Oxford Comma Spring 2025

Dedicated to the Seniors Eliana A-K Brandon A Dalton A Brian B Owen B-O Maya B George B Mendez B Ava B-G Cora B Liz C Lindsay C Russel C Arnav C Tucker C Grant C Myles C Charlie D Maya D Davin D Shaina E Edvina E Evan F Chase F Ryan F Sophia F Nicholas F MF Eli G

Clara G Michelle G Miles G Like G Maya G Harrison H Ezra I Noah J Jonathan K Charlie K Dylan K Mitchell K Jonah K Liubov K Ethan L Ryan L Jasmine L Harris L Mali L Connor L Honor M Tyree M Quinn M-W Bennett M Christian M-R Sarah M Dominic M Maggie M

Ellington M Arden M Kylaiah M Abraham M Noble M Stella M Casey N Connolly N Lauren P Zoha P Abby P Spencer P Liam P Ethan P Asher P Alexander R Justina R Lucy R Adam R Philippe S Matlyn S Madeline S Amman S Lilah T Antonio T Zachary V Sam W Wolfgang Y Remy Y

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Blank page on back side of senior dedication

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Editorial Committee Eliana A-K’25 Cora B ’25 Celine C ’27 Ruby G ’27 Maggie M ’25 Arden M ’25 Avery P ’26 Zoha P ’25 Asher P ’25 Philip S ’27 Antonio T ’25

Faculty Advisor Ms. O’Driscoll

Front Cover Mr. Park

Back Cover Asher P

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Table of Contents Hexapus - Steve O​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Untitled - Zaiya A​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Let’s Eat! - Ms. Allison Hardaway​ ​ ​ I have nightmares about leaving now - Ruby G​ Undulate - Antonio T​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Seagull - Eliana A-K​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Untitled Series - Josh S​ ​ ​ ​ United - Asher P ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Portrait of a Photographer - Ruby G​ ​ ​ Remember - Ruby G​ ​ ​ ​ ​ La Cereza/The Cherry - Justina R​ ​ ​ Khoisan Little Boy - Ms. Allison Hardaway​ ​ Who I/Am - Philip S​ ​ ​ ​ ​ GS Scooter - Zach V​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Whatever Floats Your Boat - Antonio T​ ​ I Like to Miss You - Cora B​ ​ ​ ​ My Dear Sister - Celine C​ ​ ​ ​ Portrait Study - Ruby G​ ​ ​ ​ wrong fish - Cora B​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Untitled Series - Josh S​ ​ ​ ​ Iowa - Cora B​​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Importance of Tones - Celine C​ ​ ​ Her Language of Flowers - Eliana A-K​ ​ Portrait of an Adolescent Dreaming - Asher P​ El Ángel/The Angel - Antonio T​ ​ ​ Untitled - Emma H​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Still from “Hitchhiker” - Marco D​ ​ ​ Vestige - Celine C​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Look Out! - Ruby G​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Dross - Asher P​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Macbeth - Celine C​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Building 66 - Tucker C​ ​ ​ ​ Ruby - Celine C​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Jump! - Asher P​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Tulips - Asher P​ ​ ​ ​ ​

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Lower School Art Work: 3rd & 4th graders Dev K​ ​ Dev K​ ​ Chloe J​ Lucas O​ Carina Z​ Meryem G​ Eilana L​ Carina Z​

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Hexapus, Steve U

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Untitled Zaiya A My average notebook is filled up 50% sketches, 30% work and 20% with random lines Though I write an occasional story It’s mostly just what comes to mind I tried to work and think smart things My brain is too preoccupied Too distracted by the shapes The perfect paintings through my eyes I’m pierced with thoughts I cannot focus A girl, a boy, or just a beast?

The naked women in the mirror An empty vessel, she isn’t me My brain sits in the clouds while my body in a desk They speak but I don’t understand Sounds meshed in a foreign language Where did things go wrong?

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Let’s Eat!, Ms. Allison Hardaway

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I have nightmares about leaving now Ruby G my grandmother’s tin chair always comes first I leave the records even though I know vinyl warps in the heat, they’re too big and too fragile to cram into the black duffel bag or one of two totes I wonder if they’ll melt off the walls or curl inwards on themselves like my roses those will burn for sure hanging upside-down off my wardrobe filled with more flammable things a dress I never wore to a dance that wasn’t as good as the afterparty that makes me think of alcohol, and of the bar full of bottles that will definitely go up quick they’ll light the smoke gun first, same with the other gifts my mother gave him and I I hate doing it, and I hate to admit it, but I leave most of those taking memorabilia but leaving memories money and posters and the box of every birthday card and letter I’ve ever gotten packing and repacking a bag of clothes full to bursting, with perfumes and socks stuffed in the cracks I think the most jarring part is how hasty it was you don’t realize how little time you have to decide what parts of your life to save but I don’t want to talk about that yet there are still books to put into boxes sandwiched between comics and postcards and stickers things I am forgetting to write down just like there were things that I forget to take like a fleetwood mac cd and vhs tapes with film that would curl and shrivel in theI’ve been trying to avoid the word flames but I should say it, that’s what they are eating their way over the dry hills as an orange boarder on a glowing screen smoke is a bad word too the smell of it obscuring even the gasoline that I pump into the car truck for the first time in the dark I hardly feel like i’m allowed to talk about it the way people who were never hit are afraid to call what they went through “abuse” I know people who really suffered, that’s who should be writing this but even though I feel like I don’t deserve to be, I’m afraid anyways even though me and my home and my room and my bed are safe (physically) and my grandmother’s tin chair still sits on the white shelf in front of the moulin rouge playbill that chair always comes first every time I have a nightmare about leaving 9

undulate Antonio T i feed the ducks in the park and go out for lunch because that's the kind of love i want. the kind of love that is scribbled down on scratch real honest kind of writing isn't read in summertime. as i'm growing up my writing is losing reason and hair an artist without a muse bites his nails into jagged arches he could only write so much before his pen ran dry and the ducks stopped pecking at his dead feet.

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Seagull Eliana A-K Oceans lull, do you think she ever whispers to the tide?

Carving, melding, and forever changed She misses him so and she must leave Or When she glances upwards to the sun and moon their push and pull Above her–this must be what is paramount And I have read every monologue from Chekov’s Seagull Do you think that beautiful gull looks below And simply laughs, because her lovers name is freedom?

But then again, He doesn't hold her hand And she wouldn't dare To fly any higher

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Untitled Series, Josh S 12

United Asher P to all the bullets that missed: a lot of throats are growing in necktied collars like frozen milk bottles on an am street throats that are wanting bite marks but will settle for bullet holes you shelled up pellets still hiding from undeclared wars look for these nude throats that need some decoration their three ruby necklace and you my little circus act swing fast trapeze after me for there is no care in the air for a heavily armored man with the wildest aim

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Portrait of a Photographer, Ruby G

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Remember Ruby G Remember who you were Remember the child who smiled with too many teeth before she knew any better Remember her laugh, and her fears, and the feel of her shoes on your own feet Remember the days when the sun was brighter and the rain seemed wetter and your hands were almost too small to hold Remember the blur that life seemed to be before you were wise enough to savor it Remember your mother, and your father, and your grandmother, when their hair was darker and their wrinkles were fewer Remember your own face, your body, not yet battered by the weight of her world Remember, and do not forget, these footsteps that you take down this path to the past, and do not get lost trying to find them because they are no longer there Remember that child is gone from that place because she is still with you Remember that if you do choose to look, she is simply within you and always will be And do not forget how to Remember

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La Cereza Justina R Dulce como una paleta helada en una dorada tarde de verano y agrio como jugo de lima en un invierno helado creando el sabor de la primavera cada año Llevando esperanza y suerte a los que confían Mientras derramamos dulzura sobre cualquier acidez que quede en nosotros recordándonos tiempos y estaciones más simples pasadas y conteniendo la dulzura enfermiza del verano Jugo de rubí pegajoso que se transforma en otra cosa una tarta o una mermelada algo dulce, agrio y perfecto

The Cherry (translation) Sweet as a popsicle on a golden summer afternoon and tart as lime juice in icy winter creating the taste of spring each year Bringing hope and luck to those who trust While pouring sweetness over any sourness left in us reminding us of simpler times and seasons gone by and containing the sickly sweetness of the summer sticky ruby juice transforming into something else a pie or a jam something sweet, sour and perfect

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Khoisan Little Boy, Ms. Allison Hardaway 17

Who I/Am Philip S

parts of a whole

parts with a hole

i am: of two places of two minds of two halves

of land and sea of peninsula and coastline of damp and dry

of lush greenery, trees stretching from moist soil, spindly limbs beckoning endless sky with verdant leafy hands of bilingual pop, side dishes galore, vibrant colors and squishable characters with rosy cartoon cheeks, harmonic beauty of nature and man, of KO and R of occupation

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of cold gray steel, cracked asphalt, emblazoned skyscrapers towering, challenging the heavens of year-round sunshine, greasy hamburgers and fresh-squeezed lemonade, of beaches and business, of So and Cal of colonization

two puzzle pieces together forever

two puzzle pieces one tarnished decaying colors fading cobwebs staining fabric fraying

is abstract art just as pretty, captivating, thought-provoking, whole if half the canvas is burnt away?

i step onto the shores of my homeland and think to myself this is not my homeland

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this should be my home i should recognize the corner stores, the animated billboards, the raindrops cascading down, the rhythmic syllables that dance smooth waltzes about my ears my mother tongue of biology, not adoption i recognize not i recognize naught

i return to foreign lands to scorched earth unkissed by tears of aether’s cotton to the misty supermarkets, the earthquake-proof apartments, the sunlight beaming down, the rapid syllables interspersed with boisterous laughter and fiery expletives my mother tongue of adoption, not biology

and i think to myself this is my homeland but it is not my homeland but it is my homeland

one of two worlds has: a tongue of two worlds a culture of two worlds a tradition of two worlds

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a knowledge of two worlds

i have: a tongue of one world, with sparse buds of another a culture of one world, with oft-forgotten elements of another a tradition of one world, with neglected fragments of another a knowledge of one world

i am: incomplete part of a whole part of a red, white, blue whole part of a red, white, blue, black whole

half faded melted evaporated into sands of time

who am i?

who i am.

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GS Scooter, Zach V

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Whatever floats your boat, Antonio T

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I Like To Miss You Cora B I like to miss you above the rough sea.

White foam under steel, oranged wings.

It freezes, it breaks, and you text from far far away, under ice.

6,000 feet below, I like to miss you.

Beside the white wall, under black clothes.

What day is it today?

When was the last time we...?

The horizon is blue-on-blue, white.

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My Dear Sister, Celine C

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Portrait Study, Ruby G

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wrong fish Cora B I have sliced the beast open and spatchcocked it on the table and I still haven’t found its liver. The guide steered my knife to the correct location––I slid it there despite a clear discrepancy between the instructions and the fish––and directed me to make an incision two inches into the flesh. Then cut it lengthwise down the belly. Then fold it open like a book.

This fish has more fat than the fish in the diagram. Its belly is bare. There is no stomach, no heart, no liver, no lungs, only white meat that rolls over to my perplexed eyes, as if to say yes, this is indeed me.

“I think you cut it wrong.”

I turn gentle eyes on her. Beth doesn’t have the stomach for the smell this thing is emitting, and her elbow is crooked over the point of her nose and the lips I’ve only kissed three times, chastely. Her red hair is falling from a bun around her shoulders. I have the urge to push it from her face––to wash the fish off my hands and push it from her face.

“I cut it like the instructions said,” I say. I hand them to her. She inspects them and hmms.

This fish has prominent nostrils––it doesn’t look anything like the picture except for its coloring. The fish we’re supposed to be dissecting has fan-like fins, which is presumably how it got its name––the Sea Robin. I don’t think our fish looks much like a robin, but I excuse its unidealized features as a product of its current state, and all I imagine it must’ve gone through before landing––ungracefully, imperfectly, stinkily (?)––on our table. Besides, how can I judge the poor bastard when I’m the one cutting into its generous body?

“Let’s make another incision. This one might just have a lot of fat. The organs are probably further inside.”

We dig through the fish. She stifles a gag but I ignore the smell, deeply motivated to prove this specimen––albeit an unfortunate example––is indeed the beautiful Sea Robin. The fish were provided by a company. I doubt that anyone who specializes in provisions for school fish dissections would screw up on one fish in a shipment of fish.

According to our packet, Triglidae, commonly known as Gurnards (onomatopoeic, for the sound they make) or Sea Robins (for their wing-like pectoral fins), are tropical, bottom-feeding, ray-finned fish found across the world. They have a spine-guarded mouth just below the snout, two dorsal fins, and solid, bony heads. Across all subspecies, the Triglidae may range from 10 cm to 75.1 cm in length, but the average specimen is between 30 to 40 cm.

I hunt for each of these traits. The fish under my hands has a pointed, rat-like tail. It is large––almost 80 cm––with speckled white spots along its back. When you run your hand along a Sea Robin’s scales, they are supposed to shift back and forth like the sequins on a 10-year-old’s t-shirt. Our fish has no scales, and our fish, who is supposed to be toothless, has a large pair of incisors in its bottom and top jaws.

“It’s an ugly duckling,” I insist as I dig through the body. “It’s a Sea Robin.”

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“Mhm,” Beth agrees distantly. I distantly think to myself that I would like her help––I would like her hands against mine as we hunt for its liver together. I would like her watching me instead of the instructions.

Red innards pool against my green latex gloves as I hit the organs. I find the heart and stomach, and they squelch in a way that feels wrong, but I insist on them. We label, take notes. I still haven’t found the liver. Beth looks everywhere but me. I try to remember her eyes when we started dating, and wonder if this is how every relationship goes. It must be.

“I found it!” I cry suddenly, for I certainly have. I’ve never felt a fish liver, but what else could a fish liver possibly feel like? I yank it from the belly and hold it aloft.

Beth inspects our instructions, scanning the diagrams and descriptions of each organ. She grants me a generous moment of silence before biting, “that’s it’s penis.”

I stare at it, then at her. She stares at the diagram.

“Well why don’t you help me then?” I whisper. I’m surprised by how little frustration my voice conveys. I want to yell at her. I want to storm out of the room.

But I would have my back to her if I did that. Overpowering everything, I realize, is that I want her to look at me. To really look. And I want to see her do it.

She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. Beth never lifts her chin as she replies, simply, with the same cold timbre in her voice, “It smells.”

I’m not entirely sure how I want to air my grievances––through yelling, crying, writing, indifference, by changing myself, by stealing her friends––but before I can decide, she’s walked away. She leaves the lab, stripping off her apron and gloves and hanging them by the door, and pleasantly asks our teacher if she may use the restroom.

I continue to hold the fish penis in my hand. I stare down at its sliced body, at its large teeth and nostrils, at its fins that aren’t fan-shaped, at its spots.

Beth leaves the room, and I decide it isn’t an ugly duckling.

“Ms. Stein,” I call. “I have the wrong fish.”

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Untitled Series, Josh S (cont.)

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Iowa Cora B Flat, flat nothing bare and sun-browned.

A river tracks down its center from the brow bone.

I lay sun-warm in sun-warm Iowa and wonder how many mirrors exist between my insides and yours my body, yours.

The trees bleed red as I do— shed skin and hair as I do— mimic as I mimic you.

My reflection, outside my window.

Iowa— a flat, brown chest— a river of summer water, the dripping sugar, sea.

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Importance of Tones, Celine C

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Her Language of Flowers Eliana A-K Flower girl, vivacious, girl of florals, blossoming Crown of: Acanthus, honeysuckle, hyssop, orange blossom, larkspur or Unfeigned artifice, bonds of love, sacrifice, purity, and levity White dress, virginal, a vestal-ite who clear, and a Dryad in darker seas, wishes encased, who shook, Apollo-Dyonisian, Bacchic frenzy, solemn prioress, and eternally imitating the venaisan In Scheherazadeian skin, If she peers, eyes—hazel green, in the nighttime, deep and of satin and murky and pure—through the trees she may see lovers see lathe the likely propophized But Delphic heart Virginc-virginal and clear, stead, beauty in hermetic youth, Jovial love Unbridled and the Goddess floweret She turns in the gaps of he fingers,

Forever

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Portrait of an Adolescent Dreaming, Asher P

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el ángel Antonio T

desciende, el ángel que cae. los cielos; él cae en cascada baja y baja, más allá de las nubes una devastada felicidad, tejiendo a través del aire un pájaro sin alas no puede volar y los ángeles caen como lluvia. caen sin amor, sólo esperanza. protegida por su voluntad. un abrazo del viento , una cierta tranquilidad. se oye una melodía etérea el tiempo se detiene. un ángel del cielo, un humano disfrazado, los ángeles lloran.

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The Angel (translation) Antonio T descends, the falling angel the heavens; he cascades low and low, beyond the clouds a devastated happiness, weaving through the air a bird without wings cannot fly and the angels fall like rain. they fall without love, only hope. protected by his will. a hug from the wind, a certain tranquility. you hear an ethereal melody time stops. an angel from heaven, a human in disguise, the angels cry.

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Untitled Emma H it was a dream absolutely everything i wanted i finally felt like a success like everything was going right then i woke up and i was welcomed back into the nightmare that i was really living and i would sulk, and mope just waiting until i could go back to sleep, until i could be living my dream again but no one prepares you for how to live when it switches from living your dream in your sleep, and waking up to your nightmare to waking up to your dream, and going to sleep to a nightmare when you wake up one day and suddenly everything is how you’d always imagine it would be is this normal now? is this how everyone has been living all this time? i cant help but think its fleeting i cant help but think must it always only be a dream?

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Still from “Hitchhiker,” Marco D Watch Here

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Vestige Celine C I should be grateful.

To be the last person you spoke to.

To be the last person to hold your hands and to be the last person to call your name. cold hands, cold tears Those are the hands I grabbed for.

Those are the tears that comforted me.

Driving by your house, I see familiar trees, familiar houses familiar neighborhood, I go to your house, and meet Your family, Your dogs, Your cats.

Your warmth, Your scent and all the memories loosely stitched in our hearts. but when those memories lose their home and when I try to take them with me, It never feels the same anymore, It never feels the same anymore.

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Look Out!, Ruby G

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Dross Asher P I had it for a breath I wanted to thank you ​

I saw businessmen walk by,

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“Do you know who I am?”

I saw them undressed by girls walking out of the club they wanted in the men more naked than naked women the men wanted to cry quietly ​

but that’s not why​

Its slipping from my mind—the thanks which will leave me with just longing ​

How nervous is your excitement?

Do you like your legs?

I had it for an instant I had a reason for letting the photo of your eyes interrupt my conversation ​

Something overheard

a driver getting paid for good conversation he was not surprised it was only a job ​

Now it’s gone completely

Most people think you’re beautiful 40

many before me many more after how do I feel about that?

I do not feel about that ​

I wish I had a reason to leave you

except the one you gave me but anything good was thrown out with the paper I saw short order cooks taking their smokes back alley trades and more men in suits They work in tall buildings and love their worldliness even though they had seen it all through designer sunglasses— not just a hobby a total affixion they thought the world had heard them and I was suddenly afraid of their regulations ​

I was ready to plea

Now, we’re at humiliation I lost why I started I wanted to think about your skin I know nothing of your skin you’ve noticed that I want you somewhere safe far from tall buildings 41

I’ll thank you later many people want to cry softly beside you

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Macbeth, Celine C

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Building 66 Tucker C Directions to Building 66?

Ah—head down Main Street, And it was really quite wonderful you know, Stained glass windows and all that.

Left once you reach the 7-Eleven, Where in the window they have a photo of “The World’s Largest Cowboy Hat!” And of course who could forget, The stage, the music, and all the revelries.

The sumptuous rooms of smoke and velvet, Stuffed with experts in recondite subjects.

Every Saturday night, doors open at 8, Right onto Broadleaf Boulevard, And they would wheel out the one and only: “Maurice Morrison, singer of the ages!

Born in 1754, in Kennebunk Maine, Now she’s here for us tonight!”

Exit the roundabout onto 2nd Street, She would croon out a number from the 50s, That I don’t think she ever really knew.

An air of putrescence, a ringing in the ears, Restored sight and a scoured soul.

When you stumbled out of Building 66, An undercurrent of truth in your vomit.

Start heading south on I-95,​ I met the love of my life in its clutches,​ An expert in anthropodermic bibliopegy, And a fan of Kix cereal.

After 3 miles, exit at a hopeless Denny’s, He spoke in forked tongues, Spent every cent chasing ataraxy, And died in a predictable car crash, Some internecine affair of twisted steel.

On the flashy mayfly walls, And amongst hollow warnings lies a sign, “NO outside food or drink allowed.”​ But there’s two exceptions, One for over the counter Ibuprofen, Now remember, Advil was new then, Those heady times of Building 66’s heyday, When pain was something to minimize, Before all the pundits and sophists Left on Terrace Avenue, And philosophers and ex-marines Right at the 3rd light afterwards, And preachers and aesthetes moved on.

The proprietor was a sly man, One with the revolving wheels of wealth, Clothed in a fastidious form of politesse.

Though you must know he’s gone now, Left to writhe alone on his deathbed, His internist leaning on the threshold.

A lone pensioner in Inverness, Left without the comfort of protocols.

He took Building 66 with him, Right onto Main Street and back to the start, Half of the foundations and statues, And Building 66 crumbled in no time.

Now all that remains is a barren land, Blanketed in rubble, mourners and hawkers, Where gaunt preachers clutch tattered pages, Where honey springs forth one more, Where the lost continue to wander, And where we give into our recidivism.

Count the buildings on the left, You’ll want to enter Building 66.

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Ruby, Celine C 45

Jump!, Asher P

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Tulips By: Asher P

EXT. STREET CORNER - AFTERNOON A and B stand on a street corner.

A Are you waiting for the moon?

B No, the tulips, it will be spring soon.

A Oh, well, there's a different kind of moon tonight.

B nods. B looks down into the brown grocery bag that B has their arms wrapped around B I really hope I remembered to get cheese sticks, I don't see them. I hope they're at the bottom of the bag.

The WALK sign comes on. A and B walk across the road A Listen, I know you're not waiting for the moon, but I am, and would you like to wait for the moon with me tonight?

B I would like to wait for the moon with you.

CUT TO: EXT. O'CONNELLY'S TAVERN - THE GAP BETWEEN EVENING AND NIGHT A and B wait for the moon together, seated on the outside porch at O'CONNELLY'S TAVERN. 47

A I chose O'Connelly's Tavern because the outdoor seating provides a good chunk of sky.

The moon begins to do strange things as a plate of fried pickles is put between A and B. B The cheese sticks were, in fact, at the bottom of the bag. I didn't forget them.

A That's good. So, you're waiting for the tulips?

B Yeah, I am. Do you know about the tulips how you don't have to keep planting them? You just plant a bulb and they keep coming back.

A Oh sure, the bulb. You plant the bulb and the tulips keep coming back in the spring. Oh sure, I knew that once and now I know it again.

A does not eat any of the fried pickles. Neither does B. B I don't like fried pickles.

A Neither do I. B How come it wasn't us? When we knew each other, did you ever want it to be us?

A Oh sure, us. It could have been us.

Maybe it should have been us. Oh sure, I've thought that. Maybe it shouldn't 48

have been anyone. I thought about that mostly.

B If you had been taller, it would have been us.

A Really?

B Yeah, I would have fallen in love with you.

A It can't possibly work like that. But, oh sure, I suppose it can work however it wants. Are you sure that was it?

B No, that wasn't it. But you never asked me to do anything like this. You never asked me if I wanted to wait for the moon while the appetizer no one's got the appetite for goes cold.

A No, I didn't.

The moon finishes doing its strange things.

FADE OUT. THE END

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Dev K

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Dev K

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Chloe J

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Lucas O

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Carina Z

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Meryem G

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Eliana L

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Carina Z

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Asher P - Back cover

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