Brewster Outcroppings Spring 2020

Brewster Academy Volume 41

OUTCROPPINGS Volume 41 • 2020

OUTCROPPINGS Brewster Academy Wolfeboro, New Hampshire Volume 41 2020

Editor in Chief: Omayma Al Balushi ’20 Managing Editor: Carly Ferdinand ’20 Art Editor: YoYo Shang ’20 Contributing Editor: Ella Quinlan ’20 Faculty Advisor: Jennifer Metcalfe Dumont Cover Art by Omayma Al Balushi ’20 Back Cover Photo by Mrs. Maria Found

by YoYo Shang ’20

From the Editors: During this extraordinary situation, we bring Outcroppings, our literary magazine, to your hands to remind you that beauty stems from our own creative minds. We believe that art will always be the thread that leads to truth, that every detail in our lives must contain art, and that we are nothing but products of art.

In this issue, we have collected pieces from around the globe to raise the curtain on the hidden, yet magical art in this marvellous world. Here, we honor those who carved their words by their deep and intense emotions, who translated the fantasy of their fabulous thoughts to aesthetic colours, who glanced amazement with their eyes’ lenses before their cameras.

- Omayma Al Balushi ’20

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Table of Contents Title Page: Photo by Omayma Al Balushi ’20.....1 Life is a Journey by Faith Suwannapong ’20 and Photo by Grace Factor ’20 ................................ 4 The Story of Bathwater by Ella Quinlan ’20 ...... 5 My Summer: Two Truths and a Lie

by Mary James ’20.............................................. 6 Artwork by Khelsi Petigny ’22 ............................ 7 The One Where I Made the Right Decision

by Omayma Al Balushi ’20 and Artwork by Aviela Berk-Silverman ’20.............. 8 After “Abandoned Farmhouse”

by Sophia Mazri ’20 and Photo by Ms. Barb Thomas ............................... 9 Snapshot by Judy Tang ’20 and Artwork by YoYo Shang ’20 ............................. 10 Brain Fart by Lila Glanville ’20......................... 11 pyro. by Grace Factor ’20 and Photo by Jack Guttman ’23 ...............................12 Winter Poem by Brewster Community and Photo by Ms. Barb Thomas...............................13 Dear Winter by Rahaf Al Balushi ’20 and Photo by Ms. Barb Thomas...............................14 Infected Romanticization by Mary James ’20 and Photo by Alicia Childers ’01........................15 6 Word Stories by Ella Quinlan ’20 and Artwork by Jaila Richard ’20............................16 One Truth by Robbie Darragh ’20 and Photo by Jayce Alvelo ’20 .................................17 because by Mary James ’19.............................. 18 Photo by Ms. Barb Thomas ..............................19 A Ginger Next to a Brunette by Ella Quinlan ’20 and Photo by Omayma Al Balushi ’20 ............20 Artwork by Omayma Al Balushi ’20..................21

Artwork by Mr. Chris Stickles, Katherine Martin ’21, YoYo Shang ’20, Ella Brekke ’23, and Aviela Berk-Silverman ’20......................... 22 Essay by Indigo Brown ’20............................... 24 Artwork by Jaila Richard ’22............................ 25 Where I Am From and Artwork

by Omayma Al Balushi ’20............................... 26 Summer Poem by Brewster Community and Photo by Mrs. Maria Found............................. 27 The City by Omayma Al Balushi ’20 and Artwork by Selena Phinney ’22.........................28 Photos by Zea Hirschberg ’20.......................... 29 By the Gray Alley by Carla Burton ’23 and Photo by Jayce Alvelo ’20.................................30 Figure of Speech by Rose Guttman ’21 and Artwork by Lydia Lovering ’22......................... 32 Brains Can Rewire by Katherine Keady ’20 and Photo by Ms. Barb Thomas ...................... 33 Crunches by Mary James ’20 and Artwork by Carla Burton ’23 ........................... 35 Pickin’ at the Pile by Mr. T.J. Palmer and Artwork by Peter Stanger ’20 .......................... 36 Spies & Sweethearts

by Mrs. Linda Shenton Matchett ..................... 38 Photo by Katherine Martin ’21......................... 39 The Spaces Between Toes by Ella Quinlan ’20 and Artwork by Alicia Childers ’01 ..................40 Adultery by Indigo Brown ’20 and Photo by Jawan Lawson ’20.............................41 Her Name by Mary James ’20 ......................... 42 Photo by Katherine Martin ’21......................... 43 Dear Brewster by Sophia Mazri ’20 and Photo by Jen Dumont....................................... 44

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by Grace Factor ’20

Life is a Journey

by Faith Suwannapong ’20

ชีวิตคือการเดินทาง ทุกคนมีกล้องถ่ายรูปส่วนตัวไว้ในใจ บางคนแขวนมันไปในทุกที่ บางคนซ่อนมันไว้ไม่ให้ใครเห็น ไปที่ไหนๆ เรามักจะเก็บบางมุมบางตอน รายละเอียดเรื่องราวที่ประทับใจ วันเวลาผันผ่าน เหตุการณ์ในตอนนั้น บางคนลืมมันไปสนิท บางคนจำ�ได้เลือนลาง บางคนยังคงจดจำ�มันได้ดี ภาพถ่ายคือตั๋วใบสุดท้ายที่จะพาย้อนความทรงจำ�ให้เราหวนนึกถึง ไม่ว่าจะโปสการ์ด อัลบั้ม ภาพวาด หรือเมมโมรี่ในลิ้นชักความคิด เราต่างรู้ดีว่า ไม่ว่าเราจะเก็บตั๋วใบนั้นในแ บบไหน ความทรงจำ�ดีๆก็ยังเป็นเรื่องราวดีๆให้เราอบอุ่นหัวใจในตอนนึกถึงเสมอ Life is a journey. Everyone has a camera. Someone hangs it on and takes it everywhere they go. Someone hides it inside their minds and does not let anyone know that they care about that thing. Wherever we go, we always keep some memorable stories and details. Time flies, everything has changed. Someone forgot them all. Someone can remember faintly. Someone still remembers them. A photograph is the last ticket which can bring us to the old time. No matter if it is a postcard, album, drawing, or memory in the corner of the drawer in our hearts, we all know that when we look at it, the romantic moments always fulfill our warm hearts and will be our memories forever.

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The Story of Bathwater

by Ella Quinlan ’20

Water drips patiently out of the shiny silver bathtub faucet- waiting for someone to find it useful.

The droplets count steady beats with each drip, that set the heartbeat in the motel bathroom.

The drainage circle has developed a rust from the steady pounding of the water Which seeps into the smooth plastic at the bottom of the dirty bathtub canyon.

When one finds the faucet useful patience is forgotten.

Quickly,

Forcefully,

and unapologetically,

Water rushes to fill the plastic canyon with it’s warm deadly tool.

Crashing and gushing water is clumsy when it’s not contained.

When the bathwater dirties again the drainage swallows the filth.

Rust is again revealed.

An empty plastic canyon with the water dripping patientlyWaiting to be useful again.

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My Summer: Two Truths and a Lie

by Mary James ’20

It was all green.

Not a fun bright green but a dull, faded, sad green. Voices swirl together create background noise as I hear “Is my table ready yet?” or “we have 14, and a half, people. Can we sit on the deck?” or the worst “Could you kick the people out of that table so that we could get in faster?” Trying to be kind to people like this makes my brain swell, my eyes sag, and my natural smile melts away. Any lingering of that flies out of the window with a stomp of my manager’s foot. ‘STOMP’ every muscle in my body tenses and I am a rock. A rock who is appropriately dressed, polite, and has an updated reservations list, but a rock all the same.

It was all red.

I was flying along with thousands of other screaming fans. I had been waiting for this sweaty, loud, crazy, amazing moment for seven months. The teen angst in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife, as we screamed in unison “syke b*tch.” I hit people and their chairs, and people hit me and my chair but we knew it was all a part of the Billie Eilish experience. She jumped along with the widest, boldest smile on her face. My smile couldn’t express how happy I was, so my eyes released a million tears, and my voice let out a scream, so powerful I think she could feel it. The world slowed down and my heart was whole.

It was all pink.

As we all screamed at the highest high note we could, “I want you, I want you, I want, I want you.” I felt every person’s happiness in the room. Every person loved this song and he, who dressed in Pink Sweats, knew this, and he told us to sing it over and over again. I bathed in the pink light as it washed all over me, giving me enough energy to keep going. I could feel people bumping into me and I could smell the alcohol they drank but I didn’t care. I waited for 2 months to see him, so I soaked up every “I want you” even if it did seem to last forever.

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by Khelsi Petigny ’22

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by Aviela Berk-Silverman ’20

The One Where I Made the Right Decision

by Omayma Al Balushi ’20

Nothing was on my mind except the unknown destiny that was awaiting me thousands of miles away.

This idea was exciting but also frightening. “Had I made the right decision?” I asked myself, but the last call for flight QR 774 indicated that this question came in too late. The thought of landing in a country where no one was like me sent shivers down my spine. I was about to embark on a journey that I had chosen for myself but the fear of the unknown consumed me as I approached the boarding gate.

During the flight, I could not sleep. Millions of questions were haunting my mind. Each mile that took me away from home and closer to the U.S. made me realize what I had left behind: a part of me that has been living inside my memory and shaping my identity. I was starting a new chapter of my life so I had to leave my old self behind and embrace a new me, a blank canvas that was ready to be painted by the experiences I had yet to encounter. All of these thoughts were nothing but vain attempts to answer the same question, “had I made the right decision?”

After a 17 hour trip, I arrived at Brewster Academy.

Everything sounded perfect at first but still, there was something missing. The faces were unfamiliar as much as the lifestyle. All around me were people who seemed to know each other and get along quickly. I knew no one, including myself for that matter. I could barely recognize the person I was and nothing was harder than losing yourself when you needed it the most. The first day of school was filled with crowds of strangers and a gut-wrenching feeling of being in a foreign place. I wandered around the halls looking for a recognizable face to warm my heart. A tear threatened to escape my eye, but I trapped it along with all my other emotions.

One day, I mustered enough courage to take

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my plate up to a random table in the dining hall and started a conversation with someone new. That showed me what a diverse community I was living in; people from all around the world with different backgrounds, cultures, beliefs, languages, religions, and characters. Their faces were marked with various experiences and fascinating stories to tell. I could tell that they underwent the same haunting thoughts as I did. After all, we were all leaving behind our homes and parts of our lives to come here. Slowly, I began collecting my scattered pieces as I found my long-lost self within their tales. Brewster gave me the opportunity to demonstrate my best self. The illusions that I built emerged as I opened myself to the community and made connections with the students and faculty.

The amount of knowledge I gained, academically and socially, during my first three months here was significant. I adopted new concepts and ideals that reshaped my mindset. I returned to Oman for the first time for Christmas break. During one of the family gatherings, the same old question sparked in my thoughts, “Had I made the right decision?”

At that moment, I felt the change. I realized that the way I used to criticize issues socially, politically, and even individually, was limited and judgmental.

When I came to the US, I learned to see everything from different perspectives. It wasn’t only about education, but the purpose behind it.

Sitting on my bed, writing this essay, the words of Trevor Noah ring in my head, “Traveling is the only antidote to ignorance” — travel, not only to discover places but to adopt new opinions, broader perspectives, and ethical beliefs. Had I made the right decision? I thought. With a little smile, I whispered to myself, “Yes, I had.”

After “Abandoned Farmhouse”

by Sophia Mazri ’20

Yet, is something wrong something right?

Or is it creepy and lurks up on us at night?

Estranged and outraged for The insidious abundance The house cries from views Of abuse and harassment For him we still live Unclear Where he went and What he now wears After the termination of His beloved family For a new life that is Bright and shiny They now rot in the yard They must Filled with particles and dust Of the lovely family that Once was.

by Ms. Barb Thomas

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Snapshot: Description

by Judy Tang ’20 Such a windy day. Too windy and chilly to go out to write. We sat down on the Senior patio, talking. Staring at the beautiful and open sight composed by our Brown turf and the lake, something moving grabbed my attention. I looked up and looked into the distance. The wind was trying hard to blow away the thick clouds while the mischievous sunshine sneaked out from the cracks in the clouds and landed on the distant hillside. As if racing with themselves, the former group of the sun just ran away when the latter group caught up. The hill flickered on and off in the sunlight race, and the autumn on the mountain was no longer green. Red and yellow were more noticeable in sunlight; this is the color of autumn. As my thoughts drift away, a voice dragged me back: “Who was this patio built for again? Lucas?” Oh, the student who passed away at the beginning of our sophomore year… The clouds suddenly seemed to slow down a little and grow darker.

My sophomore year… my thoughts drifted away again. It was also such a cloudy day that day, but not that windy. The weather was very sultry, and it was right here that year’s graduation. Overcast skies and stifling temperatures drove me even whinier. Graduation itself should be a great joy, but my dearest friends were leaving me, especially him. We sat behind on the bench, and I stretched my neck, trying to find him, but I found nothing. I knew he was among them, but I just didn’t know where. I was caught up in endless waiting, waiting for Mr. or Mrs. Wheeler to call his name so that I can see him. My back was hurting by sitting too straight and keep looking into the distance. Finally, he stood up and stepped up on the stage. I almost got up with him. With the smile on his face, he took what the headmaster had given him. I know this was the moment he has been waiting for. My vision became fading, and something was falling from my eyes running down my cheeks on my white gauze skirt.

Thank you for bringing me such a wonderful sophomore year.

Suddenly, the cold touch of a hand pulled me back from memory.

“Judy, why are you crying?”

by YoYo Shang ’20

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Brain Fart

by Lila Glanville ’22

.We ran today. Like we do every day. I am still not sure why I switched from soccer. JV soccer was so easy.

Now I run. I used to never understand people who ran for their own personal enjoyment. My aunt has run the Boston Marathon three times and just did an ultra-marathon. That’s one hundred miles, no breaks! I struggle with two miles, and even with that I walk and granny-jog.

On the first day of school after classes, I did not have an afternoon activity, so I decided to give it a try and go out for a run. I asked Ms. Raf, where I should run? She told me to go to the path in town that follows the old railway tracks. So I did. I had a timer on my phone. I ran ten minutes out and ten minutes back. Okay, I lied, more like five minutes running five minutes walking each way. Of course there is suddenly a stream of Brewster kids coming toward me. I was so confused, my first thought was “why do so many people run in their free time? This sucks.” Then I saw Mr. Jacobs and realized it was the cross country team. He stopped and talked to me into joining, saying it is a varsity sport. That got me interested. I thought about it, called my mom, then emailed Mrs. Turner to switch. Before I knew it I had joined Brewster’s cross country team. .Today we had a meet at Cardigan Mountain School, which if you did not know is approximately one hour and forty-five minutes away with no traffic. There was traffic. It was a two-hour bus ride there and back. When we got there Mr. Jacobs gave us ten minutes to, in my case, try not to throw up before we had to run. That bus ride was horrible, I felt so sick. .We jog-stretch the course once, it is a two lap course. I personally prefer two lap courses to one lap courses because when I am running, I make goals for myself. During races I talk to myself, saying “just to the solar panels” or “just catch up to that girl” or “you’re half way there, this is nothing! You have done harder!

You can do it!” I ran the warm up jog with Izzy and Maura. We were all agreed, “yeah I am walking this course.’’ For the start we had to run up a hill, not a small hill, a steep, muddy, grassy, wet, hill. During the “warm-up-jog”, we were in the back of the group. We ran, then walked, then granny-jogged, which is basically jumping up and down while talking small steps. Not running but not walking. We passed through a group of boys from New Hampton, one of whom shouted something along the lines of, “Yeah I made out with my cousin. It wasn’t weird though because we are second cousins. So like the family thing doesn’t count really.”

After we passed them Maura, Izzy and I died laughing. Then we had to sprint because McDuffee was waiting for us. When we caught up to the group, we stretched and did squats. Then we “ran” the rest of the first course, which is actually the same thing twice. Then back to the start. .The boys went first, then the girls. I don’t enjoy standing on the starting line, waiting. Everyone is about to go, they are counting down. Those were the longest thirty seconds ever. I get nervous just waiting there. I am not ready to run. Then we were off. .I do not sprint to the front of the group of thirty-three girls, I start off slow. I run to catch up to people, I would rather be chasing then being chased. I start running with Maura and Izzy, but then I just break away from them. I am not sure how I was so tired during the warm up, but then I was off. I caught up to Carol and ran with her for a bit. I do not know how I kept going, everything hurt, everything was sore, everything was exhausted. Before I knew it I had completed the first lap. I was half way done. I kept telling myself, “Keep going, you’re almost there. You have done worse than this! Do not give up!” I walked some, but mostly I granny-jogged. Before I knew it, I was running down the last hill. I was going so fast it almost felt as though I was flying. My legs were moving faster than my body. I was almost scared I would fall on my face. Then I was at the end, slowing down as I entered the shoot. A lady passed me my cup. My cup said fourteen. I got fourteen out of thirty-three runners!

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pyro.

by Grace Factor ’20

A fire scalds my stomach A fire that is only lit for moments at a time A single glance Or the accidental brushing of fingertips in passing Are enough to set me aflame.

A fire incinerates my throat A fire with blonde hair, and sky blue eyes His tan skin, warm with embers Melting the frozen parts Of me.

The fire has a name A name that ignites my soul Every syllable, a match.

Slowly singeing Branding my heart He was a fire that burned so bright It could melt a thousand ice caps, Set a million sunsets To shame.

For this fire, will not extinguish It will destroy forests upon forests The fire still scalds my stomach.

But I became a pyromaniac.

by Jack Guttman ’23

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by Mrs. Barb Thomas

Winter Poem* Tell yourself as the snowflakes cuddle your cheeks and dance on your eyelids and the limbs are coated with white, the winter is a clearinghouse... pristine, whispered, and bright.

There’s a fireside chat waiting for you once you come indoors That could swaddle your heart To experience the winter The gift of mother nature’s extremes Enjoy the wonder of the outdoors!

* This poem was written as a collaboration over email with contributions from many Brewster community members.

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Dear Winter,

by Rahaf Al Balushi ’20

Dear Winter, It’s half way through December and you are barely here. Stop acting like you are hard to get.

Stop acting like you are Fall. Some Days I wake up hoping that I would step out of my dorm into a white kingdom, but all I find is some icy walkway that freaks me out.

I can remember this time last year, it was stunning. The whole Brewster campus was white, all in one night. Why can’t you do this now?

You remind me of when I had a crush, eagerly wanting to confess but hesitating at the last moment. You are doing that, knocking on our doors in the middle of the night, leaving us excited to wake up the next morning but hesitate, too.

I have to be honest and say you’re beautiful. The way you cover the trees and make everything seem peaceful can be so breathtaking. The problem is, you bring the cold with you. You tend to make everyone sick, and I’m not ready to have a runny nose 24/7. So please, when you are willing to visit, bring your meds with you.

Don’t you miss the kids sliding on your body? And the snow ball fights that happen? Can you please be less selfish and stop by. I’m hoping by the time I get back from Christmas break I find you here, bringing back my white kingdom.

But let me tell you this, and keep it in mind please, don’t stick around until the end of April, let us have our spring.

With all love, Rahaf.

by Ms. Barb Thomas

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by Ms. Alicia Childers ’01

Infected Romanticization

by Mary James ’20

I want to believe she had the best of intentions in asking me what I am. I want to believe that she wouldn’t say it to anyone else, but I know she will. Though she is unaware, the world is not the way she wants it to be, and I am not who she needs me to be. She asks if the melanin in my skin allows me to seduce men; if the curls in my hair attract and trap them; and if they get lost in my curves. She means for all of these questions to be compliments, and I do understand that she truly believes that. But I am not the melanin in my skin, or the curls in my hair, or the curves on my body. I am the actions that I willingly and intentionally take and the emotions that I have.

My exterior is just the packaging for the real treat that’s inside. I can’t tell her any of that. She may be older than me, but her eyes have a childlike wonder about them as she asks me these questions. I would try to kill the infected romanticization of my race for her, but I know if I do, in a short time, I may see black and blue marks pop up all over my body one at a time. So I don’t.

I grip the wooden table in front of me and use it as a shield. I have to say something, but I’ve forgotten how to speak. I force a smile and squeeze words out that I’ll regret later. “Not quite,” I say. It’s not what I wanted to say, but it is the best I could do for that moment. I feel that I’ve let down my whole race, but I think they’d understand, considering I was the only black person as far as the eye could see. I saved my exterior from getting bruised, but I feel the words that I wanted to scream sink in my stomach like boulders. I can’t move. I push tears back to where they came from and ooze self-hatred. I contort my face until something that resembles a smile appears so that she can feel comfortable. This place wasn’t made for me, and I get that most of the time, but sometimes it hurts more than usual. As a person, I’m not allowed to be beautiful in her eyes; I’m only a sex symbol; therefore, I cannot find healthy love and am considered ratchet.

The subtle sexualization of my race that slithers through the veins and brains of white people who can only look through a peephole to see that the world is what deteriorates me, one melanin pigment at a time. But I am almost free from this moment. The world feels as if it is floating off my shoulders as she says she has to leave, only to have it slam down on me a thousand times heavier as she says, “peace nigga.”

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by Jaila Richard ’22

6 Word Stories (A Delicate Story)

by Ella Quinlan ’20

He reminds me of honey bees He tastes like sweet orchid honey He’s looking to find his life.

She is made of fractured color.

She gets lost in orange temptation She must be full of magic.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Orange petals lack proper pollination techniques.

It was then we lost them.

We forgot the power of magic.

The taste of pure honey, abandoned.

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One Truth

by Robby Darragh ’20

A misty cold silent morning in dry Montana wilderness. Three friends and I on big four-legged animals riding in the woods. Bouncing in the saddle as we trekked up hills and flew through fields leaving nothing but a cloud of dust in our path. The cool air woke us up fast to see the beautiful sights Montana has to offer. All of a sudden my friend’s horse comes to a frantic stop. Confused and alert we heard a rumble and the cracking of dead stick branches in the bushes off to our right. Out pops two small fluffy black bear cubs. They stopped and stared at us we are all silent and still as statues. My friend whispered, “where is the mom”. Out of nowhere we heard bushes crackling and sticks snapping, and we were staring at a massive fluffy black bear, and she was staring right back. I could feel and hear my heart pounding out of my chest. After 30 seconds of a staring contest, off with the bears. They got one last look at us and went the other way peacefully, and we turned around and rode off with a cloud of dust following us.

by Jayce Alvelo ’20

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because

by Mary James ’20

I am sitting on the cool floor of the dance studio waiting for my voice lesson to start. I pick up my cheap, little, blue ukulele I call Ocean Eyes and all of my anxiety floats away.

I play chord combination after chord combination waiting for inspiration to strike me.

Frustration glosses over my eyes and all I can do is look into the mirror that lines the walls, at the thing that hurts me the most, my hair. Air circles in my lungs and I can’t help but notice her. She’s a hot mess. She has grown into her own monster ever since I stopped searing her between two hot plates every day. As air gets trapped in my lungs, I play a chord combination that I almost forgot about. A minor, F, A. It has something that C, G, F just doesn’t have. It wasn’t happy-go-lucky. It was bitter-sweet.

A minor: It’s messy F: I know it A: is As my thumb hits every string individually, I can feel the string jump back up and vibrate, making a sound that I had never heard come out of my sweet baby Ocean Eyes. If anyone had been passing by, I’m sure they’d have thought I was crazy singing “it’s messy, I know it is.” a million times over. Trying to pull more words from my crazy hair, I stare daggers at her twists and turns, untangling the knots that I didn’t need a brush to find. I plead for inspiration in return for the years of torment she had given me; it was the least she could do.

A minor: And I know F: It doesn’t make much A: Sense .My strum got stronger and stronger, realizing that I was making something that would change the way I wrote music. Was it really because of my hair? This monster that I’ve hated for my whole life? She was crazy and curly, and all I wanted was for her to be pretty, pin-straight, and blonde like all of my white friends. I spent years pulling her into different styles, cutting off her parts that I couldn’t bear to look at, and burning her until she lay dead on the sides of my face. Somehow, she won my affection by the end of my eighthgrade year.

A minor: But of course F: I can’t A: resist .Sitting there on the floor of the dance studio, I was relapsing. Straightening my hair had become a drug that I was having withdrawal from. My treatment was coming to Brewster Academy, my medicine was serving as a leader and making sure no one had to go cont. on pg. 19

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by Ms. Barb Thomas cont. from pg. 18

through self-hatred like I did. But I stared into that mirror, tears sprinting down my face.

Singing over and over again; A minor: It’s messy F: I know it A: is A minor: And I know F: It doesn’t make much A: Sense A minor: But of course F: I can’t A: resist I took a breath, and I realized I got this far because of the changes I made to myself coming out of a toxic middle school experience. All I ever wanted was to be “normal,” and in a town that was only 0.04% like me, “normal” was out of the question. Brewster Academy was my chance maybe not to fully love myself but at least not hide who I was anymore. No more flat irons, no more hiding from the sun, no more hating what I could not change. I let my breath escape my lungs, and I sang the words that would change the way I wrote music, and where I thought inspiration came from, I sang the words that changed my life.

A minor: Because F: A: You’re beautiful

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A Ginger Next to a Brunette

by Ella Quinlan ’20

“Wow your hair is beautiful, is it really that color?”

My Older Sister smiles and Thanks the unfamiliar women In my grandmother’s leather salon chairs.

“You sure can’t get this color in a box” The freckled beauty scratches her vibrant Locks And tucks some behind her ear.

I stand awkwardly adjacent to my Older Sister.

I was taller, broader, overall messier, and Brunette.

The unfamiliar women then glance at me, “Now all you gotta do is manage those curls, dear” Awkwardly standing in the brief silence of the room I reply With the memorized line smudged on my tongue “It truly has a mind of its own” I smile, and tuck back a banana lock That had bounced Out of place.

Who sprung back Right in my face.

by Omayma Al Balushi ’20

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by Omayma Al Balushi ’20

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(right) by Katherine Martin ’21 (top left) by Mr. Chris Stickles, (bottom) by YoYo Shang ’20?

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(top) by Ella Brekke ’23, (bottom left) by YoYo Shang ’20, (bottom right) bowl by Aviela Berk-Silverman ’20

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Essay

by Indigo Brown ’20 “So how do you go from 700,000 slaves in 1790 to over 4,000,000 in just over 70 years? Black women were bred like cattle. You can go to the Slave Mart Museum in Charleston, South Carolina and you can still see pricing lists for black human beings who were being sold as property. The most valuable slave...the most valuable enslaved person that you could buy was a girl about 9 or 10 years old.

Because she could start pumping out babies even by 12 sometimes. And then she can pump them out again and again and again and you’re not paying for these new enslaved people. This is the way that you go from five cows to a herd in the dozens… by breeding... and that’s what we, America, did.” - Jeffrey Robinson Trone Center Director of Justice and Equality at the ACLU This was the first time that I empathized with the reflection of myself in history. A pivotal moment when I finally internalized and accepted America’s cruel denial of my humanity and right to govern my body. From the beginning of my education in American history, I actively sought to detach myself from the story that refused to present my ancestors as multidimensional humans, rendering them as beasts of burden. I did not identify with the way American history depicted me. History was never empowering; it was debilitating. I cherish my humanity, the melanin in my skin, the tightness of my 4b curl, the thickness of my lips and every other characteristic of myself and others in my community which was shameful to glorify. But after experiencing Robinson’s presentation, as part of the ACLU’s Summer Advocacy Program for young social activists, I was forced to accept the brutality and feel the terror of disembodiment. Finding no solace in the audience, I ran to the nearest bathroom, flung the object deemed only useful for labor and slave production to the ground and wept. Yet in the grand scheme of history, crying was useless. My tears couldn’t reunite families that were forcibly separated.

My tears couldn’t heal the generational trauma which effects still linger in the African American community. My tears couldn’t prevent the undoing of his pants and the violation of her body, which belonged to her and no one else. In accepting the ugliness of history, I was freed to consider the life I wished to live- specifically, how can I be free in this black body?

When I returned to the presentation hall, I was assigned to a table where students were encouraged to debrief the content of Robinson’s presentation. As I processed my emotions, I remained silent while the table, entirely white, discussed their takeaways. Too quickly, my ACLU allies began to engage in side conversations and the usual consumption of social media. Infuriated and appalled by everyone’s ability to move on, I asked the white ally to my left why he could not remain on the topic of discussion.

He shared that he wanted to move on because if he had “sat in it” for too long, he would start feeling guilty about the actions of his ancestors and didn’t want to be “stuck” in that feeling.

But I am stuck.

I can not run nor hide. The color of my skin binds me intimately and inextricably to my history. I can not remove the color of my skin, like a coat, after a difficult day of experiencing racism or shield myself from its consequences. It is so easy to become “unstuck” and ignore the pervasiveness of evil while enjoying the fruits of our thorny past. But I may never have that luxury. Therefore, I decided to utilize the oppression and resilience of my ancestors as inspiration to be a beacon of light and champion of justice, rather than spend the rest of my life resenting the America that controlled my body.

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by Jaila Richard ’22

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Where I Am From

by Omayma Al Balushi ’20

I am from dried tea leaves, from lofty palm trees and aromatic rose water.

I am from the green front yard, white walls surrounded by the laban sent from the inside.

I am from the saffron, the subtle golden strands. The strands that make my perfume floral and my pancake sweeter before my mom makes them disappear.

I am from Gargee’an* and Friday lunches, from Yousef and Maryam and Al Balushi.

I am from the good girls’ house and one spoiled boy.

From the genie that will take me if I don’t sleep before 10 pm and my dad’s grocery list when he bought me from the down street grocery store.

I am from my mom’s honest prayers at 4 am when I hear them coming from the other side of the wall, from the long human lines behind the Imam, from our daily ask to “Guide us to the straight path”surah al-fatihah verse 6.

I’m from Suhar, north Oman, sweet halwa and lots of Qahwa cups.

From the fishing boat that handled my great grandpa through the Strait of Hormuz and the raging seas, the old borderless world, and a mistake once made, one night, nineteen years ago.

I am from my dad’s ancient work bag in mom’s closet’s drawers where she keeps old pictures of her young looking cheeks and eight vaccine cards, two of which she dare not look at, and, of course, the saffron strands. *Gargee’an is marked with children dressing in traditional attire and going door-to-door to receive sweets and nuts from neighbours, whilst also singing traditional songs on Ramadan 15th, according to the lunar calendar. The celebration of Gargee’an shares superficial similarities with the Halloween custom of trick-or-treating.

by Omayma Al Balushi ’20

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by Mrs. Maria Found

Summer Poem* I have a desire to walk by the shore ...

As the sun rises signaling a new day To feel the sand in my toes and wind in my hair To free my mind of stress as the breeze blows Where I can listen to the waves, play in the sand soak up the sun A warm brand new season has finally begun * This poem was written as a collaboration over email with contributions from many Brewster community members.

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The City

by Omayma Al Balushi ’20

When our hearts wander around a city sides, when our looks take us to dimensions that are more courageous than the obvious, and when we inhale an amazement and exhale a dream, then, this city turns from being a mere geographical piece under some political borders into something that is similar to your own soul. That soul, in which we find the roots of our trees, our severed distances, and our blue skies.

You feel when you are covered under its alleys that it fulfills all the muted questions deep inside you without moving a lip.

Dignity that leans with its stick against the ancient walls, the same walls that attest to the honor of those who abandoned their own legacy in exchange for the values that they believed in.

And that nostalgic thought that drags you, and your imagination to that forgotten man sculpture, the man who carried his lifetime in his bag.

All of this tells you that home is not necessarily the place where your mom bore you, but it is the place where you find your passion.

Boston, October 2019.

by Selena Phinney ’22

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photos by Zea Hirschberg ’20

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by Jayce Alvelo ’20

By the Gray Alley

by Carla Burton ’23

1.

It’s at a place by the gray alley, at some time before I was here.

The long handled umbrella was put away and leaned against the door frame. The black boots stepped on the old wood floor, the water stains in the cracks on the floor, and the wet wood creaked. The lights were dangling and hissing around the walls.

He went to the sofa, sat down, and poured a glass of wine. The light in the steam lamp, it broke in the water, shining through the glass. The faint yellow light hurt his eyes, and he felt a little itchy on his face.

Something cold on his cheek that slipped down. It took him a long time to move, then suddenly, something slipped into his mind, and he stood up. He went to the bookcase and opened the second drawer on the left. Taking a glance at the window, he saw the dark shadow of those thin branches outside of the house. There was a dusty box with rusty brass locks. The box had not been opened for a long time, with seven letters lying quietly in it.

He took out those yellowed letters and turned them over gently.

He saw it. The water dripped down the edge of the window quietly, and the rustle of leaves came from the crack of the window. She curled up on the bench next to the wall, and the light from the small stove shone on the cashmere blanket. She closed her eyes, listened quietly, listened to him enter the living room, listened to the coffee beans grind to pieces, and then she smelled the bitterness of Australian coffee.

He sat on the wooden chair beside her, the chair creaked, and the coffee cup made a crisp sound on the table when he put it down. With the sound of the pages turning, she seemed to feel his gentle look. So she opened her eyes. At the moment, a ray of light fell into the night, stirring up a circle of ripples in the darkness.

2.

I went out from the back door of the house to the garden that morning. cont. on pg. 31

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cont. from pg. 30 This garden has been here for some years. The wall is low and was made of soil, stone, and tile. It is very abrupt in a piece of reinforced concrete. In grandpa’s words, it’s because ghosts here often come back.

This place flourished once, but now all that remains is an old banyan tree. The intricate roots firmly lock the sand and stones on the ground, and some broken bricks are lying around. Inside, standing against the wall in a pile of dry and cracked wooden boards, the original color has disappeared after a long time. The marble steps are covered with moss, and the original materials can hardly be seen. After decades of wind and rain, the paint on the doors and windows has been peeled off, leaving only a little color at the edges.

It is early spring, but the morning seems to be oppressed by the gloomy sky. Green shoots or leaves that have settled into dark green reflect the color of yellow dust. On the windowsill in the direction of the garden hung two thin, dry petunias. The dried Petunia vine has been hanging for two or three years. The withered leaves, somehow, stayed as same as when they were alive, just being drained of water, twisted down.

I don’t know why it stayed there for such a long time – maybe it was the indifference of human feelings, never caring about it, letting it remain safe as a result. Or, perhaps it was the small corner, which it somehow yearned for, stayed there, and never thought about leaving.

3.

The black dog squatted on the edge of the tree trunk and twisted himself. Next to him an iron chain wrapped around the tree. The tree must have grown for more than ten years, and the dog in this yard has never left. The dog slowly circled, took two steps, and then squatted down. He might remember when he was young. He stood upon this ground. As the dog moves, his feet drip liquid occasionally from the bottom. The fluid is lost in the brown soil. It may be water or blood, but no one can tell after it melts.

The dog had an owner once. It was an old man, but he died a few years ago. The man came here with a girl who was five years younger than him. They lived together happily and quietly in the house by the side of the garden, until a decade later, the woman went out and never came back. The man wandered around the yard for two months, then one day, he stepped back into the house, and no one has ever seen him ever since. The dog was still by the tree, though. He is perhaps the only one left here. Every day someone takes some of their leftover food and throws it on the ground in front of the dog so that the dog can eat it. And this is how he is still alive. But he never left the tree.

Outside of the garden, I’m watching it. The dog turns to lie down, his nose stuck to the mud, and tries to smell and lick. He doesn’t do anything to this small piece of land. Every day, he continues to walk, continues to circle, continues to drop the shameful liquid. Because of aging, because life is forbidden forever, because there is no longer the strength and ambition to escape, maybe also because of the garbage that should not be fed to him. The dog is sick, obviously. He sat back on the edge of the trunk and licked his back in a more twisted way. The dog will not know that he is ill, but he might understand that some changes have taken place in his body. He can only cure his pain with the most primitive behavior. The sun is getting lower.

Minutes later, he turned his eyes to looked at the sun, standing tall and straight, like a retired soldier. He seems to have tears in his eyes, and memories are blooming in his chest. As the sunset, his shadow grew.

Since then, he has never moved again.

That was the last time I went to the gray alley.

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Figure of Speech (Indentured Servitude) The revolution was NOT revolutionary

by Rose Guttman ’21

Sealed and delivered- guess I’m in it now I needed the cash- was told this is how I guess money really can buy time That is- It bought four years of mine What am I worth? Silver, gold?

Why do I not trust what I’ve been told?

They say that I’m free but I don’t feel it Each day is “Sir may I rest for a bit?”

No… (QOM Chorus) I fought a war to become Free Yet it seems like he still owns me Open my eyes so I can see Ooh let me see….

That freedom is just a figure of speech Verse 2 We fought the motherland- took up arms Battlegrounds made of what once were farms Now that it’s over don’t know what to doHow ‘bout lets be free- does that sound good to you?

See, “freedom’ changes with each one who says it Everyone’s got their own definition A slave if you’re black, free if you’re white Yet my pale hands still work despite…

(Chorus X2) I fought a war to set me Free Yet it seems like he still owns me Open my eyes so I can see Ooh let me see….

That freedom is just a figure of speech

by Lydia Lovering ’22

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Brains Can Rewire

by Katherine Keady ’20

Dyslexia was first identified in 1896. It was recognized by a doctor in Sussex, England who had published the first description of a learning difference. At first, they did not have a name for this theory. From then on, researchers have adapted more knowledge on dyslexia. There was a time where people thought that those with dyslexia were lazy, stupid or had a bad attitude. Until it was discovered what was going on in their brain. It is wired differently than those without dyslexia, and the key to coping and growing with it is learning techniques and strategies, but also getting extra help outside of school such as tutoring.

Dyslexia is when one struggles with reading, writing, spelling, and comprehension. Those attributes all tie into having trouble with matching letters on paper, and how to decode letters, whether it be the sound they make or pronunciation. These steps make learning much more difficult. It takes more time to process and understand.

Dyslexia is common and affects twenty percent of the population, as well as representing eighty to ninety percent of those who struggle with learning disabilities (Shaywiz).

From a dyslexic’s standpoint, I have experienced the frustration of not being able to pick up information fast enough that is being said to me. I have stared at countless readings where I worried if I would be the last one to finish nevermind if I would end up understanding it.

These components all made me feel as though I was the problem yet it was something I could not control. In the end, despite dyslexics struggling academically, they are still intelligent. The only thing different about them is the wiring of the brain.

Through the new advanced technology that is being discovered, research has been done on dyslexics’ brains.

Doctors have been able to visualize and comprehend the brain’s anatomy and functions through an MRI. An MRI “created images that can reveal information about brain anatomy, brain metabolites and brain function”(Dyslexia and the Brain). In general, everyone’s brain is made up of white and grey matter. The grey matter helps process information whereas the white matter is made up of connective fibers that help nerves communicate as well as transfer information throughout regions of the brain.

Although in the end, it was established that dyslexics have less white and grey matter in different parts of the brain (Eboch). This makes sense as to why writing papers and answering questions took such a long time for me. Due to this information, I now understand why I struggled with the things that I did. Dyslexic brains are not as active in areas they lack and that are important for reading.

Researchers have studied how a dyslexic brain differs from the rest. In one study, they tested a young girl when completing small and quick tasks in order to find and study information on two regions on the left side of the brain when reading (Emanuel). The two parts they studied were called the temporoparietal cortex and the occipitotemporal

by Ms. Barb Thomas cortex. The temporoparietal cortex’s job is to process spoken language when learning how to sound out words.

On the other hand, the occipitotemporal cortex is part of the visual processing area. Together, these parts of the brain help recognize objects that we train our brain to do for it to be embedded in our heads. However, these two cortices do not let it come easy to anyone when it comes to letters. For starters, there are lowercase and uppercase letters. Therefore, everyone’s brain must work to adapt to identifying what uppercase letter goes with what lowercase letter. Although after the tests were done they discovered that both areas are under-activated and most certainly did not light up like an average reader (Emanuel). As a result of learning this, I can now look back and understand why learning letters were a challenge for me. The two cortices were insufficiently active when I was learning how to identify and spell letters that it took more effort and work to memorize them. My mind was constantly working until it slowly but surely started to click for me. Although these are not drastic changes in the brain it is concerning when compared to a normal brain.

Dyslexic brain functions have different chemical differences. Not only do they use different regions but “dyslexic children use nearly five times the brain area as normal children while performing a simple language task”(Briefings). This only means that their brains are working harder than the normal brain, using more energy.

The brain uses more energy because it is using different fields of the brain, has less matter and has places that are not as active as the regular person when learning and understanding. Dyslexics must continue to strengthen their brain and the way it functions through extra hours of studying, tutoring and learning strategies. .Repetivity is one of the best things to do for a child with dyslexia. A National Science Foundation from the Institute for Learning and Brain Science, University of Washington, examined the growth in reading skills and the white matter cont. on pg. 34

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Brains Can Rewire cont. from pg. 33

in school-aged struggling readers. However, after eight weeks the MRI data that was collected showed large scale changes within the white matter and significant growth in reading skills (Is Dyslexia Permanent). Therefore, by pushing children with dyslexia to do activities over and over again will help their brains begin to develop and grow in areas that they struggled in. Whether it be flashcards, reading or writing games, this repetition will allow them to start to recognize and do things without thinking.

Despite somebody working hard in school, extra support outside the classroom could be a good tool to help the dyslexic brain to develop more. Researchers asked people with dyslexia to participate in a six-week intervention (Emanuel). This intervention consisted of kids working five days a week for six hours in a classroom with a teacher. They helped them practice reading with reading exercises and number manipulations. They would be working with flashcards and sheets over and over. After time the need for help and support lessened, and they were soon enough starting to get the hang of it. After the trial, they were able to take scans of their brain to research what the brain looks like after the constant tutoring and extra help. They noticed “the brain areas typically associated with reading in the left hemisphere have indeed become more active” (Emanuel). Not only did the left hemisphere develop but other areas became more active in parts of the brain that did not involve reading such as the right hemisphere.

I as well have experienced this success.

After being diagnosed with dyslexia, I was not getting the proper education I needed to help me grow as a learner at my public school. I ended up switching to the Carroll School that teaches children with dyslexia from fifth to eighth grade. When I entered Carroll I was a below-average reader reading at a third-grade level. After working hard each day, having two language classes a day as well as one on one tutoring, my brain began to strengthen in the places that were once weak and underdeveloped. Thankfully, when I was in eighth grade, I had my final neuropsych evaluation. It was established that I was now reading at an above-average reading level. Not only did I grow as a reader, but I was told that my dyslexia no longer interfered with the way I learn. I learned so many strategies that helped me defeat this obstacle, and I was finally a confident independent learner. All it takes is extra support despite all the frustrations that tagged along with me.

Visual aids are one of the best things for somebody struggling with dyslexia. Rather than hearing somebody talk, seeing it by having visuals would be more beneficial.

Posting visual schedules allows them to listen to what the teacher has to say, but it also gives them a chance to read and process it on their own. This allows their brains to work a little extra rather than just listening. In the early years for a young learner, handing out letter strips that include all letters of the alphabet will give them time to figure out

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how to spell the word before asking the teacher for help.

The use of the letter strip will slowly diminish because they are learning to identify it on their own without relying on their teacher to give them the answer. Personally, when I was younger I remember seeing small fonts, and it made me stressed. There were times where it made reading harder especially when I went past a bigger word that I did not know. It simply stressed me out. By making the font bigger, it helps the student see words better. Whether it is directions for an assignment, project or just for reading, it will help them see and decode words better (Morin).

There was a time where those who struggled in school had no idea what was wrong with them. Although once people began to notice a trend in students struggling to learn, it became noticed and discovered. Dyslexia is a learning disability that affects how quickly you can process and read things. This does not mean you are any less than the rest of society. It merely means your brain is wired and built differently, but there are ways that you can work past it. By getting the proper education and learning strategies dyslexics can adapt to better learner habits. Despite how hard their brains work in a school day, it is advised to get extra help so that their brains can gain this matter and strengthen. Dyslexia is not something to be ashamed of and even though it can not go away, your brain can rewire in a way that can help you become successful when in school and the real world.

Works Cited “Briefings.” Dyslexic Kids’ Brains Work Harder. www. washington.edu/alumni/columns/dec99/dyslexia.html.

Web. 11 Feb. 2020.

Dyslexia and Language Brain Areas, www. neuroanatomy.wisc.edu/selflea2004. Web.13 Feb. 2020.

“Dyslexia and the Brain.” International Dyslexia Association. www.dyslexiaida.org/dyslexia-and-the-brainfact-sheet/. 2020. Web. 15 Feb. 2020.

Eboch, Chris. Living with Dyslexia. ABDO Publishing, 2014. EBSCOhost. Web. 11 Feb. 2020.

Emanuel, Gabrielle. “How Science Is Rewiring The Dyslexic Brain.” NPR, 29 Nov. 2016. www.npr.org/ sections/ed/2016/11/29/503693391/researchers-studywhat-makes-dyslexic-brains-different. Web. 13 Feb. 2020.

“Is Dyslexia Permanent? How Teachers Can Rewire a Struggling Reader’s Brain.” WeAreTeachers, 1 Mar. 2019, www.weareteachers.com/rewire-struggling-readersbrain/. Web. 18 Feb. 2020.

Morin, Amanda. “Classroom Accommodations for Dyslexia.” Accommodations for Students With Dyslexia. www.understood.org/en/school-learning/partneringwith-childs-school/instructional-strategies/at-a-glanceclassroom-accommodations-for-dyslexia. Web. 18 Feb. 2020.

Shaywiz, Sally. “What Is Dyslexia?” Yale Dyslexia, dyslexia.yale.edu/dyslexia/what-is-dyslexia/. Web. 13 Feb. 2020.

by Carla Burton ’23

Crunches

by Mary James ’20

The corner of the street darkens as the tears from my eyes hydrate the pavement. “You’re not pretty enough” rings in my ears over and over again. Their laughter slithers in through my ears and into my brain, fighting for space in my seven-year-old skull. I cry on the shoulder of my friend, who tries to reassure me that those same people told her she was pretty enough, but she declined. It doesn’t make me feel better. The only thing that she reassures is that my dark skin, darker freckles, light eyes, curvy body, and curly hair are not pretty enough; therefore, I am not pretty. I walk home, feeling everyone’s eyes on me. Their look burns the parts I hate most, and I am on fire. I go to my room fast enough that my parents don’t get a chance to see me. I look at the reflection that I had never really thought about, and my only response is to cry. I fall to the tan carpeted floor and start doing crunches. I know nothing about working out, but I had seen people do this on TV. I think if I can do enough crunches, I will be short and skinny like all of them. One. I hate my body; it is big and clumsy. My life and all of my problems would be solved if it was just different. Two. I hate my skin; it is dark and ugly. The kids at school tell me it looks like dirt and that I shouldn’t go in the sun too much. Three. I hate my freckles; they only add to the darkness of my skin, and no one else has them like me. I heard that I could scratch them off of my face if I scratch hard enough. Four. I hate my eyes, they are blue, and all of the people I know have brown eyes. One day I’ll have money and buy contacts so I can be pretty. Five. I hate my hair, it is wild and crazy, and all I want is to blend into a wall. All I want is to be normal, but with my curvy clumsy body, my dark skin, my darker freckles, and my light blue eyes, my hair was what crowned me the queen of the not enough: six, seven eight, nine, ten.

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by Peter Stanger ’20

Pickin’ at the Pile

by Mr. T.J. Palmer

For those of us interested in Wellesley history, my dad and I would like to announce our pivotal role in starting the recycle and recovery movement in Wellesley. That movement, if you’ve visited the Recycling and Disposal Facility recently, is no small claim, but read on.

In 1971, a few forward-thinking Wellesley residents formed, “Action for Ecology,” and this officially began a revolutionary shift from a town “Dump” to a town “Showpiece,” or at least that’s what The New York Times called it. My suspicion is, albeit undocumented, that this group must have witnessed a ten-year old blond kid, on top of the scrap-metal pile, grabbing bike parts with his dad. Most likely, our salvage operations gave this group the vision to create a nationally recognized facility and save the town hundreds of thousands of dollars every year.

I’d like to think the whole movement began when I was a kid, on Saturday mornings, loading my dad’s Oldsmobile with the family trash. This exercise might cause my father to curse under his breath about the soggy paper bag that spilled coffee grounds on the kitchen floor. Or I might cringe at having to pull cotton balls, covered in calamine lotion, from the bottom of a wastebasket in my mother’s bathcont. on pg. 37

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cont. from pg. 36 room, but all in all, we were gearing up for a morning of dump picking. Strange I know, but I was a kid that loved going to the dump. I suspect my Dad did too, in a father-son relationship sort of way.

If you remember, once inside the gates of the dump, your initial reaction was to crane your neck outside the car window to get a visual of the huge, belching, smokestack made out of sootylooking brick. As you drove closer, smoke intermittently coughed out the top of the stack, noticeably lowering visibility. I was enthralled. My father wanted to unload the trash.

At the base of the world’s tallest smoke stack was this cranky, mechanical shovel, which lowered itself into the world’s biggest garbage pit. With a deafening, hissing-type noise, the cranelike contraption would close its steel jaws on the debris of family life, and then swing upward on giant cables to drop it all into a fiery furnace. Everything burned to smithereens right before your eyes. What was not to love for a ten-year old boy?

Unfortunately for wide-eyed kids, a lawsuit claiming the furnace created “black smoke, soot and fly ash,” shut it down for good in 1973.

Out of the smoky haze, my dad would drag me away from the crane goings-on to refocus on the metal-scrap heap, our last stop and the reason I most loved going to the dump. Discarded were the stove that didn’t heat, the refrigerator that didn’t cool, and the sewing machine that wouldn’t stitch, but in our minds everything was repairable. I was enthusiastic that we could fix anything, and my father’s engineering degree from M.I.T. didn’t hurt either.

Amazingly, we also found the bike that would ride, the lawnmower that did run, and the fireplace set that wasn’t broken. The broken, the unbroken, and the unidentified were all heaped into a giant pile of metal that reached twenty or thirty feet in the air. Its existence just begged my Dad and I to take it all home. And we mostly obliged.

If you never stopped at the heap of twisted metal, you really missed something. Usually, my search would lead me to the top of the giant pile. Balancing on a pair of truck rims, unaware of how dangerously unstable the whole mess of metal might be, I might yank on the chrome bike fender I just had to have. This, in turn, could dislodge the dented water heater, which might cause a warped car fender to crash into the crushed charcoal grille. On one occasion, the cold, wet soot of a grille’s last meal did spill all over me. My dad wasn’t worried. And I did get that fender.

This grabbing and tugging at treasures stuck in the giant heap continued on Saturday’s with my dad for years. We built dozens of bikes, repaired a vast array of appliances, and re-purposed hundreds of discarded items. We also spent quality time together.

No one else in town seemed the least bit interested; there were no official signs to stay away, and no one seemed to be worried about liability. I suspect the only ones watching were the visionary “Action for Ecology” people, who saw the future “green” movement coming before anyone else.

Today, the town’s Recycling and Disposal Facility has a book exchange and a swap shop board. Girl scouts sell cookies, selectman campaign and the metal-scrap pile is now the “take it or leave it,” area. According to the Christian Science Monitor, “people even gather mushrooms and dandelion greens,” on the park-like grounds. I like other ingredients in my salad, but undeniably, the transformation of the dump is truly remarkable.

And if I had to guess, at least one tiny catalyst for all this advancement was the kid and his dad, picking at the pile on Saturday mornings, to their hearts’ content.

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Spies & Sweethearts

by Mrs. Linda Shenton Matchett

Gerard Lucas swallowed a grin. He couldn’t let Miss Strealer see how much he enjoyed her discomfort. Since seeing her name on the roster two days ago, he’d had time to adjust to the knowledge of their paths crossing again. Stunned at the thought of the gorgeous young woman parachuting behind enemy lines, he reviewed her file to determine why the agency selected her.

He’d recognized the woman’s intelligence on the plane, but her record spoke volumes about her potential. Her language skills and knowledge of the French people were impeccable, and her aptitude scores were higher than every student. Her fine motor skills exceeded his own. She excelled on the intuition tests and passed the psychology evaluation with flying colors.

All well and good, but would she be able to kill a man with her bare hands?

Probably not. Her timidity on the plane during takeoff and the turbulence incident didn’t bode well. Better for her to fail here and be sent home than to put her in a situation from which she couldn’t recover.

“Welcome, everyone. Congratulations on making it this far. You’re among the brightest America has to offer, and we appreciate your willingness to serve. Most of your training has been book learning, but that’s about to change. The next five weeks will be the most physically challenging of the course, probably more demanding than you’ve ever experienced.” His gaze swept the room, then he zeroed in on Miss Strealer. “This training will make the difference between whether you live or die in the field.”

Her eyes widened, and her eyebrows shot up.

He had to give her credit for maintaining her composure. She didn’t gasp or go pale like some of the other female students. Did she have the fortitude for this after all?

“Anyone want to back out? No one will blame you if you’re unwilling to put your life on the line.” He pointed to a pair of women in the back who had exchanged a fearful glance. “How about you ladies? Want to stay?”

“Yes, sir.” They spoke in unison.

They wouldn’t last the week. “Fine.” He gestured to a smug-looking young man lounging in his chair. “What about you, tough guy? Think you’ve got what it takes?”

“Absolutely. I’m from the Bowery. Nothing more dangerous than that.”

Gerard narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see.” He sauntered forward until he stood inches from Miss Strealer then peered down his nose at her. “And you? Can you handle crawling in the dirt, running for hours wearing a pack, or escaping detection from tracker dogs?”

She sat up, ramrod straight, and glared at him. “Yes, sir. Any reason to believe I can’t?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Her face pinked, but she continued to stare him down. She seemed to have gumption, but would her grit and spunk be enough to keep her alive longer than the six-week average lifespan of a radio operator?

He rubbed his hands together. “All right, enough conversation. Let’s get cracking.” Gerard clicked on the overhead projector then dimmed the lights. Moving to the screen, he poked a photograph of a small building. “The first topic we’re going to discuss is how to attack an enemy-occupied house. Needless to say, surprise is crucial in these situations. Without it, your mission has a great chance of failure.”

Holding up his thumb, he said, “First, there must be a detailed preliminary reconnaissance of the approaches to the house and the house itself.” His index finger went up. “Second, there must cont. on pg. 39

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cont. from pg. 38

be a definite plan of action to which everyone adheres. No mavericks, no gunslingers.” Gerard shot a look at the New Yorker. “Got that, Bowery?”

The recruit nodded.

Gerard clapped his hands, the sound sharp in the silence. “Now, if the group is going to avoid casualties, speed and aggression must be used as soon as the action begins. Lastly, it is essential that every allowance be made by the leader for the original plan to go awry. Be prepared for the worst, because if something can go wrong, there’s a strong possibility it will. That’s when your real mettle comes into play.”

With a flourish, he stabbed the windows and door on the house’s image then swapped the Mylar sheet with a photograph of the back of the building. “Lots of ways into this place. Who has an idea about the means of ingress?”

“One of the windows in the back?” A timid suggestion rose from the middle of the group.

“Nope, you’re dead. No one can enter quickly, and you’re an easy target as soon as you get in.

More often than not, you have to jump down when entering through a window.”

“The roof. Definitely the roof.”

“Excellent, Bowery. It’s the most advantageous route because you can drive the enemy lower, and he can’t roll any grenades on top of you. However, before you congratulate yourself, be aware it’s next to impossible to get there undetected because you’re bound to make noise. So, you’re probably dead, too.”

Miss Strealer raised her hand.

“What say you, Miss Strealer?”

She licked her lips.

He blinked so as not to stare at her alluring mouth. Get a grip, Lucas. “Well?”

“Uh, the back door because it’s less likely to be defended, at least as strongly as the front?”

“Is that a question or a statement? Seems like a definite maybe.”

Her left eyebrow rose, and her chin jutted out.

“A statement. Most times the back has better coverage because the landscaping isn’t as trimmed or well cared for.”

“Very good. If you can’t enter via a skylight in the roof, the back door is your second best option.”

He tossed a glance at her. “Congratulations, Miss Strealer. You’re not dead…yet.”

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that statement.

by Katherine Martin ’21

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39

The Spaces Between Toes

by Ella Quinlan ’20

Pinprick stars Scattered across a Personal pale sky.

A hazardous yellow milky way Beaten into the petite frame Of a fragile figure.

Bruised and see through, the skin rots first.

The cluster of stars On the backside of elbows, And between the toes Is an Aurora within the veins, And Euphoria in the brain.

But then it rots.

In the darkness of the forgotten galaxies.

Forever foaming for the same breed Of erotic feeling.

Till the personal sky Becomes a pre packaged corpse.

Already having had begun The decaying above ground.

The spaces in between toesSoft and dangerously vulnerable.

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by Ms. Alicia Childers ’01

by Jawan Lawson ’20

Adultery

by Indigo Brown ’20

Together we were a beautiful mess We had nothing we didn’t need Because we Were all we needed He used to call me his home Every day he would come home And give us a good word From the good book Until his words meant nothing But good First it was 10 o’clock, then midnight, Then days Gone with a child questioning if he was worth it.

Clearly, he has found a home in someone else.

So me and my baby Made one of our own.

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41

Her Name

by Mary James ’20

The bricks tell her whole story. The way the mold tucks into the creases, the way spiders build their homes in the corners, the way the vines hug her curves, and beautify her face, tells the whole story. She stands tall, overlooking a sea of artificial green that is supposed to be beautiful. She’s brave for us. Her strong walls keep all of her children safe from the world outside of her. The children leave one by one, either feeling immensely grateful or like they deserve better. Her real children open and close her doors with care, admire the art on her walls, and hold each space as a safe, sacred one. The faces of the people who think that they deserve better than her are dirty. They hate her because they don’t need her.

She is changing now, which I can tell makes her uneasy. However, she is greater than me. She knows what battles to fight, and she knows this is not one of the more important ones. As the sun beams behind her, I sit in her shadow, basking in her glory.

Clean air circles in my lungs and I feel protected there.

What looks to be sad, old, and dingy is a hidden way for her to fight off the evils that come in, ball and stick in hand to scare her children. She wards them off with half fixed windows, holes in the walls, cold floors, creaky doors, and a long, dark hallway.

This, however, is just a facade. She is actually warm like hot tea on a rainy day. She is kinder than the kindest person you know, and she serenades you from the moment you walk in till the moment you leave. Walk through her hallways and you’ll see a smile everywhere you turn, and meaningful lessons through every door.

She is everything I want to be. Her haunted halls, moldy corners, and water damaged ceilings are not who she is. She has been a home to people for a long time, and my home for the last four years. Her name is Rogers.

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by Katherine Martin ’21

OUTCROPPINGS • Volume 41 •

43

Dear Brewster

by Sophia Mazri ’20

I knew since the day I set eyes on you You were where I belonged You helped me see that my dreams could come true And my first steps on campus made me realize that nothing would stop me from being with you.

I never knew of boarding schools or what Brewster could set me up to do, yet, nothing could ever stop me from being with you.

As I look back on our times together I see how much I’ve grown and how much I continue to love you.

Day by day I’ve grown to become someone Who can do anything she sets her mind too Whether I was making it rain with my freshman class, or tripping over benches in front of boys who play lax, nothing could ever stop me from being with you.

So thank you.

Thank you for allowing me to play my sport,

for scoring goals and all the endless support, for my forever family away from home In the bubble of Wolfeboro I have learned to adore I’ll miss getting ready to go to a dance And hugging my friends as we rush to class I’ll learn to let go of a part of me I’ll never be ready to move from or leave For the rest of my time here I will leave my legacy And remember all the faculty and students who helped find me As I get ready for many of my lasts New doors will open, where I will advance, Yet I won’t forget to take moments and look back As I leave behind all the memories and many laughs I’ll miss the late nights and I promise to see you again Thank you for creating the person I am and everything that you do Brewster, nothing will ever stop me from being with you.

by Jen Dumont

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Life is a journey.

Everyone has a camera.