Outcroppings

OUTCROPPINGS Volume 43 • 2022

OUTCROPPINGS Volume 43 • 2022

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OUTCROPPINGS Brewster Academy Wolfeboro, New Hampshire Volume 43 2022

Editor in Chief: Lila Glanville ’22 Managing Editor: Vera Zaslavskiy ’22 Faculty Advisor: Jennifer Metcalfe Dumont Cover Art by Lila Glanville ’22

by Roffee Loosigian ’23

From the Editors: This year’s edition of Outcroppings featured many vulnerable pieces from students and teachers. You will find pieces in here about self-discovery, self-love, loss and learning. With the common theme appearing to be self-discovery and self-love, we applaud all contributors for their courage and trust to share these works of art with this publication and with our community.

These past few years have been immensely difficult for most of us, and it was very moving to read and review the art and writing submitted.

We deliberated carefully over each piece and made our selections with quality as well as meaning and message in mind. Thank you to all who submitted for sharing your raw emotion and creativity with Outcroppings. And thank you for reading!

- Lila Glanville ’22 and Vera Zaslavskiy ’22

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by Ms. Maria Found

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Table of Contents Title Page: Photo by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski ....... 1 Life of a Seashell by Ellie Whitman ’23 and Photo by Lili Nemeth ’23 ................................. 6 Artwork by Kellye Nguyen ’22 and Artwork by Mac Tiarawut ’22 ......................... 7 Yakusoku by Narn Saraboon ’22............................. 8 Beyond Burning Out

by Tata Tirapongprasert ’22..................................... 10 Photo by Betty Rao ’22............................................11 Artwork by Jade Hall ’22 ...................................... 12 Love Yourself by Ariela Kellerman ’22.................. 13 The Snake Charmer by Caleb Brennion ’22......... 14 Artwork by I-Pon Kasean ’22................................. 15 Pink Barrettes and Patriarchy

by Elisha-Grace King ’23......................................... 16 Artwork by Lila Glanville ’22 ............................... 17 Artwork by Alexia von Foerster ’23....................... 18 Destined for Failure by Poshu Ng ’23 and Artwork by Maisy Van Arsdale ’24............... 19 Eulogy to Stuttering

by Tata Tirapongprasert ’22..................................... 20 Artwork by Alexia von Forester ’23....................... 20 Photo by Brock Dietz ’25........................................ 21 Photos by Logan Cliche, Ms. Laura June Raymond, Andy Jo ’22, Mark Saengrungkongka ’22,

Reid Ducharme ’23 & Dasonte Bowen ’22......... 22-23 Lost and Photo by Gracie Mouradian ’24............. 24 Artwork by Emma Tutaj ’23 and Maggie Doyle ’24.............................................. 25 Maya’s Diagnosis by Ms. Emily James ................ 26 Artwork by Saber Chen ’22.................................... 27 A Natural Transition by Zak Maxey ’23............... 28 Just a Minute by IceT Thaewanarumitkul ’22 and Artwork by Mr. Yu Lui................................... 29 Hair Tie by Kellye Nguyen ’22............................... 30 Artwork by Heidi Broussard ’25 and Zack Glinsky ’23............................................... 31 Artwork by Jaila Richard ’22................................. 32 The Things We Carry by Kayla Holz ’23.............. 33 Ourobouros by Caleb Brennion ’22 ...................... 34 Caprice by Blake Flather ’22 .................................. 35 French Amber by Levi Brekke ’22.......................... 36 What is My Directive? by Lila Glanville ’22........ 37 Photo by Ms. Barb Thomas..................................... 39 Artwork by Sylvie Skibicki ’23 .............................. 40 A World of Alcoholics by Poshu Ng ’23............... 41 Roots by Al Zaharaa Al Zaabi ’23.......................... 42 Photo by Caleb Brennion ’22.................................. 43 Did We Change Your Life? by Mr. Robert Olive and Photo by Ms. Barb Thomas............................. 44

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by Lili Nemeth ’24

The Life of a Seashell

by Ellie Whitman ’23

The ocean waves crashed onto the sand in a calm, yet forceful manner. As the tide became higher, more and more seaweed and driftwood appeared on the shore. Everything that washed up onto the beach was so dull, except for this one conch shell that could catch the eye of anyone passing. Its colors on the outside were light, but the inside shined with bright pink. This seashell stood out, as it was the largest among the rest. As everyone passed and admired its beauty, the tide crashed into the conch shell as if it was encouraging it to be great. The shell would stand tall in all its beauty and embrace the compliments from the strangers on the beach. Little did they all know, this shell has been waiting for this day for a long time. To finally be appreciated for all it is and to have the sun beam down like a spotlight to highlight the shimmering glow on this shell. This would last until one person would decide to pick the conch shell up and claim it as their own. No one knew that when that happened, this shell would see their dream die off in the blink of an eye.

Gone and put away for someone’s memory of the trip they took to the beach. Every day, the tide would crash over and over again, just waiting to encourage the next shell longing to be seen.

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Painting

by Mac Tiarawut ’22

by Kellye Nguyen ’22 My mother is a paint brush Always, she bends, unwaveringly Her body making rainbows, never Ceasing She sits, another stroke Palms pressed, another stroke Eyes closed, another stroke Lips moving—or are they? Another stroke Mud, blood, money, tears Another tube of paint is opened—new yet rusted Dip drip—then Peace Within her heart and soul, the bristles quietly ignite Smoke floats like clouds all around, even when Pff! The spark goes out and Nothing, and everything, remains.

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Yakusoku

by Narn Saraboon ’22

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Beyond Burning Out: Reclaiming Life’s Missing Joy

by Tata Tirapongprasert ’22 Standing strong with head held high, the minotaur was trailing through the endless labyrinth.

A compulsion to know; A desire to understand.

He paused and pondered, “Why am I here?”

I wrote this stanza in SEL class two months ago. Unlike the ambitious minotaur, I found myself cast adrift in the current of life. The class had become a stampede through an endless maze, chasing one assignment after another. As I tracked one down, five more popped out, and the hunt continued.

Gawking into the abyss between two summits of homework that should have been handed in weeks ago, I began to wonder: “Why am I here?”

This is the question that every high school student should ponder deliberately. It is too easy for us to forget our why amid the trivial many chaotic day-to-day events. Without a strong why, we are prone to throwing ourselves into bed and unconsciously scrolling through Instagram until 2:30 AM before receding into our cocoons just to wake up and relive the vicious, same-old-same-old routine.

It is vital to distinguish between burnout and laziness. Despite overlapping symptoms, these two are as different as chalk and cheese. As bittersweet as it sounds, high school students have developed a somewhat unique way of justifying their behaviors. One of the most notorious scapegoats is a coinedup phenomenon known as “senioritis.” It makes shifting the blame from ourselves remarkably easy, muttering as if laziness is an inevitable phase in one’s high school life. The term is, at best, an excuse—no wonder why many parents and teachers never bother to investigate the underlying issue seriously.

While senioritis is a whimsical wisecrack you might joke about at the dinner table, burnout is a severe psychological syndrome—one that deserves proper care and recognition. According to HelpGuide, burnout is a state of emotional, physical, and mental exhaustion caused by excessive and prolonged stress. Some symptoms include frustration, sadness, lack of hope, and fatigue, leading to anxiety and depression. A well-renowned social psychologist Christina Maslach acknowledges that the leading cause behind occupational burnout is an individual’s lack of control due to work overload. Bashed by a squall of responsibilities causes a person to feel overwhelmed as if they are not in the saddle anymore. The emotion then accumulates over time, manifesting itself into a state of mental fatigue.

Regaining strength and pulling oneself out of such emotional turmoil is different for everyone. I have found it remedying to remind myself of what matters to me. After many contemplation sessions, cont. on pg. 11

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by Betty Rao ’22

cont. from pg. 10 I connected with several long-lost passions and concocted a personal repertoire of the activities that brought me joy. My list included: tutoring, writing prose and poetry, photography, and playing the ukulele. Juggling three AP classes, a college-level mathematics course, and twentyish college essays made me neglect these.

“You have so many accountabilities. Recreational fun and games are a waste of time.”

Quite a sorcery performed by the brain if you ask me.

You need time to recover after a prolonged period of keeping your nose to the grindstone. Believe it or not, my inner drive automatically rekindles as I advocate time to pursue my side hustles. If you face a similar situation, don’t forget to give yourself some time off and start doing new stuff.

Have fun exploring!

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by Jade Hall ’22

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Love Yourself

by Ariela Kellerman ’22

I used to hate myself. I hated how I looked, I hated that I was shy and the outsider of my friends. I hated feeling unaccomplished and dumb, and lastly, I hated that I wasn’t one of the popular girls. Every time I was disappointed in myself or messed up, I started hearing a voice inside my head that would tell me that I was a failure.

How many of you sitting in the audience have said those words to yourself? For so many years, I listened to my voice inside my head until I was 15 years old. I believed that if these things were true of me then I didn’t deserve to be loved until I was ‘perfect’. For fifteen years I allowed these thoughts of judgment, unacceptance, fear, and hate to poison my mind.

the negative voices that were inside my head. One step at a time I let go of the need to be validated and loved by another person. Then I turned to myself and promised that I would never again be my enemy, I would become my own friend. I knew me the best. I saw myself- truly, and I knew I would never experience true authentic existence and love.

At first loving myself was hard. I experienced different forms of negativity as I started to leave behind toxic relationships with people, but one of the biggest things I experienced was loneliness. I had been focused on being enough for everyone but myself for so long that when I began to push back, leaving me alone and vulnerable to the unknown. Yet, during this season of loneliness, I found Growing up, the love I was most familiar with was toxic strength in the friends that stood by me and showed me and selfish. It often left me feeling shamed and neglected. what true love really means, and I found that I was enough I wanted someone to love me no matter how I looked, or for myself. what I could or could not do. The emotional neglect I had felt for so many years, turned into an unhealthy need for Today I am thinking a lot differently. I am not letting attention and a quest to find someone who could love me. the negative thoughts get to me. Loving myself has taught I chased after a love that would make me happy, accept me that I no longer need to define my worth by another me, and see me. However, as I experienced many different person’s standards. It has also enabled me to face myself, relationships, I began to discover that the love I wanted see every part of me and completely accept who I am, and, was not truly what I desired and was often not enough. although I still battle the negative voices in my head at times, I no longer believe them.

My unbalanced idea of love had left me broken. I was so unhappy down by the shame of not being ‘perfect’, and Loving myself has taught me to give myself grace and I was constantly disappointed when relationships did not to trust that there is beauty in my heart. Through self-love work out. I had chased after love and approval from others my heart has become more understanding and dynamic. I for so long, and when all failed I realized that I had no idea used to believe the only kind of fulfilling love was between who I was. My true self had been hidden away behind two people, but, the purest love cannot exist between us shame and fear. I was a shadow of an existence that was until we have learned how to truly love ourselves. not genuine to my soul. I realized I had to choose, would I continue to live my life quiet, unhappy, and trapped? Or Next time you go looking for love, instead of searching would I take a chance and be brave enough to be me and for another person, find yourself and love yourself . to especially love myself?

Because when the day comes for you to let another person into your life, it will no longer be about needing someone I was scared. I had never trusted myself. So, I had no to love the parts of you that you cannot, but rather, it will idea what the other side of neglect would look like. One be about finding someone who can love you as much as step at a time, I pushed back and started to say no to all of you already love yourself.

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The Snake Charmer

by Caleb Brennion ’22

Slowly we creep Making but the slightest peep Writhing in motion as the harmonics play.

The notion is gifted, as mother sings her children to sleep.

How we listen.

Every note is believed to every child conceived.

The snakes follow the rhythm as if it were scripture.

How they listen indeed.

The other animals do not listen.

They are scared, for mother has an ominous tone to them.

They hear, but they don’t believe; They live in fear.

For we are deadly, We slither on our backs, We slide on our bellies, Way down to the creek.

To feast and to eat.

The timing is crucial.

We thirst for the heart of the unwilling.

The moons’ gentle hue illuminates the scene.

The bloody massacre unbeknownst to the ground.

The flute sings and then chirps.

The fangs draw out and seep into the neck.

Poison dispersed into the prey’s cells.

Wiggling and screaming for help.

No one hears a sound during the whole commotion.

Mother’s flute whistles in the wind.

- Henri Rousseau’s The Snake Charmer (1907)

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by I-Pon Kasean ’22

Artist’s Statement

by I-Pon Kasean ’22

I was inspired by the embroidery work of Anders Wang and the White House animated GIF. He embroidered multiple long horizontal threads with different colors to illustrate the LGBT pride flag. I saw his work, and his LGBT pride flag stood out to me as every line aligned neatly parallel.

I stitched gray threads to outline the White House and then left the inside empty to be white and create some negative space. In the background, I applied the inspiration from Wang’s work to stitch many long parallel vertical threads with various colors to represent the LGBT pride flag.

My work displays a significant historical event about equality of same-sex marriage across the U.S. that the Supreme Court legalized as people used #LoveWins. I spent a tremendous amount of time finishing this embroidery since I wanted it to be done nicely and carefully. I am so proud of this piece.

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Pink Barrettes and Patriarchy

by Elisha-Grace King ’23

The nature of my hair is to always wake up with an unruly bedhead. I remember walking into the kitchen for breakfast when I was young to be greeted by a horrified expression on my mother’s face. The only person who could tame the bird’s nest on my head was her. I’d sit at the table eating my bowl of MultiGrain cheerios as my mom braided my hair with expert hands. Strands tugged at the back of my neck and paired with the vibrations of her humming her favorite 90’s love ballad.

After several patient (and periodically painful) minutes, I’d be off to school with a kiss goodbye.

With intricate patterns woven into my straight black hair, I carried my head high into school every day. I resembled a tacky Christmas tree, my face glowing with confidence and my head decorated with bows and bright colors. With beaming pride, I’d tell my friends who did my hair.

I’d envision being able to braid my own daughter’s straight black hair before school one day, just like my mom. Then, I’d be everything I admired. I’d grow up and be a real woman just like her.

My definition of “real woman” became confused as I matured. In the most confusing times, I was brought back to sitting at the breakfast table as my hair was decorated with ladybug hair clips.

My mother and my hair. The sacrifices she made for me to achieve the dream she couldn’t and finish an education. Our talks together in the mornings about my favorite trees I saw on the way to school. I realized that “woman” didn’t refer to a person who braided your hair in the morning but a feeling; the experience of a feeling. Love, pain, sacrifice, and devotion are ingrained into the strands atop my head; not seen but deeply felt. That deep, complex feeling is the word woman to me.

Being able to weave what I feel now and what I grew up with is an ongoing challenge. Most cultures, including the one I was raised in, do not accept the word woman as a feeling as I do. In Tagalog, the native language of my mother and the language of the love ballads she’d sing in the mornings, femininity is prescribed in correspondence with physical traits. Feminine is to long locks as my morning cereal was to milk. They go together.

Sometimes, I daydream of cutting it all off; liberating myself from any ties to expectation or binary. I wonder who I would be without that part of me. If I rejected the definition I grew up with of a perfect daughter. Of a daughter. Would I feel an immediate rush of relief? Or a deep sense of loss? Maybe even that I’ve committed a betrayal. I imagine that it would be similar to when I’d pull out my braids halfway through the school day. An instant release of the tight, aching pain irritating the back of my head all day. However, after brushing it all out, I would miss the feeling it gave me of connection and bright, girly spirit.

30 minutes sitting in a chair before school doesn’t seem so long of a process when you’re now faced with finding harmony between your culture and your thoughts. As I look in the mirror searching for answers, I see my bedhead; I have the responsibility of taming it now. I feel the power of being able to figure it out myself, but I miss the pure moments of the mother-daughter dynamic I experienced as a little girl. The feelings of empowerment and childhood seem to be entangled like complex strands in a braid, decorated with glittery barrettes I’m hesitant to touch.

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by Lila Glanville ’22

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by Alexia von Foerster ’23

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Destined for Failure

by Poshu Ng ’23

Be honest with yourself, Some are destined for greatness, Some are destined for failure.

Do you think you know who?

You are wrong.

The fastest, the strongest, the smartest today, The future doesn’t care.

But the choices we make – They matter.

No discipline will dissuade, But the self-inflicted.

Control yourself.

Why are you so careless?

Do you not fear regret?

Choose not to learn and adapt, Instead to bitch and point blame.

For you, I feel no pity, no remorse.

I will not help you. I would not hire you.

I do not believe in you, And I believe in everyone.

Your body matures, Your character shifts, But your guilt is immutable.

And if you reject those lessons, You are destined for failure

by Maisy Van Arsdale ’24

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Eulogy to Stuttering

by Tata Tirapongprasert ’22

Enormous auditorium, blinding lights splashing on the face, the 12-year-old orator strode up the stage and picked up the microphone.

Under the gaze of unfamiliar thousands, each and every face targeted right at him, he began reciting the prominent “I Have a Dream” speech.

This is my story.

It’s just that I was not the luminary under the spotlight.

I was the one sitting in the opposite corner of the room, hugging my knees, watching with my mouth falling open. How does the young speaker talk like that?

Throughout my life, Stuttering held dominion over me. He moored every first syllable of a sentence to the deepest recesses of my throat, rendering it down to a gasp of air or a mere “umm” and “uhh.” I had a wealth of words and a thousand two cents’ worth but could not get any of them out past my mouth.

As I stumbled over my words, people let out a giggle, followed by the typical “take it easy and slow down” talk. Being bashed by this reply many times sabotaged my self-confidence. I grew up a quiet student who did not dare to raise his hand and ask questions. I was the 143-lbs kid who, when given an s-sized shirt uniform, acquiesced because he was too timid to speak up for himself.

Stuttering stole a piece of my voice, the part that wanted to be heard the most. He followed me everywhere, and I grew more and more frustrated as he robbed me of the willingness to express my thoughts.

After many years of lying cheek smooshed against a pillow and crying, Stuttering and I learned to compromise, flourishing in each other’s company.

Like a strict, well-intended father, he pushed me to go the extra mile. To prepare for a threeminute speech at the school assembly, I stood before a mirror for hours, enunciating each word out loud. I recorded myself and studied every frame religiously: volume, pacing, fluency, tone, accent, posture, facial expression, and hand gestures. All components mattered.

I rehearsed until every sentence and body movement became muscle memory.

After fleeing for so long, I finally found peace amid his presence. Far and steady, the first word escaped my mouth, trailing by the second, the third, and the fourth. I am actually speaking! The flowing stream of words reflected my devoted practice in honing my speaking skills. Well, to be frank, I still stammered on the s’s and w’s, but I paused, smiled, and delivered the following sentence cont. on pg. 21

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by Brock Dietz ’25

cont. from pg. 20 with strength and confidence. Looking the audience in their eyes, I eventually embraced Stuttering.

At the beginning of 2020, I finally lost my friend of ten years. I was pretty sure that he would not be watching over me, but that’s alright. During our time together, Stuttering and I had grown in so many ways.

We were vigorous when we spoke at a student council election campaign, emceed countless local ceremonies, and accompanied each other through the stages of impromptu speech contests.

We were creative when we performed science shows, recorded music videos, and sang a selfcomposed mathematics song in front of the whole student body.

We were resilient when we coached ESL students for public speaking, created a YouTube channel, and empowered those facing a similar impediment to throw their voices into the world.

Looking back, I still see the kid who delivered countless soliloquies in front of the mirror.

Smothering with tough love, Stuttering has given me a sense of purpose, making me the person I am today.

A fearful stutterer I was, a proud stutterer I am.

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(top) by Logan Cliche ’25, (bottom left) Ms. Laura June Raymond, (bottom right) by Andy Jo ’22

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(left) by Reid Ducharme ’23, (below) by Mark Saengrungkongka ’22

by Dasonte Bowen ’22

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Lost

by Gracie Mouradian ’24

Standing still on a winter day.

The air as cold as ocean winds And the snow falling light like paper.

The white ground glows like a path begging to be followed.

Continuing in the footprints that were previously left behind.

They call out like clues hard to miss.

The trees are as helpful as a hand in keeping balance Tumbling through the forest, The journey may take up all of the time But the curiosity is too much to bear to turn back now.

by Gracie Mouradian ’24

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by Emma Tutaj ’23

by Maggie Doyle ’24

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Maya’s Diagnosis

by Ms. Emily James I was in the 26th week of a twin pregnancy. I was following up with the doctor on my last ultrasound. I had brought my 3-year-old daughter with me. The doctor suggested one of the nurses would look after her while we met. This, along with the extra-long last ultrasound, should have given me a sense of foreboding, but it didn’t.

The doctor told me that one of my twins had 3 markers for Down Syndrome. They saw a blockage in her intestine, a malformed heart, and encephalitis.

I am only half listening at this point. My brain is exploding. A child with Down Syndrome? I don’t know anyone with Down Syndrome. Those were the kids in the special ed room -- the dumb ones and the bad ones. I have a master’s degree in astronomy from Columbia University.

How was I ever going to relate to such a child?

“We could try to do an amniocentesis to get a definitive result. There is a low, but nevertheless there, risk that the amnio could result in an abortion.”

The baby she is pointing to on my ultrasound is the one I felt most connected to. I’m not entirely sure why -perhaps her lower position? Tears are streaming down my face -- unheeded. I already have a three year old and I feel like I am barely holding on. Adding twins was challenging enough just by itself. I don’t think I can do this.”

“It is too late to do a selective abortion. If you want to abort one, you would have to abort both.”

This child would have to live with me for all of my days. They would be a burden. They wouldn’t have a good quality of life and they would decrease my quality of life. What am I thinking? How can I be so selfish? I can’t even kill a cockroach or a mouse. Kill my own child?

“You could carry the birth to term, then give the Down’s child up for adoption. Alternatively, you could refuse medical treatment for that child. She would die within days.”

WAIT! WHAT?!?!? Did that doctor just suggest that I give birth to my daughter and then kill her?

“I am so sorry to deliver this bad news. Let’s talk again soon.”

Then she left.

I scooped up my 3 year old and went home. I walked to my neighbor’s house and handed her my daughter. I asked her to keep her while I spoke with my husband. In one of the best moments in our marriage, he didn’t miss a beat. “We will have her and do the best we can for her.

No need for an abortion.” His steadiness in this storm

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was awe-inspiring. He saw so quickly that we could raise her. When I think back to what I almost lost, I am hard pressed to forgive myself. I was so ignorant and afraid at that moment. I was overwhelmed by the task before me.

I could not have been more wrong. Maya grew up to be amazing. She loved dogs and music. She loved me with the type of pure love I can’t imagine I will see again in my lifetime. She was mischievous and adventurous. While she was non-verbal, Maya knew how to communicate. She was easygoing and loved to have fun. Maya had almost no sense of time -- she didn’t anticipate disaster and met her future with courage and grace. I won’t say being her mother was easy all the time, but it was rewarding and fulfilling. For all my academic degrees, in many ways, Maya was my best teacher about life.

The doctor was doing the best she knew how when delivering the diagnosis. Like me, she probably also had relatively limited experience with people with intellectual disabilities. I absolutely recognize that. However, I wish she had started with the possibility of raising Maya. I would hope that she could connect me with other people in our community who were raising kids with similar challenges. In our diagnosis discussion, while she never said it directly, I got the impression that just continuing the pregnancy as is was a bad option. No one would want to keep this child. I wish she led with something like, “In the last ultrasound, we saw that one of your babies has 3 markers for Down Syndrome. I know this is shocking but before we freak out, let’s work together to lay out the options. The first option to consider is just having her. You can do that. People raise children with Down Syndrome successfully all the time. There are supports and services available to help you. I can put you in touch with a few other parents in our community whose children have Down Syndrome if you want to explore this option.” Then give me the other options of giving up for adoption or abortion. Understand that I am not anti-abortion/pro-life -- I just don’t think I could do it myself. So abortion had to be brought up. I just wish the doctor had led with life and framed this as not the worse diagnosis.

Maya was a person -- a full person -- a worthy person.

I wish she had been presented to me in that way. I am so glad that I took the option to raise her. While there was no doubt she was “high maintenance”, she was worth any effort. She left the world better than she found it -- isn’t that all we can ask of ourselves?

by Saber Chen ’22

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A Natural Transition

by Zak Maxey ’23

A system of recurrence, The temperature dropping External reservoirs freezing, The deceptive opacity gone With all viridescence forgotten, A cyclical loss of canopy Followed by the streams farewell, While the conifers laugh in resilience Observing the deciduous downfall, Unfazed by the absence Sipping their hydraulic cache, Awaiting their verdant brethren.

by Zak Maxey ’23

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by Mr. Yu Lui

Just a Minute

by IceT Thaewanarumitkul ’22 What is the strongest thing in this vast world?

A Lion. No! It can be killed by a man who is ill and old.

Human? Still no. They contain a number of weakness.

We dominate today’s world. Death is still inevitable, nevertheless.

The nuclear bomb is a considered a strongest weapon.

It can destroy entire countries with one powerful blow.

People suffer from radioactivity more than possibly told.

The end, however, will come when time passes. Anyone knows.

Humans will deteriorate in time, and so does their merit.

So, is time the strongest thing in this universe? or is it just a culprit?

People always blame that their time is not enough but lose it absurdly.

Human should know they all have the most powerful thing and start to use it cleverly.

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Hair Tie

by Kellye Nguyen ’22 .Whack! The machete knife comes into contact with the solid, spiky surface and cracks it open.

Via a few grunts and a lot of arm work, my mom finally succeeded in retrieving the jackfruit hearts. She slowly raised the gorgeously yellow bunch of them up high in triumph. Even after breaking a good sweat, her neatly tied bun was still securely intact, which was impressive, considering the great thickness and length of her signature Vietnamese hair–thanks to her trusty black velvet scrunchie. That scrunchie accompanies my mom in almost everything she does: cooking, gardening, cleaning, combatting a jackfruit. First brought home from a nearby street market in Thu Duc, costing no more than $1, this black scrunchie has always been my favorite among her collection of hair accessories. It wasn’t until three years ago that I became its owner, and it remains one of my most treasured possessions.

Unlike the sentimental passed-down heirloom stories, the consent factor came only second in my acquisition of the scrunchie. It was right before my departure for America, and 14-years-old me was convinced that I have, then, become an adult. For the first time in 10 years, I was growing out my hair and about to board a plane that would take me halfway across the world to my new life. I decided I had to have that scrunchie–the ultimate mark of a successful adulthood. Because in my eyes, my mother was the adult I aspire to be: faithful, devoted, selfless, and wise. So on the day of my trip, an innocent determination and one swift hand movement secured the scrunchie inside the walls of my backpack. My mother was clueless. However, soon after my arrival, the pangs of guilt insufferably raided my mind, and eventually I confessed. Her reaction took me by surprise: there was no anger, only a simple nod to our transfer of ownership, and a smile. Since then, this scrunchie has been a constant harbor for my rocking ship, trying to survive the oceans of growth and early adulthood. Holding it, feelings of unbelonging are soothed with the sweet scent of fresh jackfruit that my nose immediately goes after. The warm bickerings of vendors in street markets. Twisting it around my hair never hurts. It only ever felt like a gentle embrace.

My mother wrapping me in her blanket, stroking my head assuringly. In times of doubt and uncertainty, I often find myself holding or wearing this scrunchie religiously for long periods– until it is enough. To be guided by my mother’s wisdom contained within those fibers. To be redirected and reminded that I am loved. .On a daily basis, it can be spotted sitting on my wrist or adorning my hair with its lush black velvet skin. Being Vietnamese, I was gifted with the signature thick black hair, and regular hair ties often cannot hold it without breaking. Those rich, voluminous strands never fail to show and make themselves visible. Because my hair is my mother’s and her mother’s, and all the mother’s before her. Because my hair is my heritage and theirs, and thus it is the struggles and battles they outlived so I can have a life that is seen. Whenever the weight of this knowledge becomes so evident and apparent I feel as if I’m choking, the search for my black velvet scrunchie begins.

Somehow, a bit of weight is brushed off my shoulders in tying up those sleek straight, ever-going forward strands. Its sturdy hold assures me that it is okay to not always be sure of your way.

For a bit, all my worries and fears are bunched up and tucked away, behind me, out of sight.

A temporary solution, but a solution nevertheless. For a brief period, I am free of duties and responsibilities. I am liberated. Because carrying this scrunchie means I’m also carrying a relief from my identity. Because sometimes I, too, wish to be inanimate.

This scrunchie is a reminder of the burdens and perks of my being. Yet, it is also a main source of comfort, security, and freedom for me. It’s a record of my family’s history, a piece of my homeland, a faithful compass, and a simple escape.

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by Heidi Broussard ’25

by Zack Glinski ’23

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by Jaila Richard ’22

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The Things We Carry

by Kayla Holz ’24

There are many things that I carry with me on a daily basis. My phone, my backpack, my glasses, my rings. I can go on and on but there is one thing that sticks out to me and I can’t leave the house without. Something that I always carry with me, no matter where I am, no matter what I am doing, no matter who I am with is my gold necklace. It is always with me. Going to school, in the shower, and pretty much anytime you see me. There are no fun charms or pendants on it. Just a plain gold chain. But this small chain is part of something bigger. It has a past for which I will never fully know.

Before I was born, my great grandmother passed away. And in her possession was a long gold chain that she used to wrap around her wrist for a bracelet. She wore it all the time and it was definitely her favorite piece. After she passed, her daughter (my grandmother) decided to go through her jewelry box to look for things she would want to keep. My grandmother found her long gold chain and suddenly the memories of her came back. She thought that it would be appropriate to split this chain into four. Hoping that her daughter and her granddaughters would some day wear them. And in fact we did. When my sister and I turned a certain age, my grandmother saw this as an opportunity to not only give us this piece of jewelry, but trust us with it. This chain was one of the only things that my great grandmother brought to America with her from Germany when she was a child. Her name was Louise, (which I now carry on as my middle name). Louise wanted to create a new life for herself, so she came over with her Aunt, leaving her mother and siblings behind.

She has protected it everyday since. My grandmother wanted to make sure it was protected too. For me everyday, that is my special thing that I carry with me. I always forget that I have it on until it is not there (which would never happen).

To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I took my necklace off. It connects me to my family even if I’m not always with them. My necklace is the one thing that I can always count on for being there for me. It gives me comfort when others can’t. I can’t really describe how it does this, but after having it for so long, it is now like a friend. But this friend can never leave me, never get angry with me, and will always listen to me.

I will carry her legacy and pass this on to my children and maybe one day even my grandchildren.

Maybe this will turn into their special thing that they carry, or maybe it will be thrown in a box and forgotten about. Whatever they decide to do with the chain, it will always have a story behind it.

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Ouroboros

by Caleb Brennion ’22 A glimpse towards freedom, A hope for escape, For we are not safe here.

Here we go again, On the wheel of misfortune, Where like a kaleidoscope, We spiral out of control.

The circle is round, The brain is cynical, Judgemental.

A shimmering light in the distance.

Are we saved?

Is the answer everlasting grace?

Ponder here upon the rock we sit, Twiddling our fingertips.

Round and round they go, Pointing the errors and flaws; The squares.

Corners cut off, No crust on the bread.

Mistaken by the harrowing thoughts ahead.

Let go of the ring, Off of the hook.

Flags hang out in the wind, Tattered and torn to shreds.

A cry calls in the distance, A wail in hopes of salvation, Silenced by a gunshot.

Another follows.

Spark to flame and spit to shame.

He shares no name, A simple man in the game.

Driven by the query…

Will it cease?

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It started with a hope for freedom.

What will you do now?

What route will you take on the road?

No matter.

You will stare.

You will choose.

Watched from every corner, The face reads discontent.

You question your own mind.

Blown away are the thoughts of today, As the past revolves into the future.

The war wages on inside.

Ripped away from the innocence, You watch as the casket closes.

The cemetery moans as another joins, Charismatic, the smile of death stares back at you.

You will either ignore or smile back.

The hole is dug, and the soil is planted above.

The dirt becomes mud as the rains pour.

Subject to the world, The wood becomes one with.

The bones to dust, and the mind to memory.

A seedling blooms under the beech graveyard.

A youthful tree emerges.

The rains fall once again.

Forget the umbrella, As the tears will blend with the cries of the skies.

Lightning strikes the tree, And fire climbs the limbs.

From ash and dust.

The rhythm is unbroken.

Am I free?

It has no end, No tail. cont. on pg. 35

cont. from pg. 34 The serpent devours itself.

Filled with lies, Misguided by truths.

The mind plays an ominous tone.

Unable to move forward, Without falling two steps behind.

Strung around the neck is a corner, A square worn circle.

A broken polygon you are.

You must unlock the chains, Slowly accept defeat.

You can’t go against the grain, Without bringing the pain.

Inevitable.

Comfort in knowing, There is no permanence.

You must learn, I am learning.

We mustn’t teach.

The sun rises and falls.

The tides raise and lower with the moon.

We are of water.

A deep, bottomless, azure hue.

A descent into the hazy darkness.

Blinded by fallacies, Brought to the surface, Only to be submerged again.

Blood stains the paper with iron.

The cells are thick.

But the mind is much more dense.

Like a mule in quicksand, You are fed to the snakes.

How do we create a solution?

It depends on the few.

The few who decide to collide with the sun.

To sail through vigorous seas.

The metaphor is silent.

I cannot hear my breath.

My veins are thick with hatred, For they are here again Death cries out joyously, Ouroboros crests my chest.

by Blake Flather ’22

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French Amber

by Levi Brekke ’22

Cobblestone streets and aged awnings reflect a golden hue imposed by a gentle lamp.

Cafe Terrace proposes a serene ambiance of tranquility and silent discussion.

The embodiment of the cafe suggests a Tender sip of coffee piercing the lips. Chairs And tables left unattended, begging occupation.

They sing to onlookers, tempting their ears.

The warmth of the cafe breeds perpetual Comfort, hypnotizing those into never Departing. For beyond the security of the terrace Is solitude contributing to inopportune reflection.

The deep blue night is incessant and captivating, Devouring the sleepy landscape in all its glory.

The stars radiate an incandescent white glow, Pale to the amber sheen of Cafe Terrace at Night.

- Vincent Van Gogh’s Cafe Terrace at Night (1888)

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What is My Directive?

by Lila Glanville ’22

The line “Lost enough to find yourself” from Robert Frost’s Directive makes me stop. It presses a pause button in my brain: Am I lost enough to find myself? How do I know when I have found myself? In order to be lost enough to find your self do you have to actually lose something?

Unending question query…

Who will I be?

What will I do?

Where will I go?

What can I control?

What can I choose?

What is the point of this?

How do I know what I am doing is what I should do? What I am supposed to do? Is there even a supposed to?

Lost enough to find yourself Does this mean when we are little we are not lost and as we grow we become lost?

Trying to answer all these questions is hard, especially when they all spark more and more questions.

Really, the cycle can be infinite-everlasting.

I do not think it is possible to narrow this down to one succinct directive. Especially, because I am still evolving and discovering who I am. I am of the belief that a well rounded human being has more than one directive that serves a purpose in guiding them in different aspects of life. One cannot just be one thing or another. Our genetic makeup is too complex for that. Our minds think and act too much for that.

However a directive can be all encompassing.

Maybe I am interpreting Frost’s words too seriously. Maybe I do not have to be as lost as I think I do.

Maybe I just need to be physically lost to discover what my point is. Maybe I am looking at them too critically, to cynically, too much looking? Maybe I just need to be? Maybe I have taken his words out of context? I took them out like this because they have a message standing alone.

The entirety of the poem is incredibly thought provoking and (word that is hard to understand but worth understandings/mysterious(recondite?)). Each line has its own message and statement that is up for interpretation. Each line flows into the next, often with a profound meaning waiting to be uncovered again. Waiting to be unsurfaced. All together it is a compilation of Frost’s thoughts on paper.

Still I am confused. I have ideas, mini directives. They are changing and not solid, nothing clear or succinct. Growing and evolving with me. It is just foggy thoughts and feelings. Crowded overthinking brain. I have walked in the woods alone, sat in the woods alone. I have had conversations with myself, I have had conversations with my parents and peers, I have journaled, I have typed, I have stared. I have waited and come to the conclusion my directive is not just going to fall if I do not dig. cont. on pg. 38

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cont. from pg. 37 Meandering.

Through all of this contemplation, which felt, still feels, ridiculous and pointless, I think that I may have begun to settle on an over arching directive. Something that combines everything so I do not need to choose. I have a hard time taking myself seriously enough to have a conversation with myself. It feels stupid. I think too much to let myself get my ideas out; think everything has to be meaningful when really it could just be ful.

Guided by curiosity.

Curious Searcher.

I am always looking ahead, looking for the next thing. Never wanting to be lost or stuck in the unknown.

I want to know the unknown. I want to I know what I can do and what I have to do. What I will do. But I am also hesitant. What is the unknown? Do I really want to know the unknown? But if I do know is there a point?

However this is not how the world tends to work. In constantly looking forward I am forgetting to notice the present, the now, what determines the what will be. Seesaw balancing of living in the moment looking forward, planning ahead.

I will not always know. Most of the time I won’t and don’t until it happens.

Que Sera Sera, Whatever will be will be Scary. Comforting.

I cannot always be prepared.

I remind myself, breathe out, not in. Take a deep breath, bring everything in. Exhale, push everything out.

Most people breathe but do not actually know how to breath. It is an innate thing all living things do in different ways. However we do seem to do it wrong. When asked to take a deep breathe most of us suck in instead of pushing out.

How do I know where I am supposed to go...If what I am choosing is the right thing to choose? How do I know what to do next? Is it just a feeling?

I know when something feels wrong. I know when something feels right. Sometimes the lines get blurred.

The world is not black and white. Nothing is ever perfect nor complete. So how do I know what to do?

Unending question query;

Moving forward Answering questions, leaving questions unanswered.

Looking forward to what is next in the moment, Up, Down, Around, Behind, Lost.

Finding.

Found.

Guided by the curiosity of doing the next right thing.

But what even is “right”?

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cont. on pg. 39

cont. from pg. 38 The Merian Webster dictionary’s states that “right” is: RIGHTEOUS, UPRIGHT; being in accordance with what is just, good, or proper; right conduct.

My definition of right would be: what leads and guides you as a person.

That doesn’t completely work because sometimes sometimes we are off track. We are lost and do not know what guides us.

2nd try: My definition of right: What is right to me, most likely isn’t right to the next person, but does that matter if it is right to me? right?.Now the word looks wrong - right is not spelled right.

Overthinking Sprialing Coming back….

I have been thinking about this, what my directive is a great deal. Every human is a human, but none of us are the same. A person is, metaphorically, made up of there experiences. The influences and discussions and arguments they have had. Their family. Everything. However I believe everyone has their own “right” which guides them in some way, weather they know it or not. I believe all human beings are inherently good, we sometimes just get so lost we need help finding our directive.

I agree with what I wrote before, but I want to add to it. Create my personal vision. Guided by doing the next right thing and ambition.

by Ms. Barb Thomas

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by Sylvie Skibicki ’23

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A World of Alcoholics

by Poshu Ng ’23 So help you Grog, Have a Drink – Your mother drinks, your brother drinks The bartender delivers the sermon.

Slaughter a Protestant – drink.

Sunday comes – day-drink at the bar Find answers to your Inquisition, On your drunken Crusade.

Shotgun your Fireball, you’re fighting for Life, Deny others their Choice, And pit their “god-given right” Against your grog-entrusted fight.

Spare none the Molotov, Sobriety is a sin – Take shots at the Nightclub, No liver left alive.

The Refugees guard their gin, “Indifferent” to their history, Lecture their neighbors, Sipping Jericho’s Breeze.

Herds swear by a higher priority, Drink from the same mortal Tap – An affront to their hypocrisies.

No Bouncer in this pub.

When the dust finally settles, And the Tab must be paid, God help – this World of Alcoholics

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Roots

by Al Zaharaa Al Zaabi ’23 When I was younger, the media served as my portal to the rest of the world. The splendor, glamour, and gore of western life are depicted in TV series and films. That was the life I wanted; it was all I had ever wished for. For some reason, I believed I was capable of living that life.

That it would be presented to me on a golden platter. Like everyone else, I carry my backpack every day. A bag that houses my laptop, phone, and headphones. These devices contain a variety of media, which serve as my portal to the rest of the world. Perhaps I carry these items around because I do not wish for that foolish dream and depiction that came to me at a young age to vanish. That dream was created by a child who had been deceived by the shimmer of moving visual images on a screen.

As I grew older, I became more conscious of why I couldn’t be deluded and blinded by the so-called fantasy life I had always imagined and believed was true. When social media eventually appeared, it was a game-changing breakthrough. A new obsession and addiction. On both my laptop and phone, I have various social media platforms.

I like to blame the media and claim that it is the primary source of my self-esteem and identity deterioration.

Because of this addiction, I discovered insecurities about myself that I never knew I had before. It made me despise who I am, my face, my body, my upbringing, and even my native language and accent. Fantasizing about living an imaginary life when I was younger and dreaming of becoming someone else as I grew older are two very distinctive things, I gaslight myself and pretend that they are, but they aren’t. They both have the same dream and aim, but one is motivated by a darker and even sadder motive: my lack of self-acceptance.

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I can’t seem to accept the fact that I come from a different world. As I put my headphones on I listen to music that makes me wish I was someone else. What hurts the most is when I hear songs with stereotypically derogatory lyrics about Muslims. I’ve listened to podcasts about important occurrences involving racial profiling and hate crimes. I see videos that have been liked, shared, and retweeted. A police officer kills a man because of his race. At an airport, a hijabi woman faces a hate crime. That might also be me at any given time, I often think to myself.

So, yes, I carry the fear of being targeted for islamophobia because of my race and religion. I carry myself as a Muslim woman, regardless of how heavy the social cost is, knowing the preconceptions that come with it. I carry the prejudices that are made about me, not just coming from one country in the middle east, but the entirety of the region.

I carry my insecurities, afraid that they will be exposed at any time. The fear of shattering like a plate because someone perceives me as different, as well as the worry of being judged. I have a mixture of admiration and envy for the girls who get to look like and live the lives I see on TV. The girls are always dressed and look similar to the main characters in movies. I carry the rage I feel toward the traditions I was raised in. I carry envy towards people who do not feel threatened when walking in public. I carry the fear of people misinterpreting what’s in my backpack and that it is something other than my laptop, phone, and headphones. I carry the fear of making others uncomfortable knowing well that the preconceptions made about me are not true. They make me feel uncomfortable more than the people who made them. I carry so much, yet I feel like I am not enough and never will be.

by Caleb Brennion ’22

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Did We Change Your Life?

by Mr. Robert N. Olive

Did we change your life, as much as you changed ours, at that place of joy in Maine, under the Milky Way stars?

Did you fall in love with us, as much as we fell in love with you, near Keyes Pond with the loons, and the girls of gray and blue?

Was it a speech that was given, was it a song that we sang, was it a Junior or a Senior, or the way the bell would clang and clang?

Did we make you smile, as much as you made us laugh, during a campfire or a softball game, or playing Scrabble with the staff?

Did I change your life, as much as you changed mine?

It was Tapawingo you lived for, it is Tapawingo you are remembered for, but it is you, Jane, we will miss more.

by Ms. Barb Thomas

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Brewster Academy, Wolfeboro, New Hampshire