book, a 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 re-pairing, scribbling and rescribbling. The challenges that we overcame as a team and the joy we found in spending time with one another distinguish this book. There is no one without the other; this coexistence is the magic of creation. This year’s Reflections would not have been possible without the support of our faculty advisors, Erika Drezner and Alex Gavryushenko; our talented designer Bob Lane at Studio Lane; and our faculty in the Art and English departments. And of course, Reflections would be blank without the thoughtful writing and intricate artwork that is shared with us each year.

Every spring, Reflections finds new ways to display and appreciate the creativity at the heart of the Berkeley Carroll community. This book is part of a beloved tradition, and is a testament to all of our hard work. Enjoy!

Elle C Editor-in-Chief, Spring 2026

CONT ENTS Writing FICTION 17

The Price of Brotherhood STELLA R, Grade 12

Bananas AUGUSTUS B, Grade 12

I Played with Confidence ELLE C, Grade 11

A Scarf and a Smile JOSHUA S, Grade 12

Birds PETER C, Grade 12

114

Spouse, House VERONICA M, Grade 11

HUMORHUMOR 39

A Brief History of Human Traffic Cones TOBIAS L, Grade 10

Ankle Deep in Chicken and Chaos ZOFIE M, Grade 11

106

Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Finishes a Half-Marathon?

Independent Study Sketchbook KIRA P Grade 12 l Prints

ISABEL C, Grade 10

PERSONAL ESSAY 11

How to Potentially Mess Up

POETRY 14

ELLE C, Grade 11 21 33

The Crow MADELINE K, Grade 10

The Stares: Part I and II XAVER S, Grade 10

Pale Blue Flash OSARIEMEN O, Grade 10

The Reading Nook RORY O, Grade 12

Doctors SKIE D, Grade 10

Why I Still Didn’t Say Anything ALISTAIR PB, Grade 10

Skeptics NOAH R, Grade 10

Bluster OSARIEMEN O, Grade 10

SKIE D, Grade 10

Fizzy Lemon Candies IVAN R, Grade 10

Fluid vs. Crystalized Intelligence

110

Latticed Palms OSARIEMEN O, Grade 10

Almost Fishing OSKAR B, Grade 12

Why Go Away for a Semester? PHOENIX B, Grade 12

The Rules of Fishing SARA AH, Grade 10

The Superhero MADELINE K, Grade 10

FILM 71

La Solitude Choisie ELIJAH D, Grade 11

Art COVER

Exposure SORAYA G, Grade 12

HENRY B, Grade 9 5

KIRA P, Grade 12

The Fire Days TESSA G, Grade 11

Untitled ANNA H, Grade 10

The Finch 25

Jeans SEB C, Grade 12

Shaun JESSIE-PEARL L, Grade 10

Laundry Day ELSIE WM, Grade 11

Independent Study Sketchbook

AUGUST A, Grade 10

Something More Than Yellow OLIVIER M, Grade 9

INSIDE FRONT COVER

Sublime

Mien(X) SANIYAH B, Grade 11

Self-Portrait LEILA S, Grade 12

A Meta-Analysis of Contemporary Protesting Methods MAYA P, Grade 12

The World Is Blue RILEY R, Grade 11

Self-Portrait SAM V, Grade 10

Still Life SORAYA G, Grade 12

30cm x 17.5cm + 29cm x 14cm OSCAR B, Grade 12

When the Light Shines Through

TESSA G, Grade 11 38

Ai Weiwei

KIRA P, Grade 12 41

Untitled Jello

The Road Behind— Rest in Peace, Dave Brockie

Reflective

Badu

Drinking Vessels

Floatin’

Info Needed GOVIND B AND GRAHAM K, Grade 10

Bald Head SORAYA G, Grade 12

Chopper AARON E, Grade 11

Traffic Jam ELI R, Grade 11

The Things We Ignore ALEX B, Grade 12

Coil-Built Vase HELEN D, Grade 10

Midday Wander AUGUST A, Grade 10

MILO B, Grade 12 55

Maddie MADDIE R, Grade 12

SORAYA G AND JADA S, Grades 12 52

Dispute ELSIE WM, Grade 11

TAYLOR J, Grade 10 51

Painting: Keyhole SORAYA G, Grade 12

ELI R, Grade 12 48

Tattoo Collection: Scorpian, Colibri, and Sword OCTAVIA L, Grade 9

SAM VK, Grade 10 46

Cycles HENRY B, Grade 9

OCTAVIA L, Grade 9 45

She Sells INDIA D, Grade 9

VIOLET L, Grade 11 42

Two Vessels LEE M, Grade 12

Dragon Piece ALEX B, Grade 12

Splatter Bowl EVA G, Grade 9

Coffee Break

104

ELI R, Grade 11 98

50km

ISABEL C, Grade 10 105

KEVIN L, Grade 11 103

Ivy

(Wo)man in the Mirror Self-Portrait AURORA P, Grade 10

109

RAFAEL B, Grade 11

Platform ELIJAH D, Grade 11

111

So What Are We Going to Do Next? ELSIE WM, Grade 11

112

30cm x 12cm Vase + 17cm Planter OSKAR B, Grade 12

113

Thumbs-up MARY L, Grade 11 INSIDE BACK COVER

Russets ELSIE WM, Grade 11

The Finch AUGUST A Grade 10 l Digital

Personal Essay

How to Potentially Mess Up by ELLE C l Grade 11

1 ACKNOWLEDGE YOU

don’t know how

it’s going to go. You can assume you’re going to

3 BE WILLING TO LAUGH.

You might have

cut off a little bit of your finger instead of the

be a fantastic knitter, but some things just require

garlic you intended to slice, but boy was that

a bit more work and confusion than previously

unexpected. Besides, who else has missed their

anticipated. If you set an extremely high goal,

target so spectacularly? Probably a lot of people,

you’ll end up feeling more disappointed when

but they couldn’t terrorize their teacher with a

you’re banned from purling until your knit tension

barely visible cut. When you’re so caught up in

allows you to make more than one stitch every

your frustration at your mistakes, it’s difficult to

five minutes. However, if you acknowledge that

find the fun in learning. You might procrastinate

your little rectangle may be full of holes before

for four months and wait until the last moment

you begin, you can smile at the abandoned

to fulfill your goal of cooking dinner for 70 peo-

attempt at stripes. And anyway, you’ll never really

ple. But when you laugh through it, you open

know until you

yourself up more to the challenge and gain the

2 TRY IT! MAYBE, IT’LL BE GREAT.

ability to enjoy your time spent working on it. Maybe

Suddenly, you’re not rushing past the learning

you’ll be the best cross-country skier to ever grace

stage—maybe you should pay more attention as

the earth, and maybe you’ll have an incredibly

the fourth person instructs you on how to hold

fun time, and maybe you’ll zoom down a lawn for

a knife—to the end result, but embracing all the

five minutes and then decide it really is too dark at

stages. And it was all worth it; those green

8:30 pm for night skiing. But you’ll never know

beans were solidly mediocre. Besides, whenever

until you try. So give it your best go. What’s the

you mess up, you can

worst thing that could happen? You’ll fall on your butt? Who cares! At least you attempted something new, and if you do fail spectacularly, you can

4 ASK FOR HELP.

Shocker of all shockers, there

are people who know more than you! Many of them are kind, thoughtful, and very encouraging. Take the time to meet with them, and see what they know, and how they can help you. Face your fears of finally being proven tone deaf! Ask that

“. . . BECAUSE DOING SOMETHING NEW OR DIFFICULT IS, WELL, DIFFICULT.”

college professor for singing advice when you have absolutely no experience of following vocal instructions! She’s incredibly kind, and you’ll have a lovely time. Then, you can walk out of your les-

6 ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR PROGRESS!

You’re much better than when you started,

son feeling good about a skill you never believed

aren’t you? You can knit and purl a striped

you possess. And now it’s time for you to

pumpkin, play high notes on the clarinet, and cook a dish for an entire school! You’ve skied

TRY AGAIN! You’re never going to get better at

every day for two weeks straight, despite start-

something if you don’t practice it, so make meet-

ing without knowing how to attach the over-

ings with your wind ensemble teacher and rejoin

sized narrow shoes to your feet. Maybe you still

the same freshmen-level band for the third year in

sound like a wailing baby impersonating Lady

a row because it’s still somehow one of your hard-

Gaga, but at least you actually tried to improve

est classes. Practice after school and on the week-

and you can hit some of the notes. Maybe. You

ends, because the more you practice, the better

put in the time and effort to follow all of these

you become. Don’t slam your instrument into the

steps, even if the laughter wouldn’t come and

ground, even when you swear you completely

you had moments where you didn’t want desire

covered all the holes and it must be broken if it’s

to try again. Your progress should be acknowl-

refusing to play any high notes. Take a deep

edged as motivation—you’re very capable of

breath, and repeat that stupid section. You’ll

improvement, so keep working—and now cele-

improve! And when you do, you can

brate, because doing something new or difficult is, well, difficult. You’ve achieved something special. Congratulations!

Shaun JESSIE-PEARL L Grade 10 l Charcoal On Paper

Poetr y

Fluid vs. Crystallized Intelligence by SKIE D l Grade 10

IS THE SUN REALLY WHITE?

But we don’t like bathwater.

I ponder as I look up into the bright blue skie. The honest deity of a sun Do stars really have five points?

that seems to disappear in the absence of light,

Burning balls of plasma

beclouded in its truth on the other side—

illuminating the skie? perhaps that is fluid? I ponder as I look up into the dark blue skie if tiny, geometric, shiny, bountiful, colorful,

Perhaps the stars aren’t as pointy as we thought,

molecular or ionic entities could hold intelligence—

for the ship is pointy enough to pierce through the

that’s the first idea that comes to mind.

dark void. The small worlds, only visible through the geode lens.

But what if the mind is like a skie? Fragments of time, forsooth, that are crystalized? Do our thoughts flow like rivers? Like Saturn, they don’t sink but float? How does the skie know

How do we know when to use a telescope

when to be bright,

and when to use sunglasses?

when to be dark?

Are we really intelligent? That’s what I ponder

Does it do it without needing to think?

as I see into the skie—whether fluid or crystalized.

Perhaps the bright blue skie flows. The clouds dance on the troposphere, like the suds in bathwater.

Self-Portrait LEILA S Grade 12 l Charcoal On Paper

Mien(X) SANIYAH B Grade 11 l Collage

Fiction

The Price of Brotherhood by STELLA R l Grade 12

THE PLEDGE PERIOD HAD only just begun,

Dean gestured to the folding table in front of

and Lucien, Charlie’s pledge brother, was

him. A crumpled piece of paper sat there, the

already bleeding from the palm of his hand. The

Pledge of Oath. It looked ancient, with wrinkled

cut was shallow, just a thin red line catching the

corners and edges spotted with dried brown

faint purple glow of the LED strips that lined the

stains. Dozens of faded names covered the page,

Phi Gamma Delta’s basement walls.

generations of other freshmen who’d bled before

The room throbbed with bass from the floor above. Travis Scott’s voice warped through the

him. Lucien’s fresh signature gleamed wet beneath them, his L shaky and uneven.

ceiling, each beat syncing with Charlie’s pulse until he could no longer tell them apart. The air stank of sweat, spilled Corona Light, and the sour tang of a browning lime next to the drain. Around them, the brothers crowded close, shoulder to shoulder. Most wore black hoodies stamped with “Φ ΓΔ”, sleeves rolled high, red Solo cups dangling from their hands. Their faces glowed blue and violet in the LED haze. The concrete floor was sticky under Charlie’s Nike Air Force 1s, and every shift of his weight made a soft, tearing sound, as if he were stuck. “Every pledge signs in blood,” said Dean Marcus, the chapter president. His grin was

“TRAVIS SCOTT’S VOICE WARPED THROUGH THE CEILING, EACH BEAT SYNCING WITH CHARLIE’S PULSE UNTIL HE COULD NO LONGER TELL THEM APART.”

sharp and confident. A gold chain flashed at his throat every time the light glimmered. “Tradition. Brotherhood. You’re ready to be one of us, right?” he shouted.

Dean presented the knife. Its black handle glistened under the lights, damp from passing through too many hands. Charlie hesitated before taking it. It was

Charlie let out a trembling laugh. “No,” he whispered, his voice barely holding together. “Then do it,” Dean said. The room went silent. Charlie’s pulse roared

heavier than he’d imagined. The metal was cold

in his ears. He looked from Dean to Lucien,

against his flesh, colder still against the sweat

from the chain flashing at Dean’s throat to the

collecting on his palm.

blood-soaked towel in Lucien’s hand. The knife

“Go on,” someone yelled from the back. “Don’t think too hard about it,” egged on

trembled in his hand, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the beat of his own heart.

another. A few laughs followed, quick and cruel. All of the brothers leaned forward, forming a semicircle around Charlie that felt more like a cage than a gesture of support—like middle school all over again. Lucien stood beside him, his hand wrapped in a paper towel that was already soaked through. The red had spread, blooming like a flower across the white. Charlie tried to steady his breathing, but every inhale caught halfway. He felt everyone’s eyes pressing down on him, waiting, daring him to prove he was among them. He could end this in five seconds. Just a cut. A signature. A laugh. He’d belong. But his hand wouldn’t move. Dean tilted his head, grin still glued in place. “Not scared, are you?” he mocked.

“HE LOOKED FROM DEAN TO LUCIEN, FROM THE CHAIN FLASHING AT DEAN’S THROAT TO THE BLOOD-SOAKED TOWEL IN LUCIEN’S HAND.”

Something More Than Yellow OLIVER M Grade 9 l Photography

Laundry Day ELSIE WM Grade 11 l Watercolor

Personal Essay

Fizzy Lemon Candies by IVAN R l Grade 11

I HUG MY LEGS UP toward my chest as rain P E T S I T R A T R T P E

After a lengthy family game of Coffee Pot— which involves guessing the two different words of a homonym based on its placement in context—I devour my PB&J. I want to be able to settle

on the moonroof, annoyingly offbeat against the

down and sleep for most of the car ride. I pop my

Bach harpsichord and flute sonatas playing softly

lemon candy into my mouth. As it grows smaller, I

from the speakers. The aromas of four different

reach the fabled fizzy middle. Every time we get

sandwiches combines and wafts throughout the car. As we pull away from our house, my brother and I immediately start begging to listen to whatever audiobook we left off on. My mom gently tells us that we must wait till we get on the highway because my dad has to focus on traffic. As soon as the front tires touch the higher-pitched, smoother pavement of I-95, I immediately call “Play it!” and the scroll wheel clicks away as my mom navigates the car’s interface, trying to get to Audible. I watch everyone’s faces attentively, and if I get the slightest hint that someone isn’t paying attention, I reprimand them harshly. After a few trips, we realize that almost every audiobook we have listened to has been about strong-willed children with absent mothers and loyal dogs. A

“WE REALIZE THAT ALMOST EVERY AUDIOBOOK WE HAVE LISTENED TO HAS BEEN ABOUT STRONG-WILLED CHILDREN WITH ABSENT MOTHERS AND LOYAL DOGS.”

strange, but enticing coincidence.

these lemon candies, my mom reminds us that

TIME GOES BY. The stuffed animals turn into

once we get to the middle, it will begin fizzing

phones, the sandwiches into fast food, and the fam-

almost like seltzer. That finally happens this time.

ily audiobooks and Bach sonatas into four sets of

I am losing the constant battle with my tiny blan-

AirPods blasting rap, rock, country, and white

ket, to cover my feet and head at the same time. I

noise. The shift is slow but continuous.

look down at my feet, which

“I JAM MY AIRPODS INTO MY EARS, AND MY NECK BENDS FORWARD AT AN ALMOST CERTAINLY UNHEALTHY ANGLE.”

by now are almost certainly

bends forward at an almost certainly unhealthy

out of their shoes and socks,

angle. We all file into the car, and my mom asks if

and I see Cedric, my stuffed

anyone wants food. My brother responds,

otter, who works as the most

“Chipotle,” and I say, “Popeyes.” No further

comfortable pillow I could ask

engagement. As we pull onto the highway, my dad

for. I lean him against my car

tentatively asks if we would like to listen to a pod-

door and put my head in the

cast. My brother responds, “Eh,” and I stay silent.

crook of his neck.

No further engagement. As our car glides between

As my eyes drift shut,

lanes, I stare at my reflection in the window, my

the hushed voices of my par-

pupils are dilated, and my skin droopy. My hands

ents come from the front of

are sticky with ketchup as I scroll, skip a song, and

the car. Their words are indis-

repeat. No more family games of Coffee Pot, no

tinguishable, especially as the

more homemade PB&J sandwiches. I reach into the

music from the interface

pocket of my car door and pull out a smooshed

reaches a climax, but I

lemon candy from who-knows-how-long-ago, and

always try to make out what they’re saying.

suddenly a sense of longing overcomes me. I

Perhaps that is what makes it so hard to sleep.

remove my AirPods and grab my hoodie, stretching

Our diesel wagon softly revs as the twisty-turny

it over my body. I pop the lemon candy into my

Taconic gently pushes me from one side of my

mouth and roll it around, yearning for the feeling.

seat to the other. It doesn’t matter, though. I

As the candy layers fade away, I realize there isn’t

always end up curled in a fetal position, my head

a fizzy middle.

resting on the backseat center console, waking up only when I feel the familiar bump at the beginning of my great-aunt’s driveway.

I jam my AirPods into my ears, and my neck

The Fire Days TESSA G Grade 11 l Photography

Untitled ANNA H Grade 10 l Oil Pastels

Jeans SEB C Grade 12 l Denim and Thread

A Meta-Analysis of Contemporary Protesting Methods MAYA P Grade 12 l Photography

Fiction

Bananas by AUGUSTUS B l Grade 12

A MONTH INTO HIS time at the office, Gil

market in Florence, outbidding a local man three

had become a hero. He was a sheriff of the slide

dollars to one. The vendor was probably a mas-

decks, a conquistador of the coffee machine, and

ter of his craft—he likely had an old shack filled

simply put, a well-oiled corporate masterpiece.

with a thousand of the world’s most prolific silk-

His cubicle, just opposite mine, seemed to glow,

worms, pumping out their product for days on

and his fingers clacked away with improbable

end. They all came together for this marvel of

efficiency. It was unprecedented for a new guy,

neckwear, and Gil wore it perfectly. I looked

and everyone loved him. But my fading “ASSIS-

down at my own tie, a sad and pale blue, and

TANT” nameplate, coming up on its eighth

then back at his. Holy Toledo, he’s good.

(ninth?) year of service, told the world I was a chump. I turned the side with the words toward the wall. How does he do it?

I sat back down, intrigued, and looked into my blank monitor, but looking at my reflection, I started to see the tie on myself. I could already

I shifted my gaze from my monitor to at the clock, which was always two minutes slow, and decided it was time for a quick lunch break. If there was one thing I could do better than Gil, it was relax. I grabbed my cigarettes and swiveled around in my chair, but to my surprise, he was dozing off. Still, Gil was groomed to perfection. His pink Brooks Brothers shirt was neatly ironed, and his brown leather shoes sparkled under the fluorescent office lights. Neither of these was as striking, though, as his tie. I imagined the feel of the

“I LOOKED DOWN AT MY OWN TIE, A SAD AND PALE BLUE, AND THEN BACK AT HIS. HOLY TOLEDO, HE’S GOOD.”

smooth Italian silk and admired the stitched design of its little yellow exotic giraffes in a sea of maroon. I imagined him spotting it in a busy

picture the headlines: “Five Words of Advice

had no actual plan other than to wear it.

from a Dazzling Young Executive or perhaps

Knowing my thievery would be discovered any

Handsome Businessman’s Roadmap to Success”.

minute, I rushed for cover.

Swiveling back around, I saw Gil still deep in his dreams, his mouth agape. I noticed that he

I BURST INTO THE BATHROOM, flipping

had loosened his tie for his nap, and it was

the lock behind me. I pressed my back against

“I PRESSED MY BACK AGAINST THE DOOR, EXHALED, AND STARED INTO THE MIRROR, FINALLY AFFORDED A CLOSER LOOK AT THE TIE. THEY WERE BANANAS, NOT GIRAFFES.”

dangling off the left side

the door, exhaled, and stared into the mirror,

of his shirt. It was then

finally afforded a closer look at the tie. They

that the thought crossed

were bananas, not giraffes. I undid my own tie

my mind: I could just

and tossed it on the dusty white tile, leaving a

take it. No, that’s

perfect emptiness for my new acquisition. I

ridiculous. But, I slowly

draped it around my neck, delicately twining it

got up out of my chair,

into my signature four-in-hand knot. It just felt

just to see if the feat

right, but as I looked back up into the mirror, I

was possible.

found that nothing had changed. My eyebags

I crept silently

drooped lower than last week, and I’d missed

across the grey carpeted

seeing a fairly large coffee stain from this morn-

floor into the Cubicle of

ing (or possibly yesterday) on my shirt. I

Eden, and it became

squinted, managing to hide a handful of gray

clear that a light tug on

streaks in my patchy beard, but it was still me.

the tie might just be

A measly assistant, that’s all I was. I was no

enough. Turning my

Gil, and I certainly wasn’t going to be. I was no

head to the left, then

hero.

the right, I confirmed that there were no witnesses. My hand drew closer. I felt the fabric; it was somehow more incredible than from afar. I pulled down, and realized that Gil was no knotsman. It slithered down around his neck, into my hand. Rapidly, it dawned on me that I

The World is Blue RILEY R Grade 11 l Collage

Self-Portrait SAMUAL VK Grade 10 l Charcoal

Poetr y

Why I Still Didn’t Say Anything by A L I S TA I R P - B l Grade 10

WHEN I LEFT MY HOUSE, the pigeon on the street glared at me like I had something in my teeth. I didn’t bother to check, and I didn’t say anything. The clouds kinda looked like someone had spilled milk all over a blue tablecloth, and I swear one of them blinked at me. Maybe the milk would attract ants, but I suppose climate change has done enough damage to the sky already. I still didn’t say anything. A man on the bus to school was arguing loudly with his sandwich like it was pleading for its own life, but I didn’t say anything. My shoelaces irritatingly betrayed me and came undone just when the train arrived, like they wanted me to miss it. But I didn’t say anything. I pondered if I should tie them quickly or walk into the train like a slob, as my parents would say if I walked around with untied shoelaces. Nevertheless, I walked in with my shoelaces snagging under my feet like little flags signifying my failure, and I received several disgusted glances. But I still didn’t say anything. Today, the vending machine audibly clunked twice and dropped two bags of chips when I only paid for one. I didn’t say anything. The moon was out at 3 p.m. like it got its schedule wrong, but I didn’t say anything. I thought the milk stains over the sky would have blocked it out, but maybe the moon drinks milk. The world seemed slightly off today, like someone forgot to iron it. But why should I bother reaching for the wrinkles? So I didn’t say anything. Because there’s a lot of chaos and strangeness in the world, and trying to care about everything can really dry you out like a raisin left in the sun. I’ve learned that most things really don’t need fixing—they just need noticing. So I didn’t say anything.

Still Life SORAYA G Grade 12 l Charcoal

Personal Essay

Bluster by OSARIEMEN O l Grade 10

AUTUMN MORNINGS always smelled of wet leaves and smoke. The sky hung low, gray, and

a laughing entourage behind him. That’s just how things were. An unremark-

heavy. Sidewalks looked sharper than usual,

able event, and yet the one who was responsi-

jagged underfoot. Kids shuffled past, backpacks

ble caught my eye. Tony—that’s what I’ll call

scraping against the pavement. I trailed mine

him—had sleek brown hair, an untucked uni-

behind me, sleeves tugged down against the

form shirt, and an unmistakably bad posture. He

wind.

was popular, I guess, because he was walking

Voices rose near the corner store. A group of

around with a large group of other kids. Slack

teens, at least fourteen years old, were arguing

shoulders, untucked shirts, bad attitudes. They

over something. I couldn’t catch their words yet,

were all like him. All those kids.

but I could feel them: the sharpness in their

At the time, the school

tone, the tension, the distinct sense of trouble

wasn’t very fancy. Socially,

brewing.

being smart didn’t count

“You got a dollar?” one asked, squinting,

for much. Being angry did.

“Get your own, man.”

Glamour, wealth, looks—

“You owe me from last week, remember?”

all secondary. What mat-

The other kid grinned, jaw tight. “I don’t

tered was strength, the

owe you nothin’, man.” The first one laughed. Low and sharp, the kind of laugh that twists your stomach even if it wasn’t aimed at you. “Yeah, you do.” He lunged. His fist caught the other boy square, sending him sprawling onto the con-

ability to snap without car-

“SOCIALLY, BEING SMART DIDN’T COUNT FOR MUCH. BEING ANGRY DID. GLAMOUR, WEALTH, LOOKS—ALL SECONDARY.”

crete. The downed kid wheezed while his attacker rummaged through his pockets and yanked out a five-dollar bill. He looked down, scoffed, and muttered, “What a jackass,” before walking into the store, 33

ing. Tony was one of those. One of many. One

YEARS LATER, THE CHILL of autumn

who was rarely caught without a cigar in his

mornings still bit through my jacket. Tony still

mouth, and an uncanny look: rage and apathy

hung around outside the corner store, leaning on

tangled together, an ugly mixture you could see

the same wall by the same cracked sidewalks.

all over the school.

He’d grown older, taller, broader, sharper. The

No one thought Tony was nice. He wasn’t.

cigar in his mouth was replaced by a grinding

He snapped at anyone. Hit first, and talked

jaw and a restless energy that made him jump at

later. But the way he moved, subtle smirk, loose

the smallest sound. His slouched shoulders had

shoulders, lazy confidence, it made him cool.

snapped upright, tense and twitching like a

Real cool. We all thought so. Street smarts mat-

wound-up spring. That lazy smirk had twisted

tered more than school smarts, and he had

into something jagged, betraying anger that

“HIT FIRST, AND TALKED LATER. BUT THE WAY HE MOVED, SUBTLE SMIRK, LOOSE SHOULDERS, LAZY CONFIDENCE, IT MADE HIM COOL.”

them in spades. Fighting,

didn’t wait for sense, and fury that was curled in

something he did often, was

every twitch of his jaw. His hands drummed

also a form of social curren-

against his thighs, and his fists clenched, then

cy. Winning earns you last-

relaxed, then clenched again. He didn’t look

ing respect. Lose, well, the

brooding anymore. He looked reckless, anxious,

stain lingers. Tony certainly

frantic.

had a lot of wins under his

One afternoon, Tony stood outside, eyes

belt, and a lot more coming.

darting everywhere but at his friends, telling

Guys like him burned fast

some story with amazing enthusiasm. A guy his

and loud, and everyone

age—maybe 18—threw a paper bag to the

wanted to stand near the

ground absentmindedly. But to Tony, on-edge,

flames for a while. But

reckless Tony, this wasn’t absentminded at all.

what’s such a blazing flame

“Hey!” he slurred, chin pointed up and eye-

to do when it runs out of

brows shooting up too high. “You threw that at

things to burn? Soon, I’d see

me?”

for myself.

“The hell? I didn’t throw anything at you, man” his friend responded, bored. Tony wasn’t satisfied. He lurched forward, leaning close, and whispered, “Pull that crap again. I’ll stab ya’ to death.”

30cm x 17.5cm + 29cm x 14cm OSKAR B Grade 12 l Glazed Wheel Thrown Porcelain

At that moment, everything slowed. The

My chest tightened as my image of him

indifference in the other boy’s eyes shifted to

crumbled. Reverence and fear did not make him

anger as he stepped back and eyed Tony.

wise. Not at all. And if this was what we’d followed, what did that make me? Is this who I

“WHO DO YOU THINK you are, basehead?”

wanted to be? Thoughtless, brash, aimless. Is

he laughed.

that really what “cool” looked like?

That was it. The fuse met its spark. Tony’s eyes lit up. He’d been waiting for this. The fight was meaner than most. Fists col-

hollow stare he leveled at the guy he’d beaten.

lided. A grunt ripped out from the other boy’s

Tony wasn’t cool at all. He was a damned fool,

chest. He staggered, elbows shredding against

and we were all fools for following him.

the concrete. Blood streaked Tony’s face, sweat

Tony got taken away by the cops. Rumors

and dirt clinging to it like glue. His punches

about him slowly died down, lost somewhere

were sloppy, wild, arms swinging like broken

between cracks in the sidewalk.

ropes. He gasped, wheezing, eyes frantic as he

By eighth grade, the neighborhood had

stepped back. He stood there shaking, chest

changed. Not great, but not as rough. The cor-

heaving, knuckles split.

ner store was still there, the sidewalks still jut-

The “winner.”

ting up like teeth. There were plenty of Tonys

And despite that, my brain held only one,

now, each one more reckless and more foolish

absurd thought: He looked like an idiot. He wasn’t clever or cool—just another fool,

than the last. You learn to accept it. That’s just how things are. I rarely thought about him anymore. But

swagger and smoke, swinging fists to mask the

some days, when I hear a whisper from a

empty space where his brain should be. His

friend, see a paper bag on the pavement, notice

cigars, his sharp words, his carelessness—they

a too-familiar smirk, I can’t help but mutter,

were all props for a show with no real ending. He burned bright and stupid, and for a while, we cheered, we laughed, we copied and, in doing so, became the biggest fools of all.

For the first time, I looked at him, not with admiration or respect, but with pity. Pity for the

“That jackass.”

When the Light Shines Through TESSA G Grade 11 l Photography

Ai Weiwei KIRA P Grade 12 l Collage

Humor

A Brief History of Human Traffic Cones by TOBIAS L l Grade 10

TWO ARDUOUS MINUTES of class are all

conversation in the busiest hallway in the

that stand between me and my weekend. I’m

school. Oh, the humanity.

drooling into my notebook while the teacher

The absurdity of the situation hits me like a

reprimands the girl next to me for packing up,

brick. It’s not even like they’re having an

stating (and I quote), “We still have 90 seconds

important conversation! They have their phones

left!” Resisting the urge to flip a table, I stomach

out, and are TEXTING while talking to each

the remaining 75 seconds and write down every

other! They barely seem to be acknowledging

12th word the teacher says until I hear a mes-

each other’s presence aside from one-word

sage from the heavens: “Class dismissed.”

answers every 30 seconds between messages.

I shove all of my things into my bag before

First, if the “conversation” were actually impor-

zipping it up so hard I nearly break it. I swing

tant, then they wouldn’t be texting at all, and

my backpack around onto my back, nearly hit-

second, even if they were having an important

ting the kid behind me, thank my teacher, and

conversation, they could walk about five feet to

throw open the door. The hallway is packed.

the right and have it, NOT IN THE MIDDLE OF

Moving, but packed. Actually, a more apt

THE HALLWAY. It also doesn’t help that these

description would be shuffling along at a leisure-

kids, being middle schoolers, have absolutely no

ly pace. A pace far too leisurely for when I want

reason to be on the third floor. And the fact that

to be anywhere else other than school. I wait a

they cannot see the problems they are causing

good 30 seconds to move 20 feet, and then I

is astounding to me. Berkeley Carroll is sup-

see it: the source of the traffic jam.

posed to be a school for critical, ethical, and

It’s none other than some exceptionally ran-

global thinking. So, tell me: WHAT MADE

dom group of four eighth graders standing right

THESE KIDS CRITICALLY, ETHICALLY, AND

in front of the stairs. Having a conversation. In

GLOBALLY THINK THAT HAVING A TEXT-A-

the busiest hallway of the school. They’re

THON IN THE MIDDLE OF THE HALLWAY

standing right in front of the stairs having a

WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA?

Naturally, my anger at their lack of self-

still shines and the rain still

awareness entirely overrules my desire to leave

falls, gosh darn it I will TELL

school. So I decide, as a good Samaritan, to

them why.

kindly let these young children know that they are behaving in a manner that would suggest

the hallway and causing a

they have comparable intelligence to an assem-

school-wide traffic jam,” I say,

blage of drunken baboons.

calmly.

“Excuse me,” I say in my most polite voice.

This group of children is

Their already mundane exchanges grind to a

now staring at me with utter

complete halt. The group of children slowly turn

disgust, their eyes darting to

their heads toward me, their beady, clumpy

and fro to ensure that every-

mascara-adorned eyes staring deep into my

one is in fact seeing what

soul. “Could you maybe have your conversation

they are seeing. They reluc-

over there?” I ask, giving my best HR passive-

tantly shuffle a foot to the

aggressive smile.

right, now blocking yet

“Why?” one of them asks.

ANOTHER hallway (albeit a

That’s it. I simply cannot take it anymore.

less essential one). While I

The sheer audacity to question me when I am

could go tell them to move again, I’ve unfortu-

clearly trying to help you save face and not be

nately run out of ****s to give. I nod my head

known as “those kids blocking the hallway”!

partially to express partial happiness for a par-

Now I’m the problem? Of course. Of course! It’s

tially completed task and then saunter along

all my fault! Here I am, interrupting your ever-

down the stairs.

so-important conversation to dare suggest an

“Oh, you’re just blocking

“. . . THEY ARE BEHAVING IN A MANNER THAT WOULD SUGGEST THEY HAVE COMPARABLE INTELLIGENCE TO AN ASSEMBLAGE OF DRUNKEN BABOONS.”

One could consider that whole exchange a

adjustment to its incredibly inconvenient loca-

frivolous waste of time. But when you next

tion. Who cares about getting out of school?

attempt to evacuate an area of educational disci-

It’s not like IT’S FRIDAY AND, UNLIKE YOU

pline in an effort to begin your weekend, know

GEN ALPHA BRAINROTTED HOOLIGANS, I

that somewhere there is a thankless warrior, a

HAVE A SOCIAL LIFE. But it’s OK. It’s OK! If

courageous soul, who tells random groups of

they want to know why, as long as the sun

middle-school kids to move like two feet.

Untitled VIOLET L Grade 11 l Collage

Jello OCTAVIA L Grade 9 l Markers

Personal Essay

Skeptics by NOAH R l Grade 10

NEW YORKERS COME INTO contact with

ations including, “Hey, you look like you’d want

hundreds of people every day, but their lives only

to be in my school project!” “Do you want to be

overlap for a few seconds. You never learn any-

interviewed for the New York Times?” “Do you

thing about who they are, where they come from,

want to be featured on MrBeast Games?” “Hey,

or what ideas they have. After you pass by them

come do an interview for the chance to win $500

once, you’ll never see them again.

and” and “Do you want to be interviewed for CBS

So one Friday afternoon, my friend and I set out with two small chairs, a microphone, a tripod,

Network?” It was generally a failed attempt at what I set

and two cameras, and decided to set up outside

out to do, but I was still able to turn it into a posi-

the Barclays Center station. I asked every passerby

tive experience. It was freeing in a way, like

if they wanted to be interviewed for my school

yelling whatever I wanted into a void and hearing

project. I had no luck for about the first ten min-

my words bouncing back at me, while being a

utes. People would look at me, smile, and then

spectator to all these people bustling in and out of

walk away. At one point, a police officer, who had

the station. When I was just about ready to pack

been observing us from afar the whole time,

up and try again another day, a woman in her for-

walked over, and asked what we were doing. I

ties or fifties came up to me and asked what we

looked up and said, “We’re asking New Yorkers

were doing. I explained, and she said that she

deep questions for a school project. Do you want

would do it, but she only had five minutes. She sat

to be interviewed?” He just smiled and walked

down in the chair to my left, which was far too

away. I was starting to wonder why no one was

small for any adult human. I asked her if she

willing to participate. Like it was beneath their dig-

would rather be undiscovered during her lifetime

nity or something.

and popular after, or popular during her lifetime

We decided to switch locations to inside the

and forgotten after. She told me, “I would rather be

station, where there would be much more foot

popular after. Because I would be in the afterlife

traffic. I asked, probably over 100 times, if anyone

with Christ.” My heart was beating a little bit

wanted to be in my school project, with some vari-

faster than before because I was so excited to

conduct an interview after so much effort. I then

about why no one was willing to answer my ques-

asked her if she was a good person, and she said

tion. One thing about people is that they’re only

yes, because “I follow the Bible, and I do what the

hesitant to answer questions when they think

Bible says.” At this point, I was making up these

they’re being recorded, so the microphone and

questions on the spot because I assumed the first

camera probably didn’t help my chances. They

question would elicit a longer response. I asked

probably thought I had sinister intentions, or that I

her to recall the happiest she’d ever been, and she

was going to ask them a super incriminating ques-

said, “Whenever I'm with my kids.” She also said

tion and post their response all over social media.

that her kids were the greatest thing she had ever

They didn’t want to be caught up in my nefarious

accomplished. She seemed like she had some-

scheme.

where to be, so I thanked her for participating, and she told me she was proud of me for going out

passed by me were nice and interesting people who

into the world and working hard. Not long after,

were just in a hurry and therefore chose to ignore

another person came over to me and said he

me. Most of them had a look of anxiety or tension

would do an interview. Instead of sitting down in

on their face and had no interest in dropping

the chair like he was supposed to, he just stood

everything and humoring the questions of some

right in front of me. I first asked him if he was a

random kid, the intentions of whom they were

good person, and he replied with a confident “yes”

unaware.

and smiled. He did not seem to be a native English

Which leads me into my third theory: that peo-

speaker, so I wasn’t sure if he would understand

ple are too caught up in their own world of judge-

the next questions. I asked him, “What’s the

ments, always letting their skepticism take the

greatest thing you’ve ever accomplished?” He just

lead, and rarely taking risks or doing things that

smiled and shook his head. He told me he spoke

really scare them. People are too concerned with

French and Arabic. I tried to talk to him in French,

their image and ego and dismiss new experiences

but it wasn’t a very fruitful conversation as my

because they don’t want to risk feeling uncomfort-

proficiency in French is very limited.

able or embarrassed. So even though I had very

So even though the experience wasn’t as suc-

My second theory is that all the people who

limited interview material and felt a certain level of

cessful as I hoped it’d be, I did learn a lot about

disappointment, I did learn a lot more about how

the people around me just by sitting there and

people function. It was a very meditative experi-

watching them. I also formulated a few theories

ence, whether or not I achieved my initial goal.

The Road Behind— Rest in Peace, Dave Brockie SAMUEL VK Grade 10 l Acr ylic on Canvas

Reflective ELI R Grade 11 l Photography

Poetr y

The Crow by M A D E L E I N E K l Grade 10

I SENSED ITS WATCHFUL EYES like a string attached to the back of my head tugging me to turn around, to meet the gaze of the crow. A monarch perched on a lofty throne, a parachute caught on a tree. The moment my eyes blew wind onto her she flew away and left behind only charcoal remnants of sleek feathers. Did you know that a bluebird isn’t really blue? It is solely the sun that paints onto it the illusion of the ocean. But the ocean isn’t really blue either, I suppose. Perhaps I’m not really opaque. Perhaps I’m transparent. And the crow can still see through me as she skates away from my view, and onto the slope of the sky Or was it I who flew away And left her wings behind?

Badu TAYLOR J Grade 10 l Painting

Fiction

I Played with Confidence by ELLE C l Grade 11

ONCE, I PLAYED with Confidence. She skipped

the other kids play with her so many times, and

towards me, double braids swinging. She spun to

they had always seemed completely fine. I blinked

a stop in front of me, but the skirt of her heart-

away the tears building behind my eyes, fearing

covered sundress continued to twist, hitting the

someone with better vision would come along and

sides of her little legs before flopping down to its

see me cry.

normal position. I’d seen her around before, of course, playing with all the luckier, kinder, and cooler children—never before had she approached me.

“Confidence?” I meekly called. “Where are you?” Suddenly, I heard a noise from behind. Footsteps. Running away.

“Play with me! Play with me!” she grinned.

“Confidence! Come back!”

“Oh, OK. Sure. What game?” I stuttered. “Hide and seek! You find me!” I dug my palms into my eyelids, squeezing them tight. “One, two . . .” I heard giggling. “Three, four . . .” It grew fainter. “Five! Ready or not, here I come!” Silence. I slowly removed my hands from my eyes and blinked once, twice, three times, but it was no use—the world looked exactly the same with my eyes open or shut: black. Completely and totally black. I started slowly walking, arms held out in front of me as a shield. But nothing hit them. Nothing disrupted my careful steps; if I wasn’t breathing heavily and my legs didn’t ache, I would

“I BLINKED AWAY THE TEARS BUILDING BEHIND MY EYES, FEARING SOMEONE WITH BETTER VISION WOULD COME ALONG AND SEE ME CRY.”

have had no idea I was moving at all. I stopped. I didn’t want to become more lost, and I didn’t understand why I couldn’t find her. I’d watched

I sprinted towards the fading slaps of sneakers hitting concrete; my flip-flops slowed me down and made my steps noisy, drowning out the sound I was chasing. I tried to increase my pace while lowering my volume. I failed. All I could hear was my breath and my heartbeat. My feet stopped slapping the pavement and began crying in earnest. “Confidence?” I sobbed into the deserted darkness. When only silence answered, I lay down on the pavement and slept, and slept, and slept until I couldn’t sleep anymore. I heaved myself up and took one shaky step in an unknown direction. Then another, and another, and I settled into a

“‘CONFIDENCE?’ I SOBBED INTO THE DESERTED DARKNESS. WHEN ONLY SILENCE ANSWERED, I LAY DOWN ON THE PAVEMENT AND SLEPT, AND SLEPT, AND SLEPT UNTIL I COULDN’T SLEEP ANYMORE.”

rhythm again. I started humming along to the sound of my flip-flops as they slapped the pavement, humming louder and louder. I decided I liked the melody. It was my melody. Out of nowhere, a

“Alright, as soon as we get home.”

figure appeared in front of me, his bright red torch

I grabbed his hand and the torch he was car-

revealing his familiar face. “Daddy!”

arrived, he taught me how to create a light of my

I jumped into his arms.

own. When the wind blows out my torch or I run

“I’m glad you’re here, honey. You did such a

out of matches, I know I can always find more

good job making all that noise. Led me straight to you. Oh honey, I love you. Let’s go home now.” “Daddy, it’s dark.” “Yes it is, honey. That’s why we need to make our own light. Want me to teach you how?” “Yes!”

rying, and we walked back together. When we

supplies at home. I never saw that little girl again, but I hope she is no longer hiding.

Drinking Vessels SORAYA G & JADA S Grades 12 l Porcelain and Underglaze

Floatin’ MILO B Grade 12 l Photography

Humor

Ankle Deep In Chicken and Chaos by ZOFIE M l Grade 11

NEVER WOULD I HAVE THOUGHT to find myself inches deep in sweat while simultaneously cooking chicken. Let’s rewind. It all started on April 16. Ms. Drezner, my English teacher, introduced our next challenge: “Go have an experience.” An experience? That sounded vague and intimidating. But then she clarified: something new, something real, something personal. Something I’d never done before. How hard could it be? Right? I was stumped. I wanted to do something meaningful—with my family, if possible—but my older sister, Akilah, was still at college; my younger sister Saffi was busy after school most days; and I was juggling school, birthdays, and general exhaustion. Still, I kept brainstorming. SMART goals filled my notebook: Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, and Timebound (my advisor would be proud). I had planned everything besides actually doing it. I asked myself: What am I going to do? When am I going to do it? I really want to do something with my family! When are we all available? When is Akilah coming back from college? What am I going to do again? When the deadline came, I entered class with nothing but shared regret. “I didn’t do mine

either,” someone admitted. I nodded. United in procrastination. But I knew I had to take action. I knew I had to have an experience. I knew I had to improvise. Long Island! My family and I had been planning a family barbecue at my aunt’s house: Family, food, and potential for disaster. Saturday morning was a comedy. We packed our bags early in the morning and marched outside toward our bus stop— only to watch it speed by. OK. We marched back to our house. A while later, with a little less pep, we marched again to the bus stop. We squeezed into the bus like mismatched puzzle pieces, limbs overlapping, collective organisms commuting towards an objective. After a few stops we made it to the train. Then another train. And finally into my aunt’s SUV. We made it. Arrival time: 1:34 p.m. Weather: sunny with a side of chaos. The backyard buzzed—cousins yelling, uncles arguing over grill technique, lawn chairs

“MY FAMILY AND I HAD BEEN PLANNING A FAMILY BARBECUE AT MY AUNT'S HOUSE: FAMILY, FOOD, AND POTENTIAL FOR DISASTER.”

scattered like giant playing cards. It was perfect. I turned to my sisters and declared, “I’m cooking the entire barbecue.” Saffi paused. “You? Really?” Akilah didn’t even look up from her phone. “Bold of you.” They didn’t know my second plan: The First Annual Sisters’ Backyard Olympics. “While I grill,” I said, “you two are going to compete.” “You’re cooking and directing a backyard circus?” Saffi chuckled. “Absolutely.” I read off my event list like an announcer at the actual Olympics: Round 1: Water balloon toss Round 2: Hula hoop showdown Round 3: Folding chair relay (also known as free labor) They rolled their eyes, but they were in. Now, about that grill. I had no clue what I was doing. I turned knobs randomly. Nothing. My aunt came over and silently lit it for me, shaking her head. “You got this?” “Totally.” I grabbed the tongs like they were surgical instruments and placed chicken on the grill with extreme caution. The sizzle was immediate. So was the smoke. I flipped, turned, and dropped one into the coals. I might’ve screamed. A little. Meanwhile, the Olympics were heating up.

In Round 2, Saffi spun like a pro, the hula hoop a golden ring of glory. Akilah dropped hers in three seconds and accused Saffi of cheating. I ruled in Saffi’s favor—justice must be swift and biased. Mid-flip, grease popped onto my arm. I yelped, dropped the tongs, then tried to look composed while picking them up. I waved away smoke with one hand and swatted flies with the other. I was sweating like a turkey on Thanksgiving. Round 3 was even better: folding chairs hauled across the lawn like ancient weights. Akilah carried two. Saffi carried three. One fell on my foot. I may have cried. Or screamed. Or both. But I couldn’t stop laughing. Somewhere between the dropped chicken, Saffi tripping over a sprinkler, and my aunt yelling “Don’t burn the sausages!” I realized that this was it. This was the experience. That evening, I sat on the porch steps beside my sister sipping soda, our legs sore and smoky. “You really did all that for an essay?” Akilah asked. “Not just for the essay,” I said. “But yeah. Kind of.” But it wasn’t just the assignment. It was the way something ridiculous became something real. I didn’t expect to feel so proud—or so tired. So, would I do it again? Ask me at the next barbecue.

Info Needed GOVIND B AND GRAHAM K Grade 10 l Collage

Coil-Built Vase HELEN D Grade 10 l Ceramic Stoneware

Personal Essay

Doctors by SKIE D l Grade 10

“YOU ARE DYING, MAX! Face it! Stop trying

to risk his health to cure others. The scene

to save everyone and save your g--d--- self for

then abruptly cuts to a fascinating surgery:

once!” exclaims Dr. Sharpe to Dr. Goodwin, a

Dr. Reynold’s dainty hands graciously cutting

medical director on the show New Amsterdam.

open whoever-their-name-was’s body, the floor

He’s at the peak of his denial of the need to stop

filling with blood-soaked gauzes.

working—mind you, he has CANCER. I mean

Doctor shows have long held a special place

IS HE INSANE? He should be focusing on his

in my heart; watching the show Doc McStuffins

hair falling out and the intense nausea, not run-

as a toddler drew me to my toddler alter-ego,

ning around trying to tend to a hospital. But in

Dr. Degale. My parents often pondered why

his dedication to making a change, he is willing

these shows sparked my interest. Maybe her warm check-ups and heartfelt songs had

“HE SHOULD BE FOCUSING ON HIS HAIR FALLING OUT AND THE INTENSE NAUSEA, NOT RUNNING AROUND TRYING TO TEND TO A HOSPITAL.”

gravity, or maybe all the drama and stress of The Good Doctor and Chicago Med paled in comparison to the calming atmosphere of Doc McStuffins. Honestly I couldn’t answer that question at the time. But I was dedicated. I never felt discouraged about being a doctor. I knew I had chosen a very difficult path for my career, but doing my own research, cutting into real (pig) brains with ease, and feeling like I had just invented a miraculous neurological cure for lead poisoning, brought me joy that I had never felt before. So from toddlerhood, I envisioned a future career, as a neurologist, a neurosurgeon, and a neuroscientist—I couldn’t pick one path.

THEN CAME THE WINTER OF 2023: I had

impatiently. There was NO ONE ELSE in the

never seen anyone so sick. As my mom kept on

waiting room.

getting sicker and sicker, I truly began to worry because I couldn’t imagine my life without her.

form, and a nurse will be there shortly to take

So rationally—since Dr. Degale was only 11—

you back.”

my family and I sought outside professional

Dad flew through the form, handed it in,

help from a real doctor. I told myself not to

and sat down with my mom. Five minutes–

worry. “These people clearly love their jobs so

nothing. 10 minutes–nothing. 20 minutes—wait

much that Hollywood makes shows about

a minute. Dad leaned to the right in his seat,

them! Why would I worry?” I thought, trying to

only to see a group of doctors reclining in the

“ONLY WHEN HER EYES TURNED A VIBRANT SHADE OF YELLOW, ENOUGH FOR IT TO BE CONSIDERED JAUNDICE, DID THE DOCTORS EXCLAIM THAT SHE NEEDED A CHOLECYSTECTOMY IMMEDIATELY.”

“We have to follow protocol. Fill out the

distract myself from the

breakroom at the back, not tending to any

tears forming in my eyes.

patients.

We arrived at the CityMD for a quick diag-

I don’t know how I didn’t catch on then, but a lady finally came to see us and sweetly

nosis, found an empty

said, “I didn’t even know you all were out

waiting room, sat my

here.” She examined my mom, and behold, we

mother down, and waited

had our answer: “You need to go to the hospital

as my dad jogged up to

right away. You need an abdomen scan and

the front desk.

most likely surgery.” This experience was just

“Fill out a form and

one setback, I thought, so now it was time to

take a seat,” the recep-

get the cure. But I wish someone had told me

tionist said and handed

that it would take 24 hours until someone even

my dad a four page clip-

acknowledged that there was a dying woman in

board.

the waiting room.

“My wife is really ill.

As my fear slowly metastasized, I realized

We have insurance, and

the surgery didn’t scare me—no point in

I’m sure our name is on

dwelling over the only solution to the problem–

file. Can someone please

it was the doctors. Their utter lack of care for

see her?” my dad asked

the person who meant the most to me in the

“THE COMPASSION OF THE CHARACTERS IN SHOWS, THEIR PASSION FOR THEIR JOBS, NOT THEIR PAYCHECKS OR THEIR BLUECOLLAR STATUS, IS WHAT DREW ME TO THEM.”

THE STRONGEST PERSON I KNOW is my mother; she survived being neglected by the ones you call WHEN YOU NEED HELP. Somebody who is literally the domino between life and death should not have so little empathy and haste and should NEVER be a doctor. The fact that I, an 11-year-old at the time, was quicker at taking care of my mother than any of the doctors were says a lot. Now every time I go to my checkups, moments that once instilled curiosity and hope, bring a wave of disappointment. How could I sit here, waiting for you to tell me if I’m healthy, knowing that you were unreliable at the time I needed you the most? If doctors have time to watch these shows, why don’t they act like the people in them? After that day, I knew the answer to my parents’ question. The compassion of the char-

world made me question whether these people

acters in the shows, their passion for their jobs,

were even doctors. Debilitating pain over-

not their paychecks or their blue-collar status, is

whelmed my mother during the long periods we

what drew me to them. They could look past

spent waiting in lines, but since she could

their vomit-stained clothes and their 24-hour

somewhat walk, talk, and breathe, and since

shifts, because they had more zeal for the job

“she didn’t come in on an ambulance,” she was

than real doctors do. Now it’s up to me to bring

told that “she could wait.” Only when her eyes

those shows to life. Maybe one day, I’ll be argu-

turned a vibrant shade of yellow, enough for it

ing with my coworker about not wanting to go

to be considered jaundice, did the doctors

home on a sick day. Why? Simply because I

exclaim that she needed a cholecystectomy

care.

immediately.

Traffic Jam ELI R Grade 11 l Photography

Fiction

A Scarf and a Smile by JOSHUA S l Grade 12

AS I WATCHED MR. GLENFELD pull up the

tered consolingly. I didn’t respond. I had known

driveway from the second-floor bay window, my

this was coming, but it still shook me. Richard

stomach grew heavy. He had called me earlier

had always been a good, loyal husband and

that week, claiming he had had a breakthrough,

loving father. But since the election, things had

but didn’t clarify whether it was good or bad. All

just been different. I knew he was under a lot of

he sent was an email: “Let’s meet ASAP.” I

pressure, but I could tell there was something

walked him into the parlor. We sat down on the

else going on. I wouldn’t wish this feeling of

Chesterfield sofa. The metal links on his Rolex

betrayal on my worst enemy.

clanked against his bracelet as he placed a pale

After Mr. Glenfeld walked out, I called

yellow file down on our marble coffee table, a

Melony, my assistant, into the room.

gift from the French ambassador that my kids

I handed her the file. Her face grew pale.

would use to make their Lego creations every Saturday. I spent about two minutes just staring at the closed file. “Well, are you gonna open it?” Mr. Glenfeld asked. If I opened it and received bad news, at least I’d know the truth. If I didn’t open it, I would never get closure. I grabbed the rough cardstock file and reluctantly opened it. “Can we have a moment alone?” I said, my voice cracking, to my secret service detail, who always stood adjacent to the Howard Miller Grandfather Clock whenever a guest was present. My vision grew blurry with tears as I rifled

“IF I OPENED IT AND RECEIVED BAD NEWS, AT LEAST I’D KNOW THE TRUTH. IF I DIDN’T OPEN THE LETTER AT ALL, I WOULD NEVER GET CLOSURE.”

through the photos in the folder. “I mean, I don’t even know what to say.” “I’m truly sorry, ma’am,” Mr. Glenfeld mut-

Two Vessels LEE M Grade 12 l Wheel Thrown, Underglazed Porcelain and Stoneware

“Who’s that?”

front of students and cameras, and pretend to

“I don’t know, some woman who’s banging

just be OK? It wasn’t fair. I was going through

Rich.” I wiped away my tears with a tissue.

crap, some of the worst you could go through,

“What- I- I don’t understand. Where did

and I was just supposed to get up on stage in

you get this?”

two hours in front of a thousand people? I

“I hired a private investigator. He took these photos.”

“Ma’am,” Melony said from the other side

“I don’t even know what to say.” “Melony,” I grabbed her hand, “please tell me what to do.”

of the mahogany door, “Are you OK in there?” “Yeah, one sec.” I opened the door, and Melony sat on the floor with me.

“I mean, I don’t know,” she looked at me

“YOU CAN’T GO PUBLIC WITH THIS YET. THE PRESS WOULD GO CRAZY, IT’S NOT WHAT THIS ADMINISTRATION NEEDS.”

stumbled to the bathroom and retched.

“Ma’am, don’t take this the wrong way. I

blankly, “You can’t go pub-

know you’re upset,” she muttered, “But you

lic with this yet. The press

gotta at least pretend to be happy for the stu-

would go crazy. It’s not

dents.”

what this administration needs.” She was right. Even

You know what would make me happy? Smacking that woman in the face.

though I didn’t love the

“OK,” I said. I stood up, looked in the mir-

idea, I couldn’t confront

ror, and reapplied my vermillion lipstick, strug-

Rich. My kids were still in

gling to control my shaking fingers. I straight-

school, and I didn't want to

ened out the cuffs of my pantsuit. The mirror

tear my family apart. I

reflected the woman that the American people

wrung my hands. She

saw.

must’ve known the vice president was married. “Well, we have the

“The motorcade is going to pick us up in 15 minutes. I’ll meet you at the reception. Just— you have to act normal.”

event at Roosevelt High

We exited the residence, and the crisp win-

School this afternoon,”

ter air rubbed against my neck like knives. I had

Melony pointed out, “That could take your mind

forgotten my scarf. Rich had bought me that

off of it for now.”

beige Hermes scarf during our honeymoon in

How was I supposed to go out in public, in

Zermatt. Melony ran back into the reception to

try to retrieve it from the console, where I had

“Good Afternoon, Roosevelt!” The students

left it last week. But it wasn’t there anymore. I

cheered, “I am so honored to be here with you

entered the Escalade, and we started the fifteen-

all today.”

minute commute to Roosevelt. My chronic

I continued reading the speech, not paying

motion sickness was not in any way helping

close attention to my execution but rather to the

my already rocky mental state. I hadn’t even

students in the audience. Each of them seemed

had a chance to look over my speech, and with

so young, full of hopes and dreams about their

the uniform streets of DC blending together, the

futures regardless of their different back-

ride seemed much quicker than anticipated.

grounds—exactly the type of America we were

“It’s time, ma’am.” Melony patted my hand.

trying to build. That’s when I noticed a girl. She

I exited the vehicle and made eye contact

was beautiful. She wore her school uniform, a

with the principal. His hands felt clammy; he

beige scarf, and had flawless blonde hair.

seemed nervous. He said something to me, and I just nodded and followed him to a room

“WHAT JUST HAPPENED?” Melony asked

behind the stage. My hearing felt muffled, and

me as I stumbled offstage to the back room.

my vision tunneled. I was still thinking about

“She’s a student!” I cried.

this woman and my husband.

“Who?”

“Can I get a bottle of water?”

“The woman. The girl.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“What girl?”

One of my aides handed me the bottle, and I chugged it in a matter of seconds. “Roosevelt High School,” the principal

“The one that Rich has been banging!” I bellowed. My other staff looked at me with concern.

announced, “please give a warm welcome to

“What?”

the Second Lady of the United States of

“The woman Rich has been banging. She’s a

America, Catherine Watson.”

student,” I fell to the ground. “She’s a kid. I saw

Before I knew it, I was onstage in front of

her out there, wearing my scarf. It was her.”

two thousand students. My eyes darted around

The room grew dark. My body began to

the dark auditorium as I struggled to locate the

shake; it felt as if the temperature had dropped,

teleprompter at the right end of the stage. I

and yet my hands grew sweaty. I began to lose

numbly read the panning text.

control of my breathing. The room tilted, and I fell to the floor bawling, inconsolable. Melony’s

warm arms wrapped around me as we rocked back and forth. “Can we have the room?” Melony shouted to the other aides. They rushed out. For a while,

I reached into the pocket of the Ralph Lauren jumpsuit that Rich had given me, opened my phone, and texted him, Let’s have dinner tonight. Together.

we didn’t say a word. We sat there while I cried, processing the life-shattering information.

“HEY, HONEY, HOW WAS WORK?” I asked

We both knew what had to be done, but didn’t

insincerely.

want to say it aloud. I would have to make the most difficult decision of my life. I would have to give up the idea of having a stable family. No more sledding competitions during winter

“Same as usual,” Rich answered while texting. “Thanks for asking how my day was,” I responded sarcastically, “It was pretty good. I

breaks at my in-laws’ house in Vermont. No more gifts of matching pajama sets to each other on Christmas Eve every year. No more gifts of movie nights where all five of us squeezed into bed together. This was bigger than me. As much as it pained me, I silenced these thoughts. I would grieve later. I had an obligation to do the right thing despite what it would do to me. “So, what’s gonna happen?” Melony asked me after an extended silence while I fidgeted with my ring finger. After taking a breath and wiping away my tears, I replied, “I was a prosecutor for fifteen years. I specialized in cases like these.” I needed to remind myself just as much as inform

“THAT’S WHEN I NOTICED A GIRL. SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL. SHE WORE HER SCHOOL UNIFORM, A BEIGE SCARF, AND HAD FLAWLESS BLONDE HAIR.”

Melony. “I may have given up on that role when I became the Second Lady, but I didn’t give up on my conscience. I have to say something.” 65

spoke at Roosevelt High School—I got to meet a lot of students there.”

“No. It’s not your turn to speak. She’s a girl. A child! I want a divorce. And you have to

“Oh, that’s nice,” he said in a monotone—

come clean to the public,” I shouted.

he didn’t care.

“And you think the press will spare you, do

“Hey, look at this photo I took with the stu-

you?” he said with disdain.

dents.” I passed him the envelope.

“I don’t care what they think anymore.”

He looked at me with

“IF YOU CAN’T DO IT, THEN I’LL DO IT FOR YOU. YOUR LEGACY WILL BE DESTROYED EITHER WAY, BUT I HAVE TO DO WHAT’S BEST FOR MY CHILDREN— WHAT’S BEST FOR THAT GIRL.”

“If you can’t, then I’ll do it for you. Your

the big yellow envelope,

legacy will be destroyed either way, but I have

“What have you got

to do what’s best for my children—what’s best

going on in here?” he

for that girl. Do you have any idea what it feels

chuckled. He opened it

like to sacrifice your job, your life, for a person,

up, and his face crumpled

only to have them throw it all away?” He

in shock. He looked back

couldn’t look me in the eye. “No, you don’t. I

up at me. “What is this?”

do.”

“You tell me,” I responded sternly. “It’s not what it looks

He didn’t respond. He just sat there picking his nails like a child. The silence was long. Finally, he took a deep breath and rose from his

like,” he yelled, his palms

chair. He pulled out his phone and made a call

pressing tight on his neck.

as he entered the other room.

“Rich, it’s exactly what it looks like.”

Two officers escorted him out of the resi-

“I-”

dence in cuffs, and although there weren’t any

“Cut the crap. I was

cameras, I stood there wearing my manufac-

gonna suck it up when I

tured smile out of habit. I was transported back

found out you were

to my swearing-in ceremony as a prosecutor,

cheating. I was just gonna suppress it because I

when the judge had whispered, “Never let them

didn’t want to ruin your life—I didn’t want to

see you crack. They’ll eat you alive.” I believed

ruin mine, not to mention the kids.”

him. I still do.

“Catherine–”

“You know I can’t do this,” he muttered.

comical intrigue, seeing

She Sells INDIA D Grade 9 l Stoneware

Fiction

Birds by PETER C l Grade 12

EMILY’S LUNCH BREAK was at 12:30. She flashed a weak smile at her boss as she left the building and made for the corner. She didn’t have much time, just enough to grab a sandwich. She waited in line, ordered, and headed back, just like she always did. Cars honked around her, clogging the filthy air with noise, and she was walled in by skyscrapers on either side. A flock of pigeons took to the air. She almost didn’t notice them hidden behind the chaos of the city. Their wings flapped simultaneously in a spectacular crescendo, taking them higher and higher above the street below. They flew in circles, sweeping the sky in grand motions, growing apart and coming together as they pleased. In the cacophony of their concrete jungle, they soared. And then they were gone, and Emily was left standing alone staring at the sky, an island amid a shifting sea of sameness.

“THEIR WINGS FLAPPED SIMULTANEOUSLY IN A SPECTACULAR CRESCENDO, TAKING THEM HIGHER AND HIGHER ABOVE THE STREET BELOW.”

Cycles HENRY B Grade 9 l Photography

Tattoo Collection: Scorpian, Colibri, and Sword OCTAVIA L Grade 9 l Ink and Paper

Film

La Solitude Choisie by ELIJAH D l Grade 11

FILM DESCRIPTION:

A solitary night drifter, Julian Oppenheimer, wanders through Manhattan’s glowing streets, numbing himself with cigarettes as he quietly observes others laughing, playing pool, and living. Through poetic French voiceover, he confronts his isolation and comes to a quiet realization: connection, through the uncertain, is always worth the risk.

Personal Essay

The Reading Nook by RORY O l Grade 12

KEEP TEN PERCENT, THROW

and I used to sit in here dressing and

OUT NINETY PERCENT. My mom’s

undressing the dolls, cutting their hair and

instructions repeat in my head as Oona and I

regretting it, and playing with the stuffed ani-

crouch and squeeze through the little doors for

mals that didn’t make the cut for the bed. I

the first time in years.

remember barricading myself in here when I thought there was an intruder, burrowing

The room is no more than a crawlspace

under the pink and yellow cushions, and fly-

under the roof, really, but my parents called it

ing back out in terror when my sister turned

a play fort so that we wouldn’t be creeped out

off the lights. I remember dressing the dolls in

by the dark abyss behind our bedroom wall.

five layers of clothing and pretending they

They painted it bright yellow and filled it with

were stranded in Antarctica. I remember, in a

toys. We were still creeped out.

rage, coloring Isabelle’s face with purple

The entryway, half-hidden now behind

marker, then feeling bad and hiding her

mounds of dirty soccer jerseys and mismatched socks, a broken lamp, and the drinking glasses that I never remembered to bring downstairs, has waist-high doors with clovershaped peepholes and doorknobs plastered with girly patterns—one with green and blue polka dots, one with a pink spiral that made me dizzy when I stared at it for too long. The hinges are loose, so the doors swing both ways. Inside is a light switch cover that looks like a dollhouse and a few half-deflated cushions covered in years’ worth of toys. Oona

“I REMEMBER DRESSING THE DOLLS IN FIVE LAYERS OF CLOTHING AND PRETENDING THEY WERE STRANDED IN ANTARCTICA.”

behind the shelves in the back and hoping Oona wouldn’t find her. The play fort was too cold and drafty in winter and too hot in the summer. It had a musty smell, the kind that always fills up small spaces. It was always a little better in theory than in actuality. But we still loved it.

KEEP TEN PERCENT, THROW OUT NINETY PERCENT. We’re supposed to clean out the play fort to transform it into a reading nook or some kind of “usable space,” as my mother says. It seemed like a good idea in theory. Oona sifts through toy furniture, stuffed

“BUT AS WE PICK HER UP, SHE GIVES US AN EYE. AN EYE THAT TELLS US SHE REMEMBERS WHEN WE RIPPED OUT HER LEGS, AND BURNED HER HAIR WITH A STRAIGHTENING IRON . . .”

animals hemorrhaging fluff, dolls in one piece, dolls with missing limbs, and rainbow scrunchies that we once considered cool, while I place them into their designated piles. Throw out ninety percent. Throw out ninety percent. There are some toys that, in truth, we don’t

out. But as we pick her up, she gives us an eye. An eye that tells us she remembers when we

remember. Those are the easy ones. But as we

ripped out her legs, burned her hair with a

sort through the ones with faces and names,

straightening iron, and threw her across the

the “keep” pile grows larger and larger. The

room repeatedly to see who could land her in

Elmo with the Band-Aid stuck in his fur? Surely

the toy bin perfectly. An eye that makes us

he belongs on Oona’s bed. Ellie the Elephant?

think it’s harsh to discard something just

We have had him since birth. A brutalized

because it’s missing an arm and both legs and

Barbie named “Barbie”? Finally one to throw

most of its hair.

“I SHOW HER TO OONA AND WE BURST OUT LAUGHING. POOR ISABELLE. MAYBE GROWING UP IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU’RE NOT LOOKING.”

denly remember Isabelle. Crawling over the toy bin and reaching behind the shelves, I find her and pull her out, still purple and still in the clothes she was wearing 10 years ago when I shoved her back there. I show her to Oona and we burst out laughing. Poor Isabelle. Maybe growing up is what happens when you’re not looking. Oona straightens Isabelle’s dress and combs her hair, and we call it quits for the day. The doors swing both ways as we crawl out. I lie in my bed that night, facing the darkwindowed doors, and can swear I hear something moving from behind the toy bins. It’s

“If you looked like that, I wouldn’t put you in the trash can.” Oona places Barbie into the “keep” pile. We find an old stuffed owl whose name we

the inside and scary from the outside. There’s still an overwhelming number of dolls and stuffed animals to sort through and

don’t remember, and we place it in the “no”

hours of work ahead on the reading nook. But

pile. But it lets out a rhythmic screech that

that’s a problem for tomorrow. We’ve got time. I

seems to say “Don’t throw me out,” which is

roll onto my other side and go to sleep.

ridiculous because stuffed animals can’t talk. But this one does. Keep. I wipe my forehead and survey the mess of old playmates and birthday presents, and I sud-

funny how the same thing can feel safe from

Painting: Keyhole SORAYA G Grade 12 l Painting

Poetr y

The Stares: Part I and II by XAVER S l Grade 10

PART I Clack I heard as I sat staring at the light of Free Fluorescence. It typed back words, and as I stared at the light the words became one again, the stairs became more than one. As the sheet grew longer and longer all I did was stare and type more and more, and as I typed it started to flicker on and off. I typed faster with more heart, but it all went away. As it started to fade, I typed while staring always at those stairs of words that I had made, created, and soon were to be much greater

PART II Clack I heard as I sat staring at the light of Free Fluorescence. It typed back words, and as I stared at the light the words became one again, the stairs became more than one. As the sheet grew longer and longer all I did was stare and type more and more, and as I typed it started to flicker on and off. I typed faster with more heart, but it all went away. As it started to fade, I typed while staring always at those stairs of words that I had made, created, and soon were to be much greater

Dispute ELSIE WM Grade 11 l Guache on Paper

Personal Essay

Almost Fishing by OSKAR B l Grade 12

DO YOU HAVE ARMS? Do you have an

In addition to these general styles, there are

unquenchable thirst for the defeat and conquest

technical terms to understand. If your arm is in

of your enemies? If so, great, because you’re

classic pulling position—and your hand unoccu-

reading the right thing. I’m going to teach you—

pied—pronation is the movement of showing

in simple steps—how to win at armwrestling.

your opponent your palm, whereas cupping is

First things first: we gotta understand the

the movement of showing them the back of

terminology. We who have immersed ourselves

your hand. Now imagine yourself gripping up

in the armwrestling world don’t call it

with an opponent, and listen closely, because

armwrestling, we call it “pulling,” so that’s how I’m going to refer to it from here on out. Then there’s the two main styles, inside pulling and outside pulling. Outside pullers use natural leverage advantages, in combination with strong wrist or hand muscles, to pull their opponent out of their own comfort zone; this style of pulling is characterized by extension and stretching. Outside pullers are usually tall or have large or abnormally strong hands and wrists. I am an outside puller. Inside pullers, meanwhile, like to be more compact. They naturally condense, contracting

“DO YOU HAVE ARMS? DO YOU HAVE AN UNQUENCHABLE THIRST FOR THE DEFEAT AND CONQUEST OF YOUR ENEMIES?”

their muscles inward and moving their bodies closer to their hands; inside pullers bring their opponent into their own comfort zone, forcing them to relinquish any predispositions or inclinations to survi—I mean, not lose.

this term is both the most important and the

perfect top roll, the opponent’s hand will peel

hardest to understand: back pressure is a

back and, eventually, pull their elbow off the

movement in which you apply pressure back-

table—in fact, some people call this final step

wards and upwards, with the intention of

the “Can Opener” because of how forceful the

pulling your opponent away from themselves

movement is. The easiest way I can describe a

and off the table.

top roll to you, dear prospective armwrestler, is

If you—a total beginner—were to try to pull

this: imagine you’re wearing a shirt with a

me off the table using back pressure, my arm

breast pocket that happens to be on your non-

wouldn’t budge an inch; if Devon Larratt, for-

dominant side—then imagine using your domi-

mer member of the Canadian special forces and

nant hand to pour a glass of water straight into

armwrestling world champion, backed by his

that pocket. See how your hand naturally raises

6’5 frame, ketamine therapy, and thousands of

into the air, and your knuckles point upwards?

hours of training, tried to pull me off the table,

That’s good top roll form.

you better believe he’d be able to do it.

Top rolls pair well with people who are naturally inclined towards outside pulling, because,

THERE ARE TWO MAIN pulling techniques,

fundamentally, the top roll is an unlocking,

and each one utilizes its strengths and various

opening, revealing motion. Unlike people who

combinations of pronation, cupping, and back

like to hook—we’ll get there shortly—top rollers

pressure—as well as the techniques below—to

get to use their better leverage, stronger joints,

optimize itself. The first technique is called a top

and longer bodies to completely dissect their

roll, inspiration for the 1987 cult classic Over

opponents.

the Top, in which Sylvester Stallone—as GPT

The second technique, the hook, is the com-

puts it—participates in arm-wrestling tourna-

plete opposite. Where top rollers like to open up

ments, with his ultimate goal being to win the

and use their space advantage, hook enjoyers

World Armwrestling Championship in Las

(not hookers, for obvious reasons) are inclined

Vegas. Although this film only has a 5.8/10 on

to bring their arms—and their opponents’—

IMDb, top rolls can be incredibly useful.

inward to the center of the table, hoping to win

A top roll uses a combination of pronation

off pure strength. The hook is a short gymbro’s

and back pressure to unfold the opponent; in a

best friend, because while he may not be very

“THE HOOK IS A SHORT GYMBRO’S BEST FRIEND, BECAUSE WHILE HE MAY NOT BE VERY STRONG WHEN FULLY EXTENDED, HE’LL HAVE A GREAT TIME PULLING DOWN A LARGER OPPONENT. . .”

strong when fully extended,

OK, so remember how I told you I’d tell you

he’ll have a great time

how to win at armwrestling? That part hasn’t

pulling down a larger oppo-

happened yet. What I’ve done is outline tech-

nent when fully contracted.

niques, styles, and general methods of figuring

Hooks mostly utilize cup-

out which combination to use. That being said,

ping pressure, as well as

if you were to armwrestle me (or perhaps slight-

some back pressure, to con-

ly more dauntingly, Devon Larratt), you would

solidate their position. In a

likely be decimated. So why did I tell you, a

hook, one tries to minimize

reader who expects honesty from me, that

the distance from their

you’d learn how to win? Well, because—and I

dominant shoulder to their

really am going to just give you the answer, so,

own hand, turn their hand

prepare yourself—winning is more than arm on

towards themselves, and

table. In this sport, winning is truly, and I mean

lock this all into place

truly, not about putting your opponent’s arm on

before slowly sinking to the

the table. Sure, that’s a temporary victory.

floor. The result is that the

Maybe you’ve trained to beat them, or maybe

opponent is left in a desper-

you’re watching EAST VS. WEST 19:

ate extended curl position,

STRONGEST ARM ON EARTH air live from

hoping that they are simply herculean enough

Istanbul. Maybe you just beat that one unbeat-

to resist the oppressive downward force on their

able opponent (older sister? dad?) for the first

bicep.

time.

Hooks work well with inside pulling

But let’s be real: much as it pains my heart

because they’re both oppressive. Where outside

to say it, what’s more important than even

pullers are inclined to take the opponent out of

armwrestling is learning how to win and how to

their optimal position (remember, extension!),

lose.

inside pullers want their opponent to join them in the same position (compression) and destroy them.

With that being said, I’d like to address

decidedly smaller and weaker than you, who-

something you may be thinking about: no,

ever you may be—do not try to beat them.

armwrestling is not just for beefy, sweaty gym-

Simply hold their hand; enjoy the strange inti-

bros. (For example, I am a tall, lanky, gym-hat-

macy you’ve established with this person, who-

ing Harry Potter nerd, the farthest thing from a

ever they are; stay, and try to understand how

gymbro that’s possible. Seriously.)

you complement this person—How do your

Armwrestling is all-inclusive! I armwrestle

strengths compare to theirs? How do your

everyone who asks—or who accepts my inces-

weaknesses match up? How are your

sant invitations—whether it’s my jacked ceram-

anatomies specifically built to contrast one

ics teacher or my mother’s tiny French friend,

another’s? Understand your predicament,

Marie, and, although some people don’t believe

understand your physical and mental interac-

me, it’s not about winning. Sure, I could crush

tion with this person, and understand what you

Marie, but that wouldn’t be very fun for either

think should happen.

of us. I’d rather tell her, Marie, try your best.

When—and only when—you’ve begun to

I’ll only defend, and watch as she exclaims in

formulate answers to the above questions can

Frenchie English at me for a few dozen seconds.

you begin to act on them. Attack the weakness-

Similarly, Alex could probably crush my hand,

es you’ve identified by pulling to your

maul me, and slam my hand to the table, but

strengths. Use your body, and your mind’s con-

there’s no fun in that, either, so he humors me.

nection to it, to enforce your projection on the

One beauty of the sport is that I, an almost-

other person while hoping that their projec-

grown man, am my ceramics teacher’s Marie—I

tion—and their mind-body connection—is not

am literally as much of a threat to that man as

better or stronger or faster than yours.

she is to me, which is crazy, funny, and a little

Practice life-and-death scenarios and experi-

scary at the same time. Long story short, I love

ence a rush of adrenaline, not by subway surf-

losing and you should too.

ing or rollercoaster riding, but by armwrestling.

So before you pick your first opponent— who, contrary to my previous point, should be

Win well and lose graciously. Armwrestle. Armwrestle. Armwrestle.

ARMWRESTLE.

Maddie MADDIE R Grade 12 l Glazed Stoneware

Midday Wander SANIYAH B Grade 11 l Collage

Personal Essay

Why Go Away for a Semester? by PHOENIX B l Grade 12

IN SPRING 2025, I WENT to The Mountain

had a difficult time at school or home, so they went

School. I lived in a dorm with eleven other high

to a semester program, but some people were gen-

school juniors from multiple different states, back-

uinely happy with the people back home, so why

grounds, and views in the middle of nowhere in

did they go away?

Vermont. It gave me a sense of independence most

I asked many of my semester-mates, as well as

people don’t get until college, and I learned a lot

some people from BC who also went away for a

about myself. The closest friends I made live hun-

semester. Most of their answers can be split into

dreds if not thousands of miles away in completely

four categories.

different states, and while I wish they lived closer,

Let’s start with the first category: escaping

I’m glad I got to know them. The only part I found

home. Out of the fifteen responses I got (one-third

hard about my Mountain School experience was the

of my TMS semester and two BC people), five peo-

transition back home, because I felt like I had

ple, not including myself, mentioned escaping their

grown so much and the people back home were

city. One of my friends from my semester at TMS,

mostly the same.

CB, went to Chapin for her entire life before TMS,

I chose to go away for my junior-year spring

never even experiencing a co-ed school let alone a

semester because I needed a fresh start, because the

school outside of NYC. Her response to “Why did

programs I applied to would give me unique oppor-

you go away?” was “[To] escape NYC.” And as a

tunities, and because I was not very close with the

fellow New Yorker who has never lived anywhere

people in my grade. Most of my friends graduated

else, I completely understand wanting to run off

in 2024, so I knew when that happened I would

into the woods and escape the cramped urban city

want to find new people rather than reconnect with

life. Other people from big cities, including some

people at home. I also heard about the dreadful

semester-mates from Chicago and Los Angeles,

American Studies walking tour, and decided that

expressed similar sentiments. This implies a need

going away in the spring would probably give me

for nature in our lives. Cities like the ones we

something better. From what I’ve heard, I was right

wanted to escape are a relatively new thing. Most

about that.

people have opportunities to touch grass or climb

But not everyone had mostly friends who were

trees in their big backyard, but that was something

graduating years before them or walking tours to

many of us lacked. I love the paved roads and

avoid. Sure, some people I know who went away

sounds and the “I don’t care about anything else” 85

attitude of New York City, but I also love being out-

that learning does not have to be boring or infuriat-

side in the forest, where there are trees and animals

ing. The semester programs usually have a main

and no one around that you can see, and it’s nice

focus, like TMS being about the environment and

having a break from big cities from time to time.

sustainability and farming, or School Year Abroad

The idea of escaping home to get a fresh start also came up a lot. Some of us just wanted a

and culture. I think many of us like having that

change of pace. We had grown up and stayed in

main focus to guide our learning and school experi-

(mostly) the same place for most of our lives, and

ence instead of learning a generalized curriculum

wanted to try something completely different.

made for both everyone and no one at the same

Maybe being in the same location, attending the

time. We learn by going outside in 5°F weather to

same school, or being with the same people for

look at rocks and trees because we want to. We’re

most of our lives got tiring after a while. Maybe we

not just cooped up in a classroom learning about

wanted to meet more people from other places.

things we don’t care about anymore. We have a

Maybe we wanted to just not have to see our par-

main idea that everything our classes revolve

ents for a while. Maybe we just wanted to try

around and everything we do there is connected.

something new. In my case, time away from the

We are given reasons to care.

grade I was not close to but was forced to be

I also noticed the word “care” come up a lot—

around after my friends graduated was exactly

specifically caring about the people or the subject

what I needed to stay sane. I did not realize the

matter or the experience itself. Caring about the

sheer extent to which I was trying to make myself

environment was a large part of the TMS experi-

more palatable to the people in my grade, instead

ence, and caring about each other was also a key

of finding better people. I became so much more

point. Back home, we are often not given a reason

confident after that experience to the point where

to care about school, the people around us, or any-

my TMS friends noticed, and I’m glad I got that

thing that does not concern us. My friend Anna

opportunity to start over at sixteen instead of wait-

from my semester mentioned, “I wanted to care

ing two more years for college.

about something bigger than myself and the pres-

Many people mentioned going to a school that

being about immersing students in a new language

surized academic culture I felt like I was in.” Forty-

other people actually wanted to attend instead of

five people living together and doing everything

being forced to do so. The idea of everyone having

from going to class to sleeping in close proximity

chosen to be away from home and in this space

was one way to make it much easier to care about

can be comforting or reassuring because it implies

the people around us. I started showering earlier

than at home because my dormmates slept closer to

outside and see the things we were learning about.

the shower than I do, and we learned to keep quiet

For example, we learned about pioneer tree species

because sound travelled through the dorm walls

like white pines and paper birches. Then, we would

very easily. We also learned about systems and how

go outside and see those trees sprouting in a mostly

a good system is a cycle that does not need outside

just grassy area, which we would later learn lacked

influence to function properly. Things like compost

trees because it was previously used as pasture.

feeding the plants that feed the animals, and then

Being able to see and relate to the things we were

the animals feeding us, and us making compost to

learning about was much more interesting than just

feed the plants, and so on. These closed systems are

sitting in the classroom. And it was especially fun to

much more sustainable and easier to maintain than

do farm work and chop wood, which would help

ones that require outside influence, whether the

feed the humans (and other animals) and the boiler

system is around food production or housework.

respectively, as part of school.

This was just as much of an aspect of our learning

All the benefits I mentioned to going away

as anything we learned in English or math or envi-

were a part of school. The school day did not end

ronmental science. We wanted to be more selfless,

at 3:30 like it does back home—it continued into

which is hard in a capitalistic society. But TMS felt

the night and never really ended. Everything we

like it was outside of that and we got to experience

did was school, which included the classes them-

an alternative lifestyle. I miss it a lot.

selves, but also pertained to learning to navigate

We also wanted to go away for new experi-

life outside of home (whether in a dorm like TMS

ences and perspectives. Most of the away-from-

or a host family like Study Year Abroad), learning

home experience happens after becoming a legal

time management, learning how to care about

adult, and some of us are too curious to wait that

other people. It even encompassed yelling through

long. We want answers to questions like What else

the floor at my downstairs dormmates at bedtime.

is out there in the world for us to learn? What

It was all school, but having it extend outside of

new people can we meet? What can help with the

the classroom was one of the key reasons as to

issues I care about? and what people out there

why I preferred it to regular school. I found myself

are like me who I would never otherwise cross

remembering things about the environment or food

paths with?

or daily systems, whereas I forgot the laws of

There’s also the experience at a particular school

cosines at the end of precalculus because they

itself. I was very excited for the hands-on and place-

weren’t relevant. Living is learning, and figuring

based learning styles, where we got to physically go

out our place somewhere is learning as well.

The Things We Ignore ALEX B Grade 12 l Photography

Poetr y

Pale Blue Flash by O S A R I E M E N O l Grade 10

THE SUN HAD FALLEN twice that day A silent promise lost to sleep A peaceful night is all we pray. The smoke fell thick, not born away Yet still a horror sank deep The sun had fallen twice that day. The boats halted at their old bay A broken rhythm hard to keep A peaceful night is all we pray. Skies painted wrong, life there may The wind was unsure how to weep The sun had fallen twice that day. Screams and cries haunted doomsday No dream could scale this endless heap A peaceful night is all we pray. As this scene unfolded, I lay No life to hold, no dreams to keep The sun had fallen twice that day A peaceful night is all we pray.

Bald Head SORAYA G Grade 12 l Ceramic Stoneware

Chopper AARON E Grade 11 l Ceramic Stoneware

Dragon Piece ALEX B Grade 12 l Ceramic Stoneware

Personal Essay

The Rules of Fishing by SARA AH l Grade 10

RULE ONE: KNOW WHAT YOU ARE

brother, is only eleven but already dangerously

GETTING YOURSELF INTO

obsessed with fishing. He’s “will-cast-off-in-the-

It’s currently 10 pm on the night before break,

aquarium-if-you-don’t-watch-him” obsessed. He

and I’m nestled up in my favorite warm, heavy

knows everything: tide charts, lure types, dou-

blanket, surrounded by soft pillows and the kind

ble knots, fish moods. He drags his fishing rods

of warmth that makes you swear you’ll never

and tackle box everywhere like it’s his security

leave your bed again. The lights are out, and

blanket. Every bait store in the neighborhood

the house is quiet. Everything indicates that I

knows him so well they start packing up the

should be drifting toward sleep and a long over-

bunker and worms before he even walks in, and

due Thanksgiving break—not reaching for my

the Sheepshead Bay charter captains basically

phone to set up an alarm for 6 am, a time that

adopted him as their overenthusiastic deckhead.

“ADAM . . . IS ALREADY DANGEROUSLY OBSESSED WITH FISHING. HE’S LIKE, ‘WILL-CAST-OFF-INTHE-AQUARIUMIF-YOU-DON’TWATCH-HIM’ OBSESSED.”

should be illegal during

Adam has also taken it upon himself to intro-

school breaks. My

duce me to the whole fishing experience.

room is warm and peaceful; the weather

RULE TWO: THE TIDE DICTATES

forecast for tomorrow is

YOUR LIFE

NOT. It’s actually quite

My alarm erupts at 6 am, not politely and defi-

the opposite. I set aside

nitely not gently. It shrieks at me like I owe it a

my phone and pull the

million dollars. I roll out of bed into the dark-

blanket over me, won-

ness, half asleep and fully regretting every deci-

dering why I agreed

sion I made yesterday. I shuffle out into the hall

agreed to this.

and freeze in shock—Adam is already up, fully

By tomorrow

dressed, and ready. Unlike the mornings before

morning, I’ll be trading

school, when it takes an entire army and a full-

my blankets for cold air

blown special operation to get him up on time,

and a fishing rod.

he is as energetic and awake as ever.

Adam, my younger

“We have to go!” He’s practically scream-

ing in my face, “The tide is going to turn.” The tide, apparently, controls our schedule,

RULE THREE: DON’T FORGET TO GET YOUR ROD

our future, and possibly the fate of humanity.

When we finally make it to the pier, Adam

We rush out the door and to the bait store

hands me a rod to hold—a responsibility I am

before I can register what’s happening. Bernie’s

not emotionally ready for.

Bait and Tackle, the bait store my brother will never stop talking about,

“THE TIDE, APPARENTLY, CONTROLS OUR SCHEDULE, OUR FUTURE, AND POSSIBLY THE FATE OF HUMANITY.”

smells like an ocean and a wet dog at the same time. Adam navigates the clutter

“Tie the knot like this,” he says as his fingers loop and twist between the braided line. My knot looks sad and limp, like a failed art project. “Yeah, good enough,” he announces, which

of rods and buckets without

is quite generous. He adjusts the weights,

hesitating, already on his

explains the height of the rod, and rambles

way to the hooks and rigs.

about how seasons and water temperature affect

By the time we end up at

fish behavior. I nod along as if I understand,

the long rows of weights,

which I absolutely do not.

Adam and the owner are already in deep conversation

RULE FOUR: JUST IGNORE THE WIND

about their favorite bait.

The wind is violent—not dramatic, not incon-

The morning light just

vient—violent. It slaps me the moment we step

hits the dusty floor when

on the pier. My fingers stiffen, my eyes water,

Adam announces that the

and my soul questions its life choices.

tide is “not good yet” and that we have to wait. So we wait—because the tide said so.

Meanwhile, all the actual fishermen around us stand calmly, staring into the ocean as if the wind doesn’t exist. They don’t blink, flinch, or shiver. They just stand there, deeply, while I try not to freeze to death.

Splatter Bowl EVA G Grade 9 l Ceramic Stoneware

RULE FIVE: YOU DON’T NEED TO UNDERSTAND IT TO ENJOY IT

RULE SIX: FISHING DOESN’T STOP

As I “fish,” I begin to realize that fishing isn’t

WHEN YOU GO HOME

actually fishing. It’s standing. It’s waiting. It’s

The second I walk through the door, the smell

listening to the ocean slap against the wooden

hits me—ocean, salt, and that mysterious fishy

posts. I don’t understand the science of it or

tang that clings to everything. Adam immedi-

how Adam magically knows when to reel in or

ately runs to the kitchen with his catch, grabs

let out the line, but I understand the peace of it.

scissors, and starts gutting and cleaning.

I understand the peace in the stillness and

The rods left in the front of the house lean

perceive how the world feels slower. I observe

against the wall like exhausted soldiers. The

the way the fishermen’s faces glow with pure

stinky bait containers have somehow multiplied

“. . . I BEGIN TO REALIZE THAT FISHING ISN’T ACTUALLY FISHING. IT’S STANDING. IT’S WAITING. IT’S LISTENING TO THE OCEAN SLAP AGAINST THE WOODEN POSTS.”

joy when their rod shakes

and ended up in places they weren’t earlier. In

or when they go from

all this chaos, I realize that fishing—unlike

standing completely still

fish—doesn’t die.

to yelling and pulling vigorously. I witness the

RULE SEVEN: IT’S NOT REALLY

excitement with which

ABOUT THE FISH

each catch is celebrated

That night, we have dinner as a family. The fish

by the entire fishing com-

sizzle in the pan, filling the kitchen with a rich,

munity. It’s all weirdly

comforting warmth. Adam talks nonstop about

nice.

tides, bait, knots, rods, and how “next time you’ll catch a big one.” He glows in that unmistakable way people do when they’re talking about something they love. And somewhere between his excitement and the soft comfort of the dinner table I realize that I didn’t actually go out there to fish. I went because it meant a whole day with Adam, which we almost never get when we‘re each lost in our own lives.

Coffee Break ELI R Grade 11 l Photography

50km KEVIN L Grade 11 l Ceramic Stoneware

Personal Essay

The Superhero by MADELINE K l Grade 10

WHENEVER I FIND MYSELF burrowing under

door handle when my

the covers in fear of a make-believe monster, my

dad suddenly answered a

parents never fail to point out that I simply have

voicemail from my mom

an “extremely active imagination.” It is a powerful

and burst into wailing

tool, but it also frequently takes over my mind

tears: he told me through

when I find myself afraid of the unknown.

sobs that my mom

“. . . BUT I DID GRASP THAT MY DAD NEEDED ME WITH HIM AND THAT MY NINE-YEAR-OLD SELF HAD TO BE THE STRONG FORCE HOLDING HIS BROKEN HEART TOGETHER.”

When I was a child, my dad’s best friend, a

wouldn’t be able to make

man who lived in the garden floor of our building

it to the performance. I

and whom I called “Uncle Al,” died. But when my

was disappointed and

parents told me the news of his passing, my

worried, but my impend-

cheeks remained dry. While my mind buzzed with

ing meltdown quickly

emotions, I simply looked at them, standing before

subsided when I noticed

me like tall trees—strong, towering grounded—and

my once-grounded father

pondered. It wasn’t as though I wouldn’t miss

doubling over in agony.

him—he meant the world to me—I just didn’t

When I finally realized

understand. I used to fear death more than any-

that he was more upset than I could ever be at

thing because I didn’t understand it. I simply drift-

that moment, I squirmed into a spot next to him

ed through life like a fallen leaf, hoping the wind

on the sofa and hugged him tighter than I ever

wouldn’t drop me. I found myself pathetically out

had in my life. And I stayed like that. I didn’t

of control.

understand what had happened, but I did grasp

It was June 6, 2019, the day the Lower School

that my dad needed me with him and that my

chorus was scheduled to perform a song at the

nine-year-old self had to be the strong force hold-

goodbye party thrown for our former head of

ing his broken heart together. So I kept on hugging

school, Mr. Vitalo. As someone who had major

him. For a brief moment, I felt brave—I felt like a

attachment issues, I was counting on both my par-

superhero. When he finally regained his compo-

ents being there. My hand was inching toward the

sure, my dad told me that my mom couldn’t be

here because she needed to be with my aunt, who

It was time for the talk. Once I finally dragged

had lost a friend in the city. Even though I had no

myself over to the living room, my parents told

clue who this “friend” was, I began to sob.

me to sit down on the couch. I couldn’t help but

I feel selfish that I cried without knowing the

notice the box of tissues at my disposal on the

true extent of my parents’ grief, especially

ottoman. My brow creased in concern and befud-

because what my father had told me was far from

dlement.

the truth. At the same time I thought I was pro-

It was then that I saw that face again—that

tecting him, he was really the one protecting me.

same grieving, disbelieving expression that had

A few days later, my dad dropped me off at

taken over my dad that Sunday morning. My

my mom’s house after an outing. When he stuck

mom sucked in a deep breath, as though she was

around, lingering at our dining room table, I tilted

trying to fill her lungs with all the air in the world.

my head in confusion.

Finally, she opened her mouth to speak.

“Can you go to your room for a couple minutes, Maddy? Mommy and I need to have a talk,” he said quietly.

“Your cousin Frankie . . . she died.” This time, I wept and I finally understood how willow trees felt. Like it was not gravity but

I stared at them hesitantly, then obeyed and

anguish that was pulling them farther and farther

shuffled down the hall to my dimly lit bedroom.

down until they were just about ready to snap in

They’re mad at me, I thought. I was in trouble,

half.

but for what? So I curled up in my clam chair and tried to distract myself from the most suspenseful moment I had ever experienced. I picked up a book—The Land of Stories—and opened it to around page 30. I can still recall every detail: the main female character, a pretentious middleschool student, had been standing in the bathroom of her school bracing to get transported to mysterious lands with fairies and dragons and villains and— “Maddy!”

100

“THIS TIME, I WEPT, AND I FINALLY UNDERSTOOD HOW WILLOW TREES FELT.”

It was not my aunt’s friend who had died on

“Your mom will die,”

Sunday, but her daughter. Frankie was my best

my mind told me. “But if

friend, my role model. She was like a sister to

you walk through that

me. She was seventeen. And now she was gone

door one more time, she

from our lives forever, and I had done absolutely

will be saved!” So that’s

nothing to stop it.

what I did. These

I finally understood. I couldn’t be selfish or a

thoughts proved to be so

slave to death anymore. I had to be fearless—a

agitating that my only

superhero. I had to learn to control the uncontrol-

respite was obeying them.

lable, to be that strong force that had held my

Some would say that I

father together. I was never going to be a weeping

was being superstitious,

willow ever again.

but my parent's concern

It started with the book—The Land of Stories. I stopped reading it completely, burying it in the

“I FINALLY UNDERSTOOD. I COULDN’T BE SELFISH OR A SLAVE TO DEATH ANYMORE. I HAD TO BE FEARLESS— A SUPERHERO.”

showed me that it was more than that.

back of my cabinet to collect dust. Maybe it’s a

“You have OCD—obsessive compulsive

curse, I thought. Maybe If I never read it again, I

disorder,” the psychiatrist told me. When I heard

would never know the pain I had felt. Yeah, pretty

this, I simply nodded—I think I had known for a

far-fetched, but that’s where the imagination

while. My thoughts, these domineering dictators

comes into play. See, I was becoming courageous.

that inhabited every aspect of my being, wouldn’t

I was no longer afraid of death because I knew it—

let me forget it: something was wrong with me.

I understood it. And my thoughts knew exactly how to control it. I started thinking about things—What if this

The compulsive behavior just kept getting worse, because I believed I could fix everything. You have a cough? Turn a light switch on and off

happened to my mom? My dad? My best friend?

a couple times and you won’t lose your voice.

Or me? I found solace in repetitive behaviors such

Someone isn’t available to hang out? Rewrite your

as walking through a door multiple times because

answer to that homework question, and it won’t

that was what my mind told me to do. My

be because they’re sick of you. Your mom’s on an

thoughts loomed over me like a shadow as I per-

airplane? Just say the same thing everyday when

formed everyday tasks.

you leave the house, and she won’t crash. Pretty

101

foolproof if you’re a fool. Which I wasn’t. I knew it

wonder, or both. However this same imagination

wasn’t real. But I felt as though I was caught in a

allows people to create stories, build possibilities,

riptide: I could see the way to the shore, but I still

and save lives. So yes, my imagination and my

couldn’t escape the waves. Even though I knew it

thoughts did try to take over my mind, and yes,

was all in my head, I thought that these rituals

I’m still learning how to work in tandem with

would somehow make me feel better. And in the

them and not for them. But I have to remember

short term, they did—each thought would disap-

that it is this imagination and ability to think that

pear for a second, and I could breathe a sigh of

has helped me to survive, create, remember the

relief. But unfortunately, this thing was long term.

beautiful moments I had with those I lost, and

It still is long term. And trying to “save the world”

envision a better future for them, wherever they

one compulsion at a time did nothing but fill me

may be.

with dread and riddle me with panic attacks.

And aren’t weeping willows so beautiful?

I thought I understood it all. I thought that the benefit of experiencing death would be that it cleared everything up, that it would help me to fight against the bad things that happened to people—to not be afraid of them. But the more I tried to control things, the more things felt out of control. The experience of my cousin’s death did nothing but make everything muddy. But I can’t help but think that maybe that’s life. It muddies you. When you heal from it, it leaves scars on you that you’ll carry for the rest of your time on earth, like my disorder. It bends you like a weeping willow’s branches. And the same thing that makes life beautiful is also the thing that makes it terrifying—the unknown. It leaves room for the imagination to fill itself with fear, or

102

“AND AREN’T WEEPING WILLOWS SO BEAUTIFUL?”

Ivy RAFAEL B Grade 11 l Ceramic Stoneware

103

(Wo)man in the Mirror ISABEL C Grade 10 l Charcoal

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Self-Portrait AURORA P Grade 10 l Charcoal

105

Humor

Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Finishes a Half-Marathon? by ISABEL C l Grade 10

SWEAT TRICKLED DOWN my face again,

BEEP BEEP!

bringing the same strand of hair along with it.

My alarm clock blared. I groaned and threw

Instinctively, I flung my hand across my

myself out of bed. I quickly brushed my teeth,

forehead, a motion now ingrained in muscle

tied up my hair, and slipped into some athlet-

memory over the past 2.5 hours. At this

ic clothes. Downstairs, I chugged a cup of

point, the vocal symphony of Lin Manuel

water. I was sure there would be water foun-

Miranda and Leslie Odom Jr. was the only

tains in the park, but better safe than sorry.

thing keeping both my legs and spirit from

I’m not really sure

crumpling beneath me. Each breath was a

what carb loading is,

battle, each step a war. But if America could

but I had hoped that

beat the British, I sure as hell could beat

Thanksgiving dinner

Prospect Park.

from the previous

Running isn’t a real sport. This has been

to tide me over. As I

the-year ice breaker since I started playing

opened the door, I was

hockey, the most physically demanding sport

suddenly struck by

out there. So, when our Voice and Style

doubt: Was this a

teacher, Ms. Iuni, told me I had to find a new

completely stupid

“experience” to write an essay about, I decid-

idea? I shook off the

ed that running a half-marathon would be

negativity. It’s only a

interesting and fairly easy. I spent seven

run, I thought. How

hours a week putting my body through the

hard could it be?

most extreme training for hockey. Running a few laps would be a piece of cake.

106

night would be enough

my go-to “hot take” for every beginning-of-

“THE BRISK MORNING AIR FLOODED MY SENSES, AND WITHIN MINUTES I FOUND MYSELF AT THE STARTING POINT OF THE INFAMOUS PROSPECT PARK LOOP.”

ZERO MILES.

TWO MILES.

The brisk morning air flooded my senses, and

TWO FREAKING MILES!! Holy crap. I couldn't

within minutes I found myself at the starting

do this. Thirty minutes had already passed, and I

point of the infamous Prospect Park loop. My

was barely a sixth of the way through. On top of

goal of 13.1 miles would take approximately

all this, my breathing was getting labored, and I

four rotations. I began the first lap with a light

could start to feel the lactic acid building in my

jog, and I knew right away that this would be

calves .

easy work. The cascading fall leaves and the scent of last night’s rain created the perfect

SIX MILES.

environment for a morning run. I carefully

In the distance, I spotted the dark green metallic

plugged in each AirPod and started the playlist

silhouette of a water fountain and stopped hum-

of one of my all-time favorite Broadway shows

ming the lyrics to “Satisfied.” I was relieved to

and my secret weapon for the journey:

pause and catch my breath, but to my dismay,

Hamilton.

the spout came up dry. No way. The water foun-

My confidence was short-lived. Just as I had started to pick up my pace, I was met with a stabbing pain in my side. How was it even pos-

tains stopped running in the winter. I had completely forgotten. It slowly dawned on me the ridiculousness of

sible to get a cramp if I didn’t eat? I slowed to

what I had decided to do. My lungs were burn-

a walk and brought my hands above my head,

ing, my legs trembling, and my will to live decid-

a trick I learned to deal with these workout

edly leaving me. I couldn’t do this. I was going

demons. Pain coursed through my muscles, and

to die in this park next to some Prohibition-era

I couldn’t stop myself from doubling over. After

water fountain. I only came to my senses when a

what seemed like ages, the stinging subsided

withered older man wearing a burgundy Adidas

and I could finally stand again. My eyes landed

track suit and Nike sneakers cut around my

on a familiar set of trees and houses. In a flurry

shaking body. I mentally slapped myself. I was

of anger and confusion, I pulled out my phone,

not about to be beaten by an old man, especially

and sure enough, the numbers glaring back

not one with deplorable fashion sense.

read,

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TEN MILES. I was just about to give up when I rounded a familiar turn, mercifully signifying my final circle around this godforsaken park. As I readied myself for that last stretch, a flash of red and white stripes marred my vision. Rage consumed me as I realized it was the same old man from mile six. This guy was literally on his seventieth rotation around the sun and lapping a sixteen-year-old with healthy limbs and a strong respiratory system. I was supposed to be fit!

THIRTEEN MILES. My ragged breaths began to slow, and I wiped a

“THE CONCEPT OF EVER USING MY LEGS AGAIN WAS ENOUGH TO SEND ME INTO PSYCHOSIS, BUT UNDER THE PAIN, INCREDIBLY, WAS PRIDE.”

bead of sweat off my forehead. My thoughts spiraled down implausible rabbit holes. If running is really this draining, then is hockey even hard at all? And if hockey isn’t hard at all,

into psychosis, but under the pain, incredibly,

then am I even an athlete? And if I’m not an

was pride. Not only had I just pushed my body

athlete, then what am I?

to its limits—limits I never even knew existed—

My vision narrowed to my maroon house; I could barely move. I was positive I would collapse before I could make those final ten stairs. My calves were burning from the inside out, and I could literally feel my hips rotate with each step. I pushed open my brownstone doors with the last of my might and lunged onto my absolutely beautiful couch. The concept of ever using my legs again was enough to send me

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but I also overcame the sport-based superiority complex I had always had. I still don’t believe that running is a sport; no, running is straight abuse.

Platform ELIJAH D Grade 11 l Photography

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Poetr y

Latticed Palms by OSARIEMEN O l Grade 10

THIS MORNING, THE FROST has made glass of the world again. A floret may remain only if it avoids the stiffening hands of a winter’s night. Even a bloom in frost becomes glass. Glass beneath noon glistens like water. Water under sun washes to vapor, and vapor is nothing but the essence of what once was. The frost knows this. It freezes petals into daggers, seizes warmth, crumples fragility, and blows them far as snow in the wind. It is aware that even the most delicate orchids go sharp in the winter’s palm. A florist takes a breath on a brumal window, the frost making a new lattice along the glass. A child plays in the snow, feeling the piercing of its teeth, a blanket of snow enveloping his hands like a wolf cradles a rabbit. Once, an idol glided in, believing herself to be tempered of something more pliant. Something softer. Believing herself to be so delicately crafted that not even the frost could harden her yielding grace. The cold stung her mouth; glazed her limbs, her shins, and her eyes; and yet she waltzed, as soft as silk. But the frost was stubbornly wrathful, tapping at the glass, shattering her silk. When the cold settled, she was nothing but shards of ice in the wind, rushing like snow. And even as the night exhales, the bites of frost still shred the earth.

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So What are We Going to Do Next? ELSIE WM Grade 11 l Digital Painting

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30cm x 12cm Vase + 17cm Planter OSKAR B Grade 12 l Glazed Wheel-Thrown Porcelain

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Thumbs-up MARY L Grade 11 l Wheel-Thrown Porcelain

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Fiction

Spouse, House by VERONICA M l Grade 11

TODAY I WIPE MILK splashes and coffee

on the ground, but he falls back asleep before

rings from the dining table. I mop the floors

I respond. Today my back aches, as if it were

free of hair and tracked-in mud, but I don’t

supporting hundreds of pounds. Still, I clean

mind. The floorboards creak, so I work talcum

the house before my children return from

powder—the same decade-old bottle of pow-

school and my husband returns from work.

der I once dusted on my youngest daughter’s

After all, a home must be cared for, even

diaper rash—into the crevices. My other

when I ache. My daughter drops a bowl of

daughter, defying my requests for her to stop,

tomato soup on the ground. The red liquid

carelessly drags her hands along the wall,

splatters, and the poor girl cries. I assure her I

leaving streaks of fingerprints, but I really

don’t mind as I wipe the soup off of the fresh-

don’t mind. I follow close behind her to

ly powdered floors. I will re-powder them

resolve the mess. My family won’t help me

soon. I stand up and my knees creak. No,

clean, but I don’t want them to. I need to pro-

they groan. They groan like the floorboards—

vide them with the best home, and after all, a

I really need to re-powder these floorboards.

home must be cared for. So I clean and clean until the dust keeps still. Every night, after no chairs are left un-pushed, no mess is left uncleaned, every item is in its place, and my family is asleep, I lie on the ground. I feel the skeleton of the house reassure me of its appreciation. Tonight as I lie on the ground, I think I can feel a pulse, like the ground is breathing underneath my body. I relax with the movement, and accidentally fall asleep on the freshly powdered wood. After his morning alarm goes off, my husband asks why I lay

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“TONIGHT AS I LIE ON THE GROUND, I THINK I CAN FEEL A PULSE, LIKE THE GROUND IS BREATHING UNDERNEATH MY BODY.”

And still, I clean. Day after day I clean. Today, as I wipe water off the sides of my sink, flakes fall onto my sponge. My skin is peeling and chipping like old paint. That reminds me—I must repaint the bedroom walls. They are turning an unpleasant fleshy-orange color. My husband dislikes it. Today as I walk to my bathroom, I can’t see my feet. No, it’s not that I can’t see my feet—I can see them, but they’re too long and they stretch on throughout the whole hallway, and I can’t see where they end. Shoot. I forgot to powder the floors. As I walk I can’t tell if my

“WHEN THE FLOORS GET CREAKY, I POWDER MY KNEES. AFTER ALL, THE MOTHER MUST CARE FOR THE HOME. THE MOTHER IS THE HOME.”

knees or the floorboards are creaking. Either way, I need to powder the floors. My daughters get frightened when they creak. Tonight I apologize to my family. They

scream. So I don’t scream. I won’t scream. I

notice that I haven’t cleaned the house well.

stay quiet and incubate my family as they get

Tonight as I lie on the ground, I can’t feel

ready for their days. I cough and my daughter

my back, or my legs, or my body. I can’t feel it

trips down my stairs, so I extend my finger to

when my ribs become the walls, or when my

catch her. As she regains her balance, I silently

feet become the floor. I can’t feel it when my

hope. I hope that she will feel my pulse in the

scalp stretches out and becomes the roof. I can’t

walls. I hope she will feel me. But no, that

feel it.

would scare her, and I don’t want her to be

But I feel it today.

scared. Houses don’t breathe. So I hold my

My family walks through me. I feel my

breath.

husband stepping on my lungs and squishing

When the floors get creaky, I powder my

my organs. I want to scream. But houses don’t

knees. After all, the mother must care for the

scream. They can’t scream. Houses cannot

home. The mother is the home.

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Tonight as my daughter sleeps, I watch her.

they crash through my head and my scalp falls.

I blow hot air onto her face. The corners of her

My daughters watch in amazement. They ham-

lips turn up. I am here. Don’t forget me. Except

mer me and break me. And now I am gone.

I cannot say this. Houses cannot talk.

Finally, my family can be happy. Finally. I lie stacked on top of myself. I want to cry. But

No matter how many weeks pass, my

houses don’t cry.

family doesn’t realize I am here. Every day they walk through me. Every day I hold them. But no one can hold me. People cannot hold houses. I am the frame and the structure, and they live in it. This makes me happy. After all, the mother nurtures the home for the family. Today, they talk about renovating the house. They are unhappy with the creaky floors and fleshy, dried walls. Renovating the house will make my family happy. Today, the contractors arrive with hammers and bulldozers. After all, the mother nurtures the home for the family. The family is not pleased with the home. The mother is the home. The mother must go away. I want to resist, tighten my muscles, and hold off the destruction. But this is what my family wants. I have to give them what they want. They crash through my ribcage and back. Each rib falls one by one. They break down my arms and snap my toes. My husband laughs as

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“THEY CRASH THROUGH MY RIBCAGE AND BACK. EACH RIB FALLS ONE BY ONE. THEY BREAK DOWN MY ARMS AND SNAP MY TOES.”

Russets ELSIE WM Grade 11 l Watercolor

181 Lincoln Place Brooklyn, NY 11217 www.berkeleycarroll.org

P: (718) 789-6060 F: (718) 398-3640 Enrollment: 334 Faculty: 87 reflections@berkeleycarroll.org Typeface: Caxton, Futura, Adobe Garamond Pro Paper Stock: Endurance cover/Endurance text Computer Equipment: iMac M1 Software: QuarkXPress, Adobe Photoshop Number of Copies: 500 Design: Studio Lane Printer: William Charles Printing