Perspective 2018-2019

Table of Contents Writing

Art

Can You Hear the Music? ....................Olivia Landolfo • Serena Scalcione ........................................................4--5 Two Letters ...............................................Ashley Khoo • Tyler Wang..................................................................6-7 Still Life.....................................................Lara Morello • Tyler Wang.................................................................8-9 An Open Letter to the Industry..................Julia Butler • Alex Hastings............................................................10-11 The Fragile Beauty........................................Nina Zhao • Finn Murphy............................................................12-15 The Prosecutor..............................................Devi Priya • Spencer Smith...........................................................16-17 Always Put It In Context...........................Jessica Zeng • David Luo.................................................................18-19 This is God............................................Madison Clubb • Serena Scalcione.................................................... 20-21 Boredom...................................................Charlie Davis • Ellie Anderson........................................................22-23 My Name..........................................................Nia Patel • Angelina Rodgers....................................................24-25 Everybody’s Happy Now.............. Fapianey Alexandre • Angelina Rodgers....................................................26-27 Graphic Novel.........................................Natalie Garcia • Natalie Garcia..........................................................28--37 Rebirth, Dreams...................................Noah Silverstein • Ellie Anderson..........................................................38--39 Vignettes.....................................................Diego Guou • Lexi Downey, Ella Ricahrdson................................4 0-43 Where I’m From..........................................Telvia Perez • Emily Lekas..............................................................4 4-45 Sonnet.................................................Angelina Rogers • Nina Zhao.................................................................4 6-47 Color Me Green...........................................Julia Butler • Max Frohman, Emily Lekas.....................................4 8--51 Six Word Story.......................................Shania Espada • Ella Richardson........................................................52--53 Grant Memoir...........................................Adrian Grant • Nithya Badarinath...................................................54--55 The Sculptor .............................................Jessica Zeng • Megan Mcgrath...................................................... 56--57 Colophon and Podcast Links .............................................................................................................................58--59

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Claire Ritter ‘19

Haley Bowmaster ‘20

Avani Bansal ‘21

Emily Lekas ‘21

Lily Healy ‘19

Serena Scalcione ‘19

Sophia Petrou ‘19

Sophia Klim ‘20

3

Can You Hear the Music?

Music. It is something that is all around us, even inside all of us; but only some discover what music truly means.

I hear it in the wind and around the corner of that old playground swing. The sound of little girls laughing, jumping, dancing; following each other in a pattern of sheet music. Different girls, different notes, but all come together and create something beautiful.

I hear it when the cars drive by on a cold, rainy day, making me cry as if God was sad also. The sounds of rain dripping onto the window, almost like his own way of writing his personal heartbreak song. A sad song, lyric, thought, can discover what we truly feel in our hearts.

I hear it in the sounds of footsteps running up the stairs. The hard crash of a heavy homework load or the sounds of typing fingers as if it was a never-ending sentence, explaining life itself. Or the constant fear of the first presentation of the year. For me, my usual “nervous laughter” resulted in the sounds of stutters and agonizing tears as I drive home with Adele’s songs blaring through the speakers.

Those bluesy feelings every high school student bears and bares.

I hear the sounds of excitement at a basketball game or party. The joy, happiness, change; just one fun pop song. Especially during the final play, as the ball bounces on the ground; almost like a heartbeat beat beat.

I hear music in all 4 seasons, 365 days, 24 hours. The smell of summertime air and how the wind hits my forehead ever so slightly. The time of new adventures and summer loves as if “Summertime Sadness” repeated in every single teenage mind. The sounds of crushed leaves in the fall, creating a beautiful percussion of nature’s change. Or the laughter of family and friends gathered around for Thanksgiving dinner.Now awaiting Winter’s arrival, one can hear the joyful noises of Christmas bells and lights being strung around the Christmas tree, reminding all of the happy holiday. Hearing the crunch of cold under old, dusty boots which sounds like the start of a new year coming. But spring sounds like new beginnings; for flowers, animals. I hear it in the cool winds’ rush for summer and the changing, bright colors of grass, trees, sky. Different seasons create nature’s own song of change and a chance for new beginnings.

I mostly hear it in the soft whispers of the ocean waves, and the sound of the shore crashing. The crushing of shells or a soft bird’s singing. I have never understood how I was born a human and not mermaid. I mean, I have always felt most at home in the water, in the waves. Yet, I wonder if those mysterious creatures have missed out on the music. Never able to dance to the drummers beat on my old garage door or been able to feel the scariest spotlight beaming down your sweaty, red face, waiting to hear the first ring of sound to start.

I could say music has deeply changed me for the better. The way I look and observe the world, nature, people. It has a tone for every mood, for every day, whether it’s sunny or rainy. But music is my way of expressing myself: the passion, the hate, the sadness, and the love of what the world brings me Music is my private journal;

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Serena Scalcione ‘19 Medium:: Colored pencils

where I can rewrite a memory or disregard the pressure from my so-called friends at parties. The few minutes where my mind isn’t worrying about the three tests and the homework due that morning.

The one and only thing I am completely in control of.

The willingness of lyrics flowing out as I’m rewriting my own memories, the sad, the bad, and all the laughs. And the mysterious unknown wonders I have; would or could my stories and songs connect to others?

I can say I profoundly hear the music through my old, broken guitar. But the real music comes from what I have allowed myself to experience: the freedom of choice, expression, love. It truly comes down to what makes one happy and how something can change your life and yourself. For me, music has a way of changing my outlook on the entire world.

I can hear the music.

Can you?

Olivia Landolfo ‘21

5

Two A letter to my nana’s fridge You always told me you had no favourites That in your eyes, all grandchildren were equal But even then I found it hard to believe Because when I pulled apart your ebony doors, You only held my favourite treats You hid the ice cream in the folds of your nightgown And the hersheys in the back pocket of your jeans Creeping back and forth with a teaspoon tucked under your nightcap So when mum rummaged through your shelves She saw only your infamous beetroot juice, Nothing else You took my side in every argument Protesting with the meek sounds of your rusty handle It was there I finally learnt That some knights in shining armour Come in the form of something more rectangular Now, saying the right thing at the right time takes talent Something that your gold magnets somehow learnt Each with their different words of wisdom Almost like the constellations that light up the night, My favourite was: “your dreams are on the other side of the wall of fear” I remember You always told me that you were fine But even then, I found it harder to believe,

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Because when I pulled apart your ebony doors my sweets were replaced With bottles with weird names And syringes and strange tubes I remember You hid the bottles in the folds of your nightgown And the syringes in the back pocket of your jeans Creeping back and forth with that gold teaspoon tucked under your nightcap Though no longer stained with the smudges of chocolate and smiles But with the toxic tint of fever medicine That reeked of tears, lies, and long lonely nights I remember you had a wish That you would live to see another small creature peering into your shelves That your rusty handle would once again do justice, That the little teaspoon would no longer reek And that your magnets would continue to reflect the dreams of a child Instead of the fear that kept adults captive Dear grandma, I wish you had told me this when you were alive That I was your favourite and that nothing was fine I am so sorry. I never noticed what constellations they were It was cancer, it had been this whole time

Letters

Tyler Wang Medium::Charcoal

A letter from my nana’s fridge Sweetheart, I’ve watched you grow, From the child who refused to eat, spitting out mashed food at their mother’s feet into a teenager, crying by my side eating ice cream that came from the same basket the seven loaves and fishes did now, like you’ve remembered my wishes, promise me you will remember this: Just as god plotted the points in the celestial hemisphere Giving us the borealis, ursa major and minor He plotted you, my ursa spectacular One in a million, one in seven billion And one day, if you’re ever feeling sad or lonely, Sweetheart, That same god gave you pens and a heart So go create wonders and piece words together, Paint them over a canvas and spin them into poetry then hold your head high speak them out loud and let the world hear you

-Ashley Khoo ‘20

7

still life the illusion of life is vital to the façade. fake wind blows away strands of her fake hair, peels away the edges of her fake eyelashes, cracks the lipstick off her fake smile.

CLICK. the light stains her vision.

CLICK. head tilt.

CLICK. hand on hip.

CLICK. one hand in her left pocket, the other tucking hair behind her ear, body angled slightly to the right, a casual curve to her spine, her eyes to the left side of the camera, giggling as if the photographer tells her a joke she doesn’t find funny.

CLICK. she has a list of one hundred poses. if she’s lucky, maybe one will appear on the website, entice a stranger to CLICK on her edited frame, her slimmed figure, her whitened teeth.

She wonders if the stranger realizes she buys clothes too, she only drinks coffee with at least two packets of sugar, she paints sunsets with more orange than red, under her makeup she too has freckles. or maybe the stranger doesn’t notice her at all. maybe the only proof of her life exists in frozen images on the Internet, in enhanced smiles and brightened eyes, where artificial wind is the sole indication of movement, of her identity as a human. maybe her body is a hanger, a hollow mount carved to display clothes, her cheap plastic face a blank canvas, never drawing too much attention away from the designs. companies want to sell the product, not the mannequin.

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-Lara Morello ‘21 Art: Anderson Leake ‘19

99

An Open Letter to the Industry To all of the singers, dancers, and rappers—the idol wannabes: If you are one who only wants what glitters and gleams, Be prepared for a life of broken, unfulfilled dreams.

For the ones who are willing to become trainees, I commend you. But still, there will be no amenities In these music manufacturers, called entertainment companies.

To SM, JYP, and YG—the Big Three Companies and all of the smaller Big Three wannabes: I berate you for not trying to offer the proper amenities To future idols to help them wipe their sweat, which gleams In the artificial fluorescent lighting of the dance studio. Oh, the poor trainees!

Yes, shine some limelight on the trainees, but what about their dreams?

Sometimes this industry shatters their dreams.

And sometimes the blame is cast justly on their companies, And sometimes the blame is cast justly on the trainees.

Such a cruel process, but it weeds out some of the wannabes— And it also weeds out CEOs’ true emotions, though their voracious expression still gleams.

But now, let’s move on to the industry’s (lack of) amenities.

Most of these companies have the capital for lustrous amenities.

From luxury dorms to bodyguards—it sounds like a wannabe’s dreams!

Closets filled with designer clothes, even the crystal door handle gleams!

But this is not the life for anyone working at entertainment companies— Unless you’re the CEO. So to all of the idol wannabes: That is not the reality for many, if any, trainees.

Back-breaking workouts, crash diets, and mind-boggling schedules are for trainees Along with crumby or sketchy or dysfunctional amenities.

This is my last warning for the idol wannabes: This is a job nonetheless. It can be hard and the life isn’t like your dreams.

Your rate of success isn’t guaranteed—for you or the companies.

Don’t rely on past idols’ success. Not everything that glitters gleams.

To the listeners and fans who possess their bias’ photo cards which gleams In your eyes: remember that he or she started as one of many passionate trainees; The industry is not always in favor of your favorite band or even the companies And sometimes the government is behind it; your bias may have not had basic amenities From their company; but they made to where they are today because of their dreams, Hard work, and personalities; and everyone started out as idol wannabes.

So regardless of if idols started in big or small companies as trainees or idol wannabes— Or maybe even both—everyone has a passion that gleams and hard-to-reach dreams.

Be cognizant of these features of the Korean Pop industry; music is one of many amenities.

-Julia Butler ‘19)

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-Alex Hastings ‘19

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11

The Fragile Beauty As Claudia woke up Monday morning, she found her body transformed into a beautiful mechanical creature, creaking all the time. She tried to stretch her body, but instead of moving, her body made a weird noise. Claudia was scared when she heard her joints scream painfully. What happened to my body? She thought.

Her body didn’t change shape. Her slender hands and legs glittered like milk, and she could see light reflected from her body. Was this a dream? Her skin became even paler-so pale that it looked waxy. Surprisingly, she found her skin had lost its softness. Touching it felt like touching a piece of porcelain.

Claudia tried to move her head around. As she turned her neck, her body made noises because of the friction. The sound is not enjoyable at all, she thought. Her room remained the same as last night when she was drunk and came back. It was impossible for her to take her time to arrange her room after she became famous singer. Her luxurious cheongsams, dresses and marten coats were randomly thrown on the floor. The old wooden house seemed to collapse at any time. There were holes on the walls, and there was dust everywhere.

It seemed that the servant women had not arrived yet. Her eyes wandered around the room and focused on a half-opened, bronze mirror. It looked like an antique from ancient time. The scarlet rose carved in the front of the mirror contrasted sharply with the rusty bronze in the back as if it would never fade away.

She moved her legs slightly, trying to get off her bed. She moved her body painfully, trying her best to twist her stiff joints and get off her bed, but she failed miserably. She fell from the bed with her right leg underneath her body. The broken porcelain pieces made scratches on the wooden floor. Claudia crawled inch by inch, her ears were almost deaf, which made it able for her to ignore her body screaming from pain.

“Can I just wake up from this horrible dream!” shouted Claudia. Suddenly, she found that her voice became softer and more elegant than before. She opened her mouth slightly, totally forgot about the fall a few seconds ago. This voice is perfect for me to sing, Claudia thought, being like seems beneficial. She sang a ballad in her soft voice in her awkward position on the half-lying on the floor. Surprisingly, every not is perfect. “My voice sounds autotuned.” she said, “Not bad.” She moved her head up and saw the bronze mirror on her desk. “Is this me?” she murmured. The figure in the mirror had long, curly black hair with pale skins. She looked sick, but perfect as an art collection in an antique store.

When Claudia was struggling with her body, she heard a voice from outside of her room: “Claudia, doll baby, are you there?” Oh, here comes my trouble, thought Claudia, That charming voice! It must be Lucas, my dear Lucas. Delightfully, she answered him in a sweet voice: “Yes, my dear.” She could hear him suddenly stopped walking. He paused and asked: “Claudia? Are you all right?” Claudia tried to crawl toward the door, but it was hard to balance herself when crawling on her hands with thirty joints connecting the porcelain. It was hard for her to hold the handstand position, and she painfully fell on the floor again.

My dear, I know it sounds like a joke, but...I transformed into a porcelain mannequin.” Claudia answered in her gentle, squeaky voice. “A mannequin?” He laughed, “Oh Claudia! Come on, don’t try to fool me. Open the door, Lucas laughed out of pure joy: “My little doll! Don’t you notice that your voice is so incredible now?” His eyes were full of money. “You should definitely sing at the party tonight! All the men on earth will love your voice. Isn’t that what you always want? You are going to be the most valuable thing at the party. Claudia, open the door, will you?”

Sure, I want that, thought Claudia, but now I am supposed to get to the door? I am still on the floor. It seemed that her delicate hands were not capable of supporting her body. She then started to crawl on the floor. Her body made scraping sounds when the porcelain moved on the floor. It hurts, she thought. After breaking half of her fingers, she reached the door. She was so eager to see Lucas that she could feel the pain from her broken fingers was fading. I must open the door, she thought. Unfortunately, she had no idea where the key was.

She might have lost it somewhere on the street, who knows? It seemed that she needs to use a violent way to open it.

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Finn Murphy ‘21 Gouache Finn Murphy ‘21

14

Irada Roopchalern ‘21

Claudia used her delicate hands to support her body against the desk and tried to stand up slowly. With support from the door, she stood up, but unable to keep balance. She was shaking, able to fall down again at any time. Claudia closed her eyes and abruptly crash into the poor wooden floor. With a huge noise, the door was open. Oh, poor Claudia! Her left arm was totally broken apart-pieces of porcelain scattered on the floor.

“Claudia! What…” Lucas’ words got stuck in his throat when he saw Claudia as a broken doll. Suffering from the unendurable pain, Claudia’s face was twisted. “It hurts.” She cried in her soft voice, “Lucas, I broke my arms and fingers. I can’t move. Can you take me to the hospital and fix me?” With great shock and anger, Lucas glued his eyes on Claudia: “Why did you break yourself? Claudia, don’t you know that your body’s worth lots of money? Now you are broken, who will listen to your songs?”

Claudia cried in pain and desperation: “Please...Lucas... fix me.” However, Lucas totally ignored her pain. “Listen, i am not fixing you since you are only a doll, and I can find any doll that I want to replace you. If you still want to have some value, come with me to the party tonight. Your voice is the only valuable thing to me, and I don’t want your body anymore.” Lucas said in disgust.

Claudia was shocked. Was he the man who always said he loves her, and who even gave up the precious time with his family and stayed with her? “Lucas, look at me, please. You said that you would always love me…

You can’t do this to me.” She cried in pain and sorrow. “Don’t you understand? I love you because of your voice and body.” Lucas moved his eyes away from her. His words completely pushed her into desperation. She said, bitterly: “I am... only a doll to you?” Lucas stared at her and gave no reply.

Claudia closed her eyes in pain. “My job and you are all that I have in my life. To satisfy you, I sing, dance, and party with men.” she signed, “But I never go to live my life.” As she said these words, her tears-those little glass balls- dropped and broke on the floor, “I always make choices for others’ sake, but this time, I want to make one for myself.” As always, Lucas refused to look at her. She looked at the window a few inches from the door and crawled over to the edge of it without him noticing. She used up all her strength to stand up: “This time, I am no longer your doll.”

When Lucas noticed where she was, it was too late. Suddenly, Claudia let go of her hands and fell out the window “I am free now.”

That was her last word in this world. With a huge noise her body shattered on the ground. When Lucas ran over to the window, he saw her broken body, and stood there for a while.

“It’s time to find a new doll,” He sighed and left the room.

- Chuqiao Zhao ‘21

15

The Prosecutor She argues

She watches

She leaves

She sits

She looks

She objects

The handcuffs

Victorious

In her office

Out the window

She questions

Slap the wrists of

Chin up

Trapped

That makes her

She wins and

The criminal

Head high

By the paperwork

Seem to the world as if

Prosecutes

She sends to jail

Proud

She reads

She is behind jail bars

-Devi Priya Patcha ‘21

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Spencer Smith ‘19

Sophia Petrou ‘19

17

Always Put It in Context

I first heard “Always put it in context” when I competed in Science Olympiad. I, a lowly seventh grader, partnered with a high school sophomore for Picture This, the nerd version of Pictionary. We practiced in a pattern using a whiteboard: First, my partner scribbled a spiraling line, with something underneath it… a snail shell?

The answer hit me like lightning. “Cochlea!” I yelled, and we switched places.

My partner needed to place at Nationals to advance next year, and he knew his best chance was our event. He acted like he didn’t care about it, yet the amount of time we spent practicing said otherwise.

For most terms, like evolution or cochlea, we memorized a picture. However, whenever I got a new term, like Darwin or angular displacement, my improvised drawings never led him to the correct answer.

After I told him the word, he always said, “You didn’t put it in context.”

I was confused. “It makes sense to you, because you know the word,” he always told me. “But you need to give others the context before you draw the specifics so they understand.”

Sitting in the computer lab, we would get into screaming matches that the team watched intently while chewing metaphorical popcorn.

It was worth it though. At nationals, I had to draw “grade” for the first time.

Letter grade! I drew a piece of paper with a circled symbol at the top.

He frowned at me, and I could hear his voice in my head.

Context.

It’s a test, so the context… I drew a school house.

“School? Test? Grade!”

That word got us fourth place. He got his medal; I got one definition of context.

Cultural context came later as an American child of Chinese immigrants. At six, I did fifth-grade math while my white friends played. At ten, I practiced piano every night while my white friends biked. All those miserable years, I resented my parents for not letting me be a kid.

Now I’m a sophomore, and I can put my parents into context: to them, hard work was the only way to survive in this country. To me, the drawing of the snail shell meant cochlea; to them, the shell was hard work, protection against an unwelcoming new home, built and controlled from the inside.

Hard work was the only way to get to my parents’ drawing of happiness: a successful professional career and a big suburban house, but my drawing of happiness was fun with friends and an urban life. To this day, our pictures don’t match up completely, and my screaming matches with my parents rival the ones I had with my partner. Even so, I know we’re drawing on the same whiteboard, and at the very least, I will always put it in context.

18 18

-- Jessica Zeng ‘21

-- David Luo ‘19

19

19

This is God The treetop is a dome—it’s leaves form a mosaic, Welcoming me into Nature’s Cathedral.

Here, sticks are her bones; They snap at my feet, In offering.

When tendrils of life, in the form of vines, creep, I know she is alive.

The rocks of her spine, Are glittering gospels; Her leaves are verses, Spoken in the wind.

A tree split into three is her Holy Trinity, And here, I find rest—this is her grace.

Faced with the lions of modern day, Her hair is shorn—a sacrilege, In the spirit of human suffrage.

Her limbs are rolled over by heavy machines, And shaped to fit a man-made mold.

But, in the midst of hellfire, She beats back the brimstone; Peeking out from beneath the stones, And digging deeper roots; She’ll be found, if you look.

-Madison Clubb ‘19

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-Serena Scalcione ‘19

21

Boredom

I want to do something. Something with anyone. I just asked my friend to go ice skating, but I don’t even know how to ice skate. The skates dig into my ankles leading to shooting pains throughout my whole leg, like a dog who is promised a walk then neglected, until my foot goes numb. My friend said they were busy with “family things” and promised next weekend. It is always next weekend. Maybe I just need to hear voices and see faces? What time is it? I glance over at my dimly-lit LED clock. The light green display reads 11:02 AM. Have I really just been sitting on my bed for this long?

Okay, I have to get dressed; after all I don’t want to waste the day. I mean we only have about 2880 days to live. I slowly sit up peeling the comforter from on top of me. Shit, it is cold in my room. I hastily throw the comforter back over me enjoying the warmth and almost glowing feeling that travels up my body.

I can always get dressed after I have plans for the day. For a moment I lay in silence waiting for the vibration of my phone across my bed and the dim screen to illuminate the foot of my bed. I sit there restlessly for about five minutes, surely one of my friends will ask me to do something. My eyes began to focus on the poster taped to my otherwise barren wall. I think I got the poster from National Latin Forum? It reads “carpe diem”. Goddamn, Julius Caesar is right, I do need to seize the day. Get your life together, at least look at colleges while you are waiting for plans.

I reach laboriously to the floor for my laptop. My arm and fingers extend in an effort not to leave my bed. Slowly I inch my computer towards me with my fingertips across my black carpet. It slides across the floor until finally I can grasp it in my hand and rest it in my lap. I open the laptop and nearly go blind as the screen pierces my eyes like a flood of light on a moonless night. I slide the brightness bar all the way down until I feel my retinas recovering. I drag the cursor over to google chrome. Netflix pops up on the screen, it was the last tab I had open. Okay I have time for an episode or two, I mean it’s only 12:00 PM. I throw some headphones on and prop a pillow against my back.

Just as I began to get settled in, I hear laughing in the background. Not again. I peer out of the window, between the blinds and focus my gaze to Landon Park on the other side of the street. I hate kids. I turn the volume up on my computer and tune out the outside world as I become more invested in my show. Wow, three episodes are already over? Well… there are only five more in this season.

That season ending was intense, maybe I’ll just watch the beginning of the next season? I briefly see the time in the corner of my screen. It is 4:00 PM! Humans need to eat; I need to eat. I begin marching downstairs in my pjs and open the pantry. Perfect, some Honey Nut Cheerios! I take the whole cereal box up to my room, making sure to avoid any interaction with my family.

I return to my TV show. I get stuck in a loop of eating my cereal handful by handful. Suddenly my phone vibrates.

“Hey, do you want to go to a movie?”

I ponder this question for a while and decide to reply with, “Sorry I have family things… next weekend?”

I have 2880 days in my life, I can always do something later.

-Charlie Davis

22

‘20

-Ellie Anderson ‘20

23

My Noteworthy Name In greek my name means princess. A Nia is adored, highly respected, and could rule the masses. I am the oldest sibling and my sister and brother look up to me as their role model. My bed is like my throne. Our dock is like my walkway. The St. Johns river is my servant. It brings me tranquility and keeps me calm. My name is a name for royalty.

My bed is like my throne. Our dock is like my walkway. The St. Johns River is my servant. It brings me tranquility and keeps me calm. My name is a name for royalty.

My name is like a Hershey kiss.. Short and sweet. It reminds me of the number three. Three is a small number and small things are aspects of big things. Pennsylvania. Virginia. Niagara Falls.

Tanzania. My name is found at the end of states countries and famous places. It’s a prefix and suffix of a word.

In Swahili my name means purpose. It’s one of the several principles of Kwanzaa. Mia encourages African-Americans to look with in themselves into set personal goals that are beneficial to the community. It also restores African-Americans to their traditional greatness. Mia is a religious and respected name.

My name is becoming a popular name. Celebrities and famous people such as Nia Sioux, Nia Vardalos, and Mia Long have the name. There may not be a lot of people named Nia but there are some very famous people who have the same name.

I love my name. My name is royal, swift, well respected, and famous. My name is the definition of Cinderella. It’s as short as a blank. It’s quick and easy to say. My name is a name that people revolve around. It has great purpose. There is no better name than Nia.

-Nia Patel ‘21

My Name My name is a noun that doesn’t describe myself. “Simple elegance or refinement of movement; courteous goodwill; and an attractively polite manner of behaving,” It’s called the dictionary defines you. My name was on hold for thought for the future personality of a clumsy, sleepy girl with no attention span. And lucky guess I suppose.

It has been changed and re-spelled by others and myself. It’s a flexible name that way. I was cross and grab that in the seventh grade I had to reflect our Wilder and more random humor and personality. I was Marie in the fourth grade to differentiate from another grace. I was crazy when I was small and I still am to some neighbors and relatives. My name is changed as my surroundings up. My grandmother told me about my name in. “Someone wanted to name you orange,” She laughed. If you leave all her stories. I’m not sure, I think I could’ve gotten used to orange. I wouldn’t find it on keychains or stickers but it’s unique. I love to stand out. There’s around for Grace is at school not including me.

I grew restless of my name some days. It grows still in my mouth. I think everyone should be able to choose what they call them selves. I name is it something that pertains to anyone but you. I change in game sometimes. I go by Bonny to take a break parentheses Bunny is a better descriptor anyway). I like to return to Grace though, like a safety net. Maybe I’ll leave again the next day. Maybe someday I won’t come back. Grace is flexible in that way.

-Grace Maroon ‘21

24

-Angelina Rodgers

‘21

25

EVERYBODY’S HAPPY NOW NOTHING COSTS ENOUGH HERE In a world of places, let’s go somewhere we haven’t gone.

we have more curiosity than capacity: for we grasp at all, but cath nothing but wind.

WE SERVE

Men who made machines that want what they decide I was born in a thunderstorm, I grew up overnights I am the child of a money hungry country

Hope you’re dead ‘cause how could you sleep at a time like this?

I come to bring you freedom.

BUT

I can’t breath.

I could lie and say I like it like that.

born just to die, that’s the human curse what about us, what about all the broken happily ever afters? no one cares that we’re gone we don’t know where to find what once was in our bones. We think we’re free, but we’ve turned our hands to guns, trade in our thumbs for ammunition

What’s the point of having guns if you can’t aim?

THIS is America.

Menacing geniality. everything you adore takes a different form when you squint your eyes, but that’s not what you’re supposed to See

so hang up the caution tape, I’m dangerous Does anyone know where my brain is?

I’m a f*%$ing paradox.

I’m a bunch of flowers that need to be arranged.

WE ARE the helpless, selfish, one of a kind Millennium kids, that all wanna die My friends and I, we all got a lot of problems But they were f***ed up under pressure that puts people on streets.

Where we’re from there’s no sun, our hometown’s in the dark. as old as the language of smoke, the language of blood, the language of languishing love,

Art thou afeard?

26

do WE threaten your plans?

Because at this rate of earth decy OUR world’s ending at noon

So we don’t believe what’s on TV the trees wave their arms and the clouds try to plead

Because it’s what we want to see Rolling faster, faster and not a chance to slow down And what we want we know we can’t believe

I don’t know if this is a surrender or a reveal Could we all just move to the moon?

I don’t know if this is me or the devil Throw it all away, that horrible poison You spend your life in a bubble, dream that you can’t escape

But if you knew how you the purpose cherish, How in stripping it you more invest it.

We tore the curtains down.

We don’t trust a perfect person and don’t trust a song that’s flawless.

I really don’t care what your name is.

Seven billion souls move around the sun

And I don’t really care if I’m nameless Because time is ticking for the comfortable They sit high, look low.

I laugh in their face and I ask them, “DO YOU SEE THE BLOOD ON THE FLOOR?” That’s why

ROSA sat on the bus. That’s why we walk through Ferguson with our hands up desperately yelling there’s something we need.

Cowards come through when everyone’s asleep so We have all learned to kill our dreams That the clouds would open and show riches

And I know there’s no changing your mind when you’re mad as hell.

You waste all this time trying to get me in the same room I was born in We stay in the same place because we don’t want to lose our lives But what’s the point of having love with no pain?

I don’t care what you’re saying! I don’t wanna participate in your game of manipulation Hoping that one day maybe you don’t have to feel like you’re empty!

Because we’re gifted with thought!

On the eve of a day that was bigger than us They said they were just waiting for better skies, but They were taking your disguises

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Separating ‘em, splitting ‘em up from wrong and right But their spines disintegrated. And they began to die.

Neon gravestones.

I hope you make it to the day you’re twenty-eight years old So you can throw away all the gods your father served.

What’s the point of having blood with no veins?

I’ll try to delay what you make of my life, but

Somebody catch my breath.

Forgive me my sins.

don’t let me be gone.

- Fapianey Alexandre ‘21

Angelina Rodgers ‘21 Acrylic

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My Manga

created by Natalie Garcia

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32

33

34

35

36

To be continued...

Gul Bansal ‘21 Acrylic

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Rebirth Flickering hellfire Burns sins away.

Burned to ash We must keep living

Dreams

Discordant slumber

Inundates life.

I dream now

Of the foreign shores

--Noah Silverstein ‘19

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{

Elise Anderson ‘20

39

A Series of Vignettes 1 Lexi Downey (‘19) Acrylic

When I was five, it was my first time going back to my “Laojia”. The Chinese word “Laojia” refers to the kid’s father’s parents’ house and it is normally in the countryside. Directly translating it word by word, it means “old home” in English. My father had not lived with us, and my mother always told me that he was out for business. I believed so. Thus I was cheerful when we had the chance to visit his parents and spend time together during the Spring Festival break. My grandparents own a grocery shop, and it was the only grocery shop in the village. I was the eldest son of the eldest son of the shop owner. Every kid respected me because I could take free firecrackers and fireworks from the shop and play with them.

The village is located at the seaside and is famous for various seafood. Hairy crabs, mantis shrimps and shellfish, I never see them in my surroundings in the city. Just like my dad, they can finally spend time with me during the one or two weeks here in my Laojia.

The trip to Laojia I remember the best is when I was eight; there was a new kind of firecracker called Black Spider. I was playing with it with my friends from the moment I finished breakfast to the moment I came back home and took a shower and sleep. The next day, when I ran back to the shop to get some more firecrackers for my pals, I found I could not sit. My knees were stiffened and could not bend. I ran to my mom and yelled:” Ma! I can’t sit!” When she saw how I tried to sit but could not, she couldn’t help laughing at me and then she got me an ice bag for my knees. “Don’t stand that long, you should sometimes sit to let your legs rest,” she said. I replied, “Do you mean I should sometimes sit while playing firecrackers?” We then both burst into laughter.

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2

Throughout my childhood, my mother mainly educated me. She was the one to tell me right or wrong. Like most Chinese parents, she just tells me what to do and what not. She said, “Sometimes you may not understand, but you will recognize that it is all for your good when you grow up”. As an eighteen-your-old grown-up, I will say that she was correct. But as a child, I could not understand some of her decisions. For example, she strictly restricted the amount of meat and carbs I ate. Well, I was kind of chubby back then. When I came out of school with my friends, their parents had fried chicken, sandwiches or ice cream in hand for their kids, whereas my mom had unsweetened cucumber juice for me.

When I was ten, there was a period of time when I really wanted to eat beef sausage. I went to a supermarket and tried to steal a beef sausage from the fridge. When I approached the exit of the supermarket, there were already two staff waiting there for me. They brought me to the monitoring room, showing how stupid I was to try to sneak sausage in my backpack under the camera. My legs were shaking, and my heart was beating like a drum. I was concerned they would send me to the police office and I would be put in jail and expelled from school, shaming my mom. The good thing is that they did none of above. They asked me to pay ten times the price of the sausage I tried to steal, and that’s it. It was about forty dollars, and the ten-year-old surely did not have that much. They passed me a phone, asking me to contact a family member to pay for me. Holding the phone, I cried and searched through my family members in my mind to share this sorrow with me. At last, I dialed one of the only phone numbers I could memorize, my father’s. He arrived, paid, and left. The last time I saw him was during the trip to Laojia that year. I asked him not to tell my mom this because she would be sad. He said he wouldn’t. I walked home.

Mysteriously, my mom bought me many beef sausages and did not restrict me from eating them the next week. If she knew the “crime” I committed, she would scold and probably beat me like most Chinese parents do. But she didn’t. From the perspective of a ten-year old, it did not seem like she knew about what I had done; that’s why I say it was “mysterious.” Now, I can understand

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3

Entering middle school, the pressures from school reached a higher level. Most of my fellow students would spend about 16 hours in the tutoring center (Yes, there is such a place in China), learning English, math, literature, etc. during weekends. The competition is much more intense back in China. My mom decided to send me to the tutoring center during the Spring Festival Break like most other parents do, so I could not go back to Laojia. I agreed, the joy of having the best grade in class compensated for the sorrow I felt that I could not visit my grandparents and the seafood. Also, we gave up the one last chance I could meet my father. I would say that I don’t feel a thing to it. It’s probably because I have never felt my father contribute any bit to my growing beside being called “dad”. Even though an old Chinese saying goes, “parents’ love for kids is sometimes invisible,” I still don’t think he has any.

When I was thirteen, there was one day my mom came to pick me up from school as usual. We did not go home, but she drove me to the Civil Affairs Bureau for an interview. The staff there asked me something like, “who do you love more, mom or dad,” or “who do you want to live with, mom or dad,” etc. I said mom for all the questions. At last, they asked me if either of the two asked me to answer so. I said, “Sure not!” They then divorced, I lived with my mom as usual. Nothing changed except we lost a so-called family member. My mom felt that I was mature enough to accept all the information. She told me what my father was like.

He has never spent money on me. He has another son with another woman. He asked for money from my mother’s parents for gambling and drinking. They did not divorce earlier because my mom thought I was too young to accept that.

When I was sixteen, my mom planned to send me to the United States for better education, and the decided to sell a house of hers for the cost. She told me earlier that she planned to go Canada when she graduated from college. She worked a lot while in school and saved enough money for all her expenses. However, she did not go to Canada, she loathed to part with her parents. It could be one reason that she insisted to send me here. The decided to sell a house of hers for the expenses. The ownership certificate of the house had the name of both my mother and father. The house was bought when they got married and their names are put together on that as a tradition. However, my mother was the one who paid for the house. To sell it, they both needed to sign. My father asked my mom to share half of the money from the house so that he would come and sign. She had to agree. I had never seen her so angry and sad.

The last time I went to Laojia was in 2016, the year I left for the United States. My grandfather was paralyzed. Half of his body cannot move and there are only a few minutes he is conscious in a day. During those time, he said all he wanted was to see me, his eldest son of the eldest son. So my mother brought me back to Laojia. No one cooked for us. Grandma was taking care of grandpa in the hospital everyday. When we walked to his bed, he grabbed my hand and made humming noise like a baby; he could not speak. Grandma holds my mother’s hand, with tears, “Even though his father is a jerk, we are still family. Please take good care of him.” She replied, “Sure I will.”

--Diego Guou (‘19))

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Ella Richardson (‘21) Water Color

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Where I’m From

I am from here, From the cities and freedom.

I am from pasteles de guayaba.

(Sweet, sticky I always ate too many.)

I am from the Allegheny, the winding roads often snowy, bringing joy, but also hardship.

I’m from shorts and tanktops, from “agarra un sueter pro si hay caso”.

I’m from the well-read and the well-versed from the high expectations.

I’m from cafe con leche, with sugar and milk or just black.

I am from hard work, late nights, papers due.

From a big loud family, spread here to there, loving and supporting one another.

On my bed was Esperanza, a doll, worn and cherished remembrance of the past.

I am from Viva Cuba Libre! a foot in both worlds. a balancing act.

I am from hellos and goodbyes brief joyous moments of reunion and long-distance communication From state to state, house to house, school to school.

I am from “Hey she’s new”, fresh starts and introductions Often moves, boxes piled sky high, houses as landmarks in time, belongings misplaced, but dreams in clear sight.

I am from these glimpses of memory each a passing thought, but deeply rooted into my identity.

Telvia Perez ‘19

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From an Amoeba in an Undiscovered Ocean From an Amoeba in an undiscovered ocean, Undiscovered people, with mines not yet named.

Running mad, obsessed with the surface Learning to not yet make monsters of ourselves No occupation; All men idle, all, and women too, but innocent and pure.

Before our subjects, our own be tamed.

The motion of our thoughts forcibly suppressed.

Soon enough, train tickets, everything new Abandon the library’s, abandoned shelves.

Telescopes having lost their purpose, Because, sure, we’ve already seen every star we can.

We’ll keep tapping on our silicon screens Fighting with our own minds, ignoring our dreams.

-Angelina Rodgers

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‘21

-Nina Zhao

‘21

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Color Me Green I envy writers. As an artist, I can give you a snapshot into a world. But a writer. A writer can take you there. They can weave together words and create a portal to anywhere. You can visit those places instead of looking out a window and wishing to be a part of it. I’ve always envied writers. Even Garrett.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he was bullied in middle and high school. He would be an easy target for bullies.

He’s tall, but waifish. He’s book smart, but not street smart. He’s creative and talented, but quiet and hard to work with. He is the walking stereotype of an outcast: a pale-skinned specter complimented with dull blue eyes and raven bed-hair.

People tried to reach out to him at first. How bad could he be? It’s art school. Everyone’s considered a weirdo by the outside world; that’s why art school is like a family. But he shut everyone out and as a result, no one bothered to talk to him anymore. Most people think he’s mean. Others think he’s just shy or a truly tortured artist. Whatever he is, he’s a ghost devoid of color wandering the halls.

I would usually see him sitting under the birch tree outside the Jeanette N. Ream Art Studio. He would be plugged into his Walkman while delving into a book. Everyday I saw him, there would be a different book in his hands. I could always tell by the book’s condition; his books were either brand spankin’ new or old as dirt—nothing in between. When he had new books, he would pause every other page to break the spine.

Other times, the books looked like they could fall apart in his hands with the covers ripping where they met the spine and threads of the cover fraying. Everyday, he alternated between new and old books. I didn’t know what to think of him, but he was definitely one of the more interesting people on campus.

It was only until the end of my sophomore year that I had finally worked up the courage to approach him.

Well, in all honesty, I hadn’t worked up the courage. My final exam was a painting that had to impact a group of people. After talking to all of my classmates, I realized all of the good ideas were taken and I didn’t want to turn in a mediocre piece. It wasn’t until I was passing Garrett for the 284th time that I thought he could be an option. He was a mystery to everyone on campus; a walking anachronism whose reputation was tainted with blackening rumors.

After my art history class, I walked towards the Ream Art Studio. And there he was, settled under the same birch tree with a book in his hands. For whatever reason, my feet became cemented to the walkway as I stared at him. I didn’t know what to expect. Out of no where, a pair of arms wrapped around me from behind and nearly pushed me onto the ground. My heart was struggling to calm itself.

“Hey babe!” someone said next to my ear and pecked my cheek.

Much to my chagrin, my mouth involuntarily curled up into a smile and I turned around to see Marissa.

“I hate you sometimes,” I said as she broke out into laughter.

“Aw, com’on, I was just joking!”

I sighed and glanced back at the birch tree. But Garrett had disappeared.

“What’re you doing for dinner tonight?” she asked. “I’m starving.”

“I dunno,” I said, still distracted by Garret’s magic act.

Marissa took my hand into hers and I looked at her welcoming brown eyes, cordial smile, and dimples. My eyes trailed up to her hair and I smiled. She had dyed her hair again. This time it was a neon blue. Sometimes I wondered how she still had hair on her head.

“Well, what were you up to? Heading to the studio to get some last-minute painting out of the way?”

“Actually, I was going to sketch someone for my project.”

“Really? Who? Is it me?”

“Ha ha. You wish,” I said as we began to make our way to the cafeteria. “No, I was actually going to paint that guy Garrett Evans.”

“Oh, he’s in my advanced creative writing class with Professor Pender! He’s such a gifted writer. I’m jealous

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of him. I asked for some advice, but he’s painfully shy. He didn’t even fucking answer me. Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t even know if he acknowledged me.”

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Yet somehow, I found myself in the exact same place as Friday, with my feet melting into the walkway staring at Garrett. I wish I didn’t have to ask him anything. I wish I could just plant myself at a neighboring tree and sketch him from afar. But I couldn’t. That’s against school policy. Oh God…here I go, I thought as I began to make the long trek to the birch tree. My mind was racing, planning out everything I was going to say so I wouldn’t mess up my only chance to get his permission.

My shadow cast down on the pages of his book and his figure, which seemed oddly smaller than usual. The sudden change in lighting caused him to look up and our eyes met. This was the first time I had seen him up close. He didn’t have the face of a cold, calculating man; he looked like a mere child with his knees up to his chest and hiding behind a gray book. He brought a trembling hand up to his ears and reluctantly removed the earphones.

“Hi, I’m Kit,” I said. “Um, I was wondering if I could paint you for my final exam project?”

Then, he stared at me. He scanned my entire face, glanced down at the drawing notebook in my hands, and then looked back at his book. He drew his legs in closer and elbows into his torso. His eyes fell to the birds a few yards away pecking at some bread someone left behind. After a few moments, I kneeled down in the grass and asked him again.

“Garrett, can I paint you?” I said.

He spared me one more glance before retreating into his book and giving me an almost unnoticeable nod. I took my time as I flipped to a new page in my notebook and grabbed a pencil from my bag. I tried to give him enough time in case he really meant to shake his head the other way. But he just sat there, reading.

I began to sketch the outlines of his body, the book, and the birch tree. I lightly dragged my pencil against the paper, stopping to glance up from my paper to study him. After ten minutes, I was beginning to incorporate more details into my drawing. I looked at the color of his clothes, the way his hands gripped the book, the way his hand gripped the pen, and the way he was sitting in a childlike manner. From this drawing, he seemed like any other person on campus. But somehow, everyone had painted a different version of him in my mind.

“What book are you reading?” I asked as I started to shade in his hair.

He didn’t seem to hear me. He flipped a page in his book and his eyes continued to follow the words across the page.

“Looks like an interesting book. You seem so engrossed in it.”

Again, no answer. I awkwardly looked down at my drawing and continued to add in details in the birch tree. I might as well be drawing a ghost or talking to the fuckin’ tree, I thought to myself, What’s up with this guy?

He’ll let me draw and paint him, but won’t talk back. I continued to ask questions every few minutes to see if something I said would pique his interest. But nothing did. If anything, he seemed slightly annoyed with the way his brows were furrowed.

The sun began to set. The sky was becoming lacquered with fiery colors. I was rushing to finish my plan for my painting; rushing to get a few more lines onto my outline; rushing to make note of what colors to use.

“I’m sorry, Garrett,” I said. “I’m not done. Is it okay if we meet here again tomorrow?”

He nodded from behind his book. I let out a disappointed sigh as I began to put my pencils away. Then, something began to click in my mind. My hands slowed as my mind thought about Garrett. Suddenly, I blurted the question out.

“Garrett, can you talk?” I asked.

Suddenly, he looked up from his book. He flipped the book around so I could read it and then placed two fingers on a random part of the text. My eyes locked on the first thing, a short sentence: “Not being able to

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question out.

“Garrett, can you talk?” I asked.

Suddenly, he looked up from his book. He flipped the book around so I could read it and then placed two fingers on a random part of the text. My eyes locked on the first thing, a short sentence: “Not being able to talk sucks.” Then, my eyes trailed over to the other thing, a set of words scribbled in the margins: “selectively mute.” After a minute, he turned the book around and scratched out those two words as fast as he could so no one else could tell what he had written.

We met once more for a few hours under the same birch tree. I had set up my portable easel and canvas so that I had the perfect view of Garret as he delved into another book. I could tell people were gawking at us and pointing fingers. It was becoming hard to concentrate as all these people continued to come and go and stare at us. It was like painting under a magnifying glass. As the figure in my painting became more evident, even more people passed by leaving behind troubling comments.

“What the hell is she doing?” someone said in a hushed tone.

“Is he letting her do that?” another said.

“Weird…why him?”

“What did he do to deserve his own portrait?”

My brush hovered over my canvas as I heard that last question reverberating in my head. They didn’t know anything about him. I took my eyes off my canvas and looked over at the guy who muttered that question.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “That guy doesn’t contribute shit to our school. He doesn’t bother to help anyone except himself. He’s just using the school’s reputation to get his name out there.”

“Back off! You don’t know shit!” I said back.

“Suit yourself. You’re wasting your effin’ time.”

I looked over at Garrett, who had his back pressed into the birch tree and hands hovering over his ears. His book was tossed haphazardly to the side, lying face down in the grass. I muttered an apology and nonchalantly threw my brush into the cup of water. I began to clean up my mess of a makeshift studio and packed up my belongings. Garrett watched me closely, eyes darting from me to the painting.

“I know,” I said. “I’m not done. I don’t know how you handle this, Garrett. It’s annoying the shit out of me.

I can’t believe you just sit there and have to take it all day… I live in Irving Hall. Room 22 on the first floor.

Want to meet there tomorrow?”

He nodded.

I stood in front of my canvas, struggling to envision the finished masterpiece. I had an idea of where I wanted to go. I had stayed up half the night planning it out. This painting was no longer just my final grade in intermediate painting. It became a gift to Garrett. It became some kind of justice for Garrett. I didn’t know why he wouldn’t talk or stand up for himself and I probably never will. I’m just hoping, he’ll like it in the end.

Marissa strolled in from the other room and stood next to me. She scanned the canvas up and down and crossed her arms. Her eyes traced the light pencil marks that were yet to be painted over.

“He’s coming today, right?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m hoping to be finished,” I replied. “It’ll take a while. Maybe three hours.”

“That’s okay.”

Marissa examined my painting and noticed the blue undertone. She always noticed the smaller details that I spend hours perfecting; it’s her gift.

“Do you think he’ll like it?” I asked.

“Who knows?” she said. “It’s hard to tell what he thinks unless he writes about it. But even then, it’s layered in symbols, metaphors, and countless tropes. If there’s any consolation, I love it.”

I scoffed and unclasped her hands from my torso.

“You love everything I paint,” I said.

“So?” she said. “That doesn’t mean your paintings are any less beautiful.”

Soon after Marissa left for her music appreciation course, Garrett came. I barely heard his soft knocks on the door and nearly missed him. When I opened the door, I caught him when he was halfway down the hall,

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about to leave. I ushered him into my cramped dorm room and told him to make himself comfortable.

Even though my dorm had two beds and two chairs, he still chose to sit on the newspaper-covered floor with his back against the wall. As I began to work on the painting once more, I noticed him pull a small, tattered book out of his jacket pocket from the corner of my eye. I smirked; I knew he wouldn’t come empty-handed.

With each successive brushstroke, I neared the finish of my painting and Garrett neared the end of his pocket book.

I turned the easel around so the finished painting faced Garrett. He looked up from his book when he heard the screeching of the easel on the floor. Then, his book fell into his lap. His mouth usually remained closed, but his lips parted slightly in awe. (That was probably the closest he had ever gotten to dropping his jaw.) He slowly stood up and walked over to the easel to continue examining the painting.

His eyes scanned the book cover he held the first day I asked him if I could paint him. It was the grayscale cover of Keary Taylor’s What I Didn’t Say. Behind his figure was the slender silhouette of the birch tree that had shielded him from the world. Beside him, was his trusty Walkman. In the background, there were the bricks of the Ream Art Studio. Then, Garrett stared at himself. His eyes were pointed down into the book. He wore earbuds just like the ones he owned that were compatible with his Walkman.

However, he was intrigued by the way I had painted his right arm and his face. I painted his right hand clasped over his mouth. It could be interpreted in a couple different ways. Some people could see anticipation, anxiety, or shock written in his face, as if the story had taken an unexpected turn. But only few people could make the connection between the book cover and the reason why his mouth was nonexistent.

“Do you like it?” I asked.

He went down to the ground, picked up his pocket book, and put it back into his jacket before taking another long glance at it.

“Garrett?” I asked again, now impatiently biting my lip.

“It’s amazing,” he replied.

His voice came out merely as a whisper. It was clear he hadn’t spoken in a long time. It was a little rough like sandpaper. But his words meant more to me than how they sounded; sound can be deceiving.

As I was cleaning up my dorm with Marissa, she discovered a folded-up piece of paper from where Garrett’s pocket book fell. She handed it to me and continued to gather the stray sheets of newspaper from the ground.

I unraveled it and saw letter-like scribbles that resembled Garrett’s handwriting. He wrote: I envy artists. A writer can give you a story. But an artist. An artist can show you the exact emotions behind everything. They can paint a picture worth a thousand words without ever writing one. They can show you every single emotion, every single thought in a second. They can show emotion like a writer never could. I envy artists.

-Julia Butler ‘19

-Max Frohman ‘19

-Emily Lekas ‘21

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Six Word Poems Born with Two Parents Raised Alone

Friends Acquaintance Acquaintance

Strangers Strangers

Infant, girl, girlfriend, fiancĂŠ, wife, widow.

Daughter Mom Grandma Three Generations Lost

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- Shania Espada ‘22

Art: Ella Richardson Medium: Acryllic

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Vignette 1

Someone who I have grown up to be similar

over the past years on how to stay relaxed, and now

to, is my father. His good characteristics and traits are it comes naturally. My father has also taught me how now being expressed through me. As a man in Jamai- to be responsible. I remember when I was only six can society, my father is a very calm and collective

years old, he got me a hamster and said I have to

person and he knows when it is time to let anger get

take care of it. At first, I was extremely excited and I

the best of him. In Jamaica, most people have an eye

took care of it for about a few days, then the work of

for an eye concept, and they enjoy drawing attention

maintaining its cage chipped in, and I did not want to

to themselves over certain situations. My father does

anymore. He gave me tips and tricks on how to stay

not necessarily like drawing attention to himself and

motivated to do something and how to care for loved

he prefers to handle situations on a mature level. I

ones and others. Now, whenever I am home, I feed

have learnt his ways through watching how he handles my dog on time every time, as well as take care of its situations when they arise as well as him teaching me surroundings and bathe him. I take care of all the fish when scenarios pop up in my life. I can also say that

in the aquarium and I take care of my room. Another

I got my maturity from my father. He is very mature

thing is that my father has also taught me how to be

and is rarely unreasonable. I have watched his actions neat and organized. I have to say I believe I have a and tried to develop his same level of maturity when

slight case of OCD, and my mother has a slight case

it comes to the real world. It is not only the good

of it, but my father has perfected my techniques, and

traits that I have learned from my father though. He

nowadays I am extremely organized in where I place

can sometimes get upset with someone easily. I have things and time things. Since recent, my father is now watched his temper go up a few times, and I have

putting me on the front line in public, and I do major-

taken those memories and changed them into some-

ity of the exchange and talking; his aim: to give me a

thing positive. It is very difficult to get me upset or

taste of how the world is and to prepare me for the

angry at someone, and that is because I have worked

future when I start working out there.

Adrian Grant ‘19

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Nithya Badarinath ‘19 Medium: Photography

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The Sculptor The Sculptor shapes and molds a form from his fingers pressing pushing poking a person or a pot sometimes it looks like something most times it looks like nothing.

He fusses with the clay like a mother over her child until he is halfway satisfied with his imperfect handiwork.

Today he thinks the shape cradled in his dirtied arms is a pot so he takes out his old wheel covered in dried slip. He sends the pot spinning spinning spinning. His grasping hands keep turning the slick wheel around around around and after his palms have finally gone cold the pot slowly gets wider wider wider towards the bottom of the clay walls of the pot become stiffer, firmer, stronger.

As he spins, sitting next to the ever-rotating circle under his hands, the pot feels dizzy as he turns turns turns. There are warm slabs surrounding him, propelling him again and the world swirls swirls swirls around him but he has no idea why he is always moving yet never moving forward.

He wants all of this to come to a stop and wonders why he doesn’t feel himself slipping slipping slipping. He wants to fall off the platform, but instead he feels himself growing growing growing as his skin stretches across space but he remains firmly planted.

He cannot see he is controlled by a greater force So he grabs on to the plate with his wide feet and tries to hold on for dear life.

- Jessica Zeng ‘21

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Megan McGrath ‘22 Medium: Acrylic

Avani Bansal ‘21 Medium: Pencil

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Poetic Podcasts Boredom

written by Charlie Davis narrated by Salma Shaalan

Where I’m From

written by Telvia Perez narrated by Jisette Baquet

An Open Letter to the Industry written by Julia Butler narrated by Taylor Ford &

Ian Peiris

Can You Hear the Music?

written by Olivia Landolfo narrated by Soraya Rafat, Ellie Anderson, Su Ertekin-Taner

Always Put Things in Context written by Jessica Zeng narrated by Ava Sickler &

Sarah Scherkenbach Note to our Readers: If you have iOS 11, scan the QR Code with the camera, Snapchat, or with a QR Code scanning app for the YouTube video!

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Colophon Perspective is traditionally the final issue of the Bolles Bugle. We ask you, our readers and creators, to share your writing and artistic sides. Like Coffee House, we are grateful to have a forum to celebrate the amazing talent that we have here at Bolles. Our motto for these experiences says, “Anything you can do on a stage, anything you can do on a page.”

On that note, please check out our new Poetic Podcasts on page 58 where our staff performs some of the pieces in the literary magazine.

Our theme for Perspective this year is “It’s all in how you see it…” The word ‘perspective’ means a point of view. In the art world it is the art of drawing objects with the correct impression of height, width, depth, and position when viewed from a specific point.

Perspective also applies to the way that the same idea or thought can be seen in so many ways influenced by our backgrounds and individual experiences. In this issue we hope you can appreciate the perspectives of our diverse student body.

Some of the pieces in this issue focus on the details, while others consider the whole of the subject.

Some are quite literal while others are abstract. Every work in this issue gives the reader a brief snapshot into the perspective of its artist and allows readers and viewers to create their own perspectives.

When we receive art and writing, we have a blind submission process where the names are redacted off of every piece, therefore giving an equal chance to everyone’s submissions. Bugle staffers then read and rank the writing pieces.

To create the cover of the issue, we decided to create our own perspective of outer space while mixing it with common earthly features. We don’t know much about space because of different perceptions, so we made our own version of it. We used mixed media with drawing, electronic collaging, and online editing to create the cover image.

We want to thank the art department, both teachers and students.

Nota Bene: there two pieces with strong language. The writer was either quoting a source or the editorial board deemed the word necessary

for the message of the piece and not gratuitious. Please share comments or questions with our adviser, Ms. Jacobson.

Both pieces by Avani Bansal ‘21