SO(U)L: The CA Lit Mag, vol. 2

Special thanks to mr. stanbury for reaching out.

editor-in-chief

hailey Zhang

head designer

avani bhat

Lit mag members

eliza gayer

milena chiavegatto

brooke murgitroyd

rehan mahmood

anna-sophia polge

callie chang

annabel maidorn

angelina erhardt

dear reader,

At a day’s peak, we grow closest to the sun (el sol) whether we realize it or not. Do you remember the last time you let yourself soften under the sun’s embrace?

The warmth, flow, essence. Weaving, folding, melting sol with soul.

Join us as we explore how sol blends with so(u)l at different times of the day.

Close your eyes.

Breathe.

Feel the so(u)l.

- Cary academy lit mag team

1

Table of contents 12 pm // sun•ray 5 The Price of Gold

6 A Dream Town

8 The Nobel Crow

9 Memories and Such

10 Summer

11 A Futile Endeavor

14 YOU ARE HERE

16 Sink or Swim

17 Picking Up Trash

18 The Snow Queen

19 Perfect Imperfection: A Perfect Image and A Messy Identity

21 On Stage

Katie White | Poetry

Anwen Baugh | Poetry

Ernest Chiu | Poetry

Adam Zheng | Poetry

Emily Marchand | Poetry

Abigail Fox | Poetry

Penelope Zimmerman | Poetry

Laila Taylor | Poetry

Bryan Zhang | Poetry

Kyler Chen | Poetry

Ezra Zhang | Essay

Brooke Murgitroyd | Poetry

3 pm // sun•Kissed 24 My Little Town

25 A Love That Grows Lifelong

27 Ode to Dreams

28 Odyssea

29 Ticking

30 Performing

31 A Letter to Hope

33 My First God Was An American Soldier

35 Are you listening

36 Scorched Childhood

37 Something of a Palinode: Falling in Love

39 Frank Kameny

41 The Straw

2

Olivia Hu | Poetry

Callie Chang | Poetry

Abigail Fox | Poetry

Carson Pollock | Poetry

Austin Marchand | Poetry

Lily Younge | Poetry

Morgan McMullin | Poetry

Isa Oon | Poetry

Morgan McMullin | Poetry

Sydney Wrege | Poetry

Kainda Nzinga | Poetry

Ezra Zhang | Essay

Philip Lunger | Poetry

6 pm // sun•burnt 43 Love

44 Nature

45 A Life in Three Parts

47 We were loved

48 Lego Man

49 The Red Robin

50 Lifeless Patient

51 The Wind and Sea

53 The Courtyard

54 The Petal

55 A Life Well Lived

56 Herons’ Home

57 Social Media and Polarization

9 pm // sun•bleached 60 Untitled

61 Swim

62 Have you ever heard

63 LEGO MAN

64 Stroll the Levee

66 My Father’s Father

68 Inner Peace

69 As the ball flew up

70 Slowly

71 Twisted ‘Love’

72 Calling your Bluff

74 Black Cats

75 Cary Academy

76 Neither Here Nor There

Scarlett Macy | Poetry

Mason Herr | Poetry

Annabel Maidorn | Poetry

Sophie Mei | Poetry

Adam Sirianni | Poetry

Taran Patil | Poetry

Olivia McVeigh | Poetry

Roderick McKenzie | Poetry

William Hook | Poetry

Jacqueline Liu | Poetry

Annie Bhat | Poetry

Natan Solomon | Prose

Ezra Zhang | Essay Ethan An | Poetry

Rowen Wang | Poetry

Amelia Smith | Poetry

Blair Kelly | Poetry

Evan Astrike-Davis | Poetry

Austin Marchand | Poetry

Abigail Fox | Prose

Arjun Taneja | Poetry

Jackson Curtis | Poetry

Mason Herr | Poetry

Kainda Nzinga | Poetry

Sophie Mei | Poetry

Brianna McGauley | Poetry

Brooke Murgitroyd | Short Story

3

sun•ray

4

The Price of Gold

A Shakespearean Sonnet

Benczúr, Gyula. Project for a Room for King Ludwig II (1854–1886) of Bavaria.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Katie White (‘24) Walls washed in gold, he showers in riches.

Women conquered, men seduced to defeat

are paint between ripples of blue stitches.

Lost dreams and lives folded into this suite

Shadows laugh where hanging diamonds threaten

to plummet. They'll crash and shatter his pride.

Waiting for power and wealth to set in,

he lies with lives surrendered, cast aside.

With the conviction of the purely wealthy,

he's enriched himself wholly by demanding.

While others move in fear and with stealth, he

walks great halls with booming voice so commanding.

This room is forsaken, a prison's dry cell.

They suffer, he laughs in the face of their hell

5

A Dream Town

Anwen Baugh (‘30) I once lived in a

small town.

One with

cottages

covered in rainy gowns.

The rain of

blues, In softer hues, scattered

among the cottage roofs.

The lonely streetlight

bloomed a star, Onto the stone

pavement from afar.

Leaving a sorrow bunny so bright.

It looks up at a star in a rainy night, With not one

cloud appearing in sight.

6

I imagine the

faeries live

there with

delight,

Connecting

simple stars

like little lights.

Constellations

in a sky so

pure,

It warms my

heart, like a

simple cure.

These cottages

are more than

they seem,

They're a door

to a pure

dream.

7

The Nobel Crow Ernest Chiu (‘30)

This Nobel crow guards the Nobel grapes of juice.

The grapes have a special content that makes it delicious.

Better than any juice ever invented.

It's called Crow Nest Juice.

The leaves are sacred leaves for mint body care products.

The crow has lived since 100 BCE and watched the grapes for centuries.

Remembering the things that tried to pry its grapes.

Looking for enemies.

8

Memories and Such

Homer, Winslow. Boys in a Dory. 1873.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

An Ekphrastic Petrarchan Sonnet

Adam Zheng (‘25) Where did it all go wrong? I reminisce.

I think back to the past: Gloucester. The beach.

My brothers rowed the dory while I leeched.

Sat up front, reaching the water. What bliss!

My reflection stares in water’s abyss.

The grey sky behind blue eyes that lay siege

around sail boats. I whisper, I beseech

to my brothers, to take us far on this

day! But frozen they stay, one stares toward

me, right behind. I look at my mirror

of water, who stares harsher than sun’s sword:

light’s glare. ‘Tis but memory, my horror!

Of my three brothers gone, I can’t afford

to reminisce. I stare at my mirror.

9

Summer

Emily Marchand (‘30)

Laying in the sun at the summertime's close

Smelling the blossoms blooming late.

Past the stepping stones and to the left of the hose.

The petals rustling is the wind's wake.

The petals are the purest.

Sweet taste of ripe fruit.

A watermark of august,

and the songs of birds playing on loop.

Finding it is not that hard.

Summer is the gardenia bush in my backyard

10

A Futile Endeavor Abigail Fox (‘25)

Silence reigns over powdered mountaintops;

Jagged peaks clutching

At a solemn gray sky.

An icy stillness shifting in a spate of flurries,

A frosted solitude where naught but fools reside.

Cradled by piercing summits, enveloped in the heavens’ mists,

Withstanding, cracked and frigid: A fortress.

Lightless. Lifeless. Only the howling winds sweep these empty corridors.

Broken. Hollow. The ruins of a desecrating war.

Scriptures turn to dust within the scholar’s lost abode:

Tales of valor and glory, stories of anguish and grief—

The icy beast spares none from its bereaved jaws.

Here, the whispers of times past fade into the hush

Of this cursed graveyard.

Only the mountain recalls the distant memory

Of lowly men laboring, by day and by night,

Drenched in sickly sweat, bodies bloodied and bruised,

Painstakingly crafting, building up, brick by brick,

These crumbling castle walls.

Only the mountain remembers a time

When man, woman, and child danced below a starlit night;

Hand in hand beside the gentle glow of courtyard lanterns,

Voices raised in serene harmony as they shared in their joy,

Caressed by warm summer winds.

11

Only the mountain bore witness

To the folly of a curious soul, spurred by sylvan mysteries

To his misfortunate tumbling and swift descent

To the life he shattered in its shell, fault of his crash

And a mother’s grief thereafter.

Cries of misery, everlasting, tore the earth asunder—

Woeful and enraged, the Queen of Beasts waged eternal war:

Fang shattered blade, arrow pierced pelt,

Generations rising, trudging, sinking through endless tides of bloodshed

And time was lost in waves of ravaged corpses.

An impenetrable bog, bubbling, festering, oozing

As lost lambs, drowning lambs, wept,

Seethed, thrashed, screeched, wailed, sagged,

Moaned for salvation in the churning sea’s

Cold

Embrace

Until a blinding star, at long last, breached the murky waters.

A fateful strike.

Heaved from the abyssal depths,

Cresting the lifeless skies,

Struck down upon the mourning mother’s neck.

Leaving writhing sorrows unspoken—

Morose deluge denied.

12

The mountain yearns to forget

The wave of blackened blood that flowed:

Charred in unquenchable rage,

Frosted by boundless lament,

A curse rooted deep within the crimson soil.

Treacherous ice storms raged, they rage,

Maelstroms coiling and whipping,

Impassable cliffs, blinding, frigid fogs,

Wraiths of glacial fury barring the way:

None shall pass.

Slowly, certainly, all fell to the chilling hands of fate.

Only memories of fruitless warfare remain

Flitting among the decaying bones of the fallen;

Wisps of fables, calling out, they echo, echo

Into silence.

Time lumbers onwards, ever steady,

As the final records crumble,

As mighty fortresses turn to rubble,

As the triumphant are swallowed by the earth,

And then the mountain will forget

13

YOU ARE HERE

Penelope Zimmerman (‘30) YOU ARE HERE

You are… Where?

You are there.

With them.

But where?

You feel lonely.

You feel the self-loathing.

The "I can't do this".

The "Ashamed for not knowing".

The "uncontrollable emotions".

One Hot Tear drips down your face.

The anger.

The irritation.

YOU ARE HERE

In this point of life.

You are in the hardest part of life.

It will get better I promise.

The night always ends with the sun rising.

Your heart rising.

Live your life the way it was meant to be lived.

14

Sink or Swim

Laila Taylor (‘24) You need to swim

My dad commanded me over and over again

You need to swim

I was young

I hated the water, the way I couldn’t breathe when I went under

cold water froze my heart for an instant

I’ve been submerged for 5 years

You need to swim

My dad repeated, I can’t stop now

I hate it even more

Swim feels like a weight holding me down

The more I swim the faster I sink

I need it to end

If I don’t I’ll hit the bottom and never float up

I fought drowning for two more years

I stopped swimming

the weight lifted

I started to tread

Float up

The whistle blows and practice starts

I don’t jump into the water

I miss the gratification of perfecting the flip turn

I don’t miss swim

15

Picking Up Trash Bryan Zhang (‘30)

On the sidewalk, something Looking for a trash can Picked it up, now walking But then I see a pan

I grab it and wonder

Why people throw litter Which is a bad blunder World's losing its glitter

There is way too much trash Everyone can assist

Or else the world will crash Of course, we must persist

Our world is magical

So we need to save it It can't be tragical

We shall never just sit

16

The Snow Queen Kyler Chen (‘30)

I look left and right

All I can see is a bright light

I set off into the forest

Hoping for the best

I met an old woman, but she was no good

Then I met a crow, but it was just as useless as a piece of wood

I was then kidnapped but set free by a female leader

My last hope was a reindeer that would bring me to the kidnapper

I see Kai, and I hug him with tears flooding on his chest

Not even he could hold back his distress

He remembered me

And we

Danced until

Our will.

17

Perfect Imperfection: A Perfect Image and a Messy Identity Ezra Zhang (‘25)

I don’t belong in China. The locals there all think I’m the born-andraised-in-China flavor of Chinese, but I’m really the American-born flavor of Chinese. The last time I went to China, a tour guide at a museum asked me about Chinese history. I didn’t know anything. I looked stupid. It was humiliating. I don’t belong in China because I learned American history at my American school. I eat my American Chinese food. I don’t speak English with the right accent to belong in China. It’s just a little too Southern. I’m a real banana, as some would call it.

I don’t belong in America, either. I’m overrepresented and underrepresented at the same time. My community is too rich, and we can pay for college, so we might as well be white. Let’s conveniently forget anti-Asian hate and the difference in socioeconomic status across the label “Asian American.” Let’s ignore the anti-Asian propaganda.

Because it’s okay for our government to be bad but our people to remain good. That doesn’t apply to any other country. No, if another government is doing a bad thing, we get to take it out on the citizens, who had even less to do with Hirohito and Xi Jinping than we did with Trump or Biden.

Oops. I didn’t turn off my politics. I forgot to be the good Asian. The one with no personality and no opinion, who is submissive and quiet and accepts what they can get from the white people. Was I supposed to be doing that? I’m sorry.

Okay, okay, I’m not the only person in the world. There are other people of color too! Except Asian Americans aren’t good enough at being people of color! We are in what Cathy Park Hong describes as a “vague purgatorial status” (9). We are in a perpetual state of limbo because we aren’t Black, but we aren’t white either.

18

We are a tool for the white man to use and discard, a tool with which to tear down the Black community. Not only is the Asian American community in purgatory, but so am I, in my relationship to China and America. We are too white to be people of color. We are too yellow to be white. I am too white to be Chinese. I am too yellow to be white.

I’m sick of watching the Asian American community suffer in silence.

But Al Robles had faith that “the cold, dark nightmares will die” (81). To me, that means that one day, the unique experience of Asian American suffering will be accounted and accommodated for. One day, the model minority myth will be a thing of the past. One day, Asian Americans will no longer be subjected to purgatory. One day, I will not fear being pushed off a subway platform.

It will be difficult.

But we owe it to ourselves to try. And our efforts will become part of the Asian American legacy, the same way Asian American leaders of the 1970s have become part of the Asian American legacy. If I want to do my part in this legacy, I need to remember that I don’t have to justify my politics using another identity. Just because Asian Americans are stereotypically silent and obedient doesn’t mean I need to conform to it.

Asian American is political, just as queer is political. I can be both. (Does that mean I’m 2political or political2?) My queer politics don’t end where race begins, nor do my Asian American politics end where queerness begins.

If my politics compound, do my experiences compound as well?

Perhaps they each make me not fit in individually. Together, there are even fewer people willing to accept or understand me. Perhaps, for all I think about intersectionality in others’ experiences, I haven’t thought about it deeply enough to understand my own intersectionality. Right now, I think about the pieces of my identity as just that. Pieces. How can I take these pieces and puzzle them together into a truer, more authentic version of me?

19

Even as I work to understand myself, I cannot force others to work on how they understand me. I can’t control what other people think about me. But I can do something for my community, for the people who are like me. For the queer Asian kids who are silently struggling because they think they are the only ones.

How? Everything sounds good on a hypothetical plane. How do I take this mission and enact it?

One example of action is Frank Chin and Jeffery Paul Chan’s “Racist Love.” They present their points harshly and unapologetically. For example, they wrote, “White historians like to say that suddenly a lot of us went home to China. We didn’t, but our bones did, six months after we died here” (Chin and Chan 71). I find myself returning to these lines.

It’s like a slap in the face. There’s no going around it. We can’t rewrite history and pretend it didn’t happen. These lines really make my heart hurt because my family has been successful in America. The brushed over and forgotten injustices meant that Chinese immigrants were not as successful as they ought to have been. They deserved so much more.

Despite Chin and Chan’s insight on race, they strayed into misogynistic territory. However, their discourse on race remains valuable, despite its shortcomings. After all, there is no such thing as a perfect source.

“Racist Love” is an example of what Asian American activism can look like.

I think, though, that I can do better.

Works Cited Chin, Frank, and Jeffrey Paul Chan. “Racist Love.” Seeing through Shuck, by Richard Kostelanetz, New York City, Ballantine Books, 1972, pp. 65-79.

Hong, Cathy Park. “United.” Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning, 2021 ed., New York City, One World, 2021, pp. 3-35.

Robles, Al. “Untitled Poem.” Aion (San Francisco, CA). Vol. 1, no. 2, Oct. 1971, pp. 80-81, jstor.org/stable/community.29032151. Accessed 14 Sept. 2023.

20

On Stage Brooke Murgitroyd (‘25) I am no longer blinded by the bright lights;

They warm me up.

They invigorate me.

I'm not deafened by the roars and rages of the crowd.

As my fingers find their starting positions on

the smooth oak fretboard,

everything around me gets quiet.

I am transported somewhere safe and solitary, like

I'm sitting in my room writing the song for the first time again.

My right hand plucks three strings in habitual rhythm

as my left hand caresses the guitar's neck,

Each tone adding new color to the chord, Each note

Essential and intentional.

21

My stomach presses up against the guitar's

Body swaying to the sensual melody

My head rolls back, hair brushing my skin.

I step out of my body and disobey gravity’s pull, floating higher and higher

Hallucinogenics lace the flavorful licks and riffs;

A girl with crystal blue eyes cries.

Violets bloom, raindrops glistening on their electric purple petals.

A heart beats and bleeds.

A kaleidoscope of vibrant neon light turns curiously.

My handprints remain in the clay that I meticulously sculpted and resculpted—This song has memories.

The music flows through and out of me like water,

Washing away all thoughts and worries and

Suddenly

I am clean.

22

sun•kissed

23

My Little Town Olivia Hu (‘30)

The pavement rolls in,

To a small little town

With small little houses

Scattered among the path,

Like a constellation

In the dark blue sky

This is my home,

My humble abode

I live in this village

Where I grow old

With friends and my family, long ago

24

A Love That Grows Lifelong Callie Chang (‘25)

On a canvas kissed by sunlight's grace,

Observant are the Blossoms,

Unfurling in the limelight:

Petals blushed a scarlet red, dazzled a seashell pink,

Rusted a vintage orange.

Sitting, waiting, watching.

Rose from a dense, dry soil

How did this life come to be?

Rooted in Sunday morning church bells' chime

A crisp tuxedo jacket, a flowing white dress

So now freely soiled from their stroll.

Walking hand in hand over roots of trees,

A nurtured garden sowed in love.

25

Monet, Claude. The Artist’s

Garden in Argenteuil. 1873. NGA.

How deeply the petaled plants plead:

Oh, for this plot not to twist,

For clouds not to dampen the rays of the sun,

For the house they call home

To be forever dusted in warm pollen,

And not cobwebs come winter.

The arcing oak peers over the paneled fence

Bent from the weight of wise age

With wind, whispers, "Won't you stay?

Let your love stay strong, like these flowers so true,

Won't you grow as we?"

The garden's testament so clear

In their silent bloom, still they pray

That the affection they've witnessed

The couple's hearts be forever reaching for

The light and warmth of each other's presence

Growing like the Blossoms: lifelong.

26

Ode to Dreams Abigail Fox (‘25) Gentle and benign is the hand

Cradling your head, swathing you in silky blankets of

Numb effervescence as the hum of the world around you

Quiets.

Floating, drifting, you roam,

Sinking into the warm bubble of serenity

That sings you sweet nothings

And brushes off the weights that fetter

Your wings

Metamorphize:

Your feathers grow without bound

And the tranquil walls that embrace you part before a

Fledgling flight

The silver of a dream flooding to your intrusions

Leap.

Stepping stones are the fathomless worlds beneath your feet

Tumultuous gales are the vessel of your ballroom dance

Your ballad shall ring across the galaxies

So fear not the fate of the unheard and

Sing.

The harmonies that ring out, intertwine,

Create, form, shift

In response are a promise:

This realm shall guide you to salvation

Amidst the chaos you procure

27

Pollock, Jackson. Number 11 Blue Poles. 1952.

Odyssea

Carson Pollock (‘25) Fantasies and dream lands

Is that what you aim to cast?

Lured unconscious to the ocean by gestural rhythms

planting blue poles among seismic turned shock turned waves

and as you step forward, clutching that bronze compass,

you take off, off the deck, off this world.

Your pointing brush a navigator, drawing about you

as you’re flung into swirling complexities

alternating: depths and dawn, turmoil and elation

thick insistent lines layered with tangerine, gold, and black

the whirlpool of life, You: a ship besieged

and these lurched behemoth masts

the crows nests untarnished

are so much not a fantasy anymore

and you settle again

the western painter.

Swaying with a cigarette and splattered jeans

having mapped the depths of the sea

only working with instinct and intuition 28

Ticking

A Shakespearean Sonnet

Austin Marchand (‘24) From afar a boy watches this clock.

He is but a small speck to its grandeur.

He doesn’t blink, transfixed by the Tick. Tock.

Repetitive. Redundant. Sinister.

He stares as the hands spiral and spiral.

The boy twitches when each hand twitches.

Another minute passes, out of control.

He always returns. Adam never feared the snake.

Closer he gets. He yearns to feel awake.

One fatal touch to the Timeless steeple.

And the façade tips. Falls. Shatters. Breaks.

The boy cannot move amid the shards of evil.

He only stares at the forgotten old figure

reflected in the fractured, ageless mirror.

29

Performing

Lily Younge (‘30) She swished her cloak

Through it didn't feel like a cloak

It felt like a bag draped over her body squishing around

It gave her the feeling of being bald, through it couldn't push her down

But how could she let that bother her now?

Today was her day

To perform, To dance, To be the star, all other thoughts didn't matter

It was her turn, this way

No one could stop her

She was ready

She was dancing, flying

It was her turn as the star

And it was over, it would be lying to say it wasn't fun

She did it, the pit in her stomach lightened.

30

AA Free Letter to Hope Verse Poem Morgan McMullin (‘25) My golden idol:

How I look upon thee and wish with every might, that someday I might live!

in a time where people like me could be seen in riches,

living unapologetically free!

As I look upon your frame, I see my longed-for escape.

From the terrors that creep just down my street

From the hatred that oozes through the cracks

of my shattered heart.

Help me!

Weld my stolen identity,

tiered from their taunts, weathered from their wrath

Sew together my pieces, crack by crack

with the rays of the sun emanating from your halo

Let me in! into your perfect blend of reality and fantasy,

and see the world only as I want it to be seen.

please

31

Klimt, Gustav. Portrait of Adele Bloch Bauer.

1907. Neue Galerie New York.

My dearest child,

as I sit upon all that seems to be my glory,

I watch with eyes laid upon my armor; they water for our future.

We must remain perfectly poised at all costs.

For one falter, one step out of line,

is another person's history erased from time.

Can you not see that the riches and gold of which you speak,

while surround me now, their sunny façade,

will soon be dimmed, then extinguished by storm clouds of cold creeping hate,

leaving only the blood of future generations

painted on the pains of my cheeks?

Do you not feel my hands as they wring out the tears of tomorrow?

You speak of a world of fantasy; well you won't find that here.

So take a crack at reality! Face the world for all those living in fear!

We will take back our art to reclaim our history!

This is no winning war but please, say you will fight for me.

With me, for us!

32

My First God Was An American Soldier Isa Oon (US Teacher)

Flights, bombs, towers falling Green lights at night and people calling "Stay away from the windows, be quiet, no talking And only in English, if you wanna start belonging"

"And if you know what is best, Then you'll conform to all the rest God is white, don't second guess And if you're not, you're always less And if you can do all of this too America might have a place for you"

America is the greatest country So why is my first friend always hungry?

The little white boy down the street used to come up to see what snacks I'd eat

The little white boy went to church with me He became a pastor man for all to see His long blonde hair matched the children's looks In all of my long Jesus books

33

And if he wasn't a pastor, he always said He wanted to be a soldier instead

I didn't mind, I liked that game Even though I thought that it was lame Somehow I ended up always the same

on the ground

on my knees

looking up

The same position I prayed in every night Hoping I could wake up white So that I could finally be the one To be the last one with the gun

My very first friend disappeared one day They simply said he had gone away Though I'll forget it until I'm older

My first God was an American soldier.

34

Are you listening Morgan McMullin (‘25)

the trees whisper their Wisdom,

as their leaves dance around the fire of the rising sun.

the blaze of the sun ignites Passion,

as it opens the eyes of every creature to a new life.

the animals feel at home surrounded by Community,

gathered round the river as it courses through, bonding each one to the other.

the water engaging a web of Energy.

waves formed by wind feel their way to every plant and animal in need.

the wind as their Guiding Hand

assists the seeds to earth and birds to fly, shaping the clouds into childlike images.

the clouds tease the Imagination

of anyone with curiosity enough to wonder, they grow heavy with rain.

the rain falls Nurturing life below,

filling the rivers, making the trees grow.

the trees still whispering.

birthed and raised under Mother Nature’s gaze.

this cycle never ceases.

It is us who have removed ourselves.

And cease to listen

Can you hear?

35

Scorched Childhood Sydney Wrege (‘25)

“Get low” they tell you,

when you awake to a room of smoke.

“Get low” they tell you,

it will keep you safe.

But what they don’t tell you

is that you aren’t safe

unless someone comes to save you.

What they don’t tell you

is that you can’t be self

-dependent, in this situation.

What they don’t tell you

is that your memory

will be singed,

and you won’t move on,

and you can’t

36 move on.

John Everett Millais. The Rescue. 1855.

Something of a Palinode: Falling In Love Kainda Nzinga (‘25)

I never fell. I’m sorry I used such violent imagery to describe something so natural

Beauty is natural, never forced, never recanted

Love doesn’t stop at realization but finds new ways to seep into new cracks

Love enters stages inside me and travels through me

I never fell

I don’t stop looking at strangers because strangers will never stop looking at me Love is too big a word for a feeling so small and grieving over a missed

Opportunity at a bus stop is probably foolish, or dissonant

Missing the point, always missing the point because I guess I was just too

Hopeful that love would be returned even when it has no sender address

I don’t think this came from me, but something deeper

I stumbled, but I didn’t fall, I poured out and over I weeped when the dog died in the movie but I didn’t stop loving the flickering of colors

The portrayals of flat characters blossoming into three dimensional beings before my eyes

Love doesn’t stop when something dies

If it did, we wouldn’t have tombstones. Or eulogies. Or speeches at funerals that make me

37

Lay my love down softly. Like a flower or a blanket, if love falls it is in layers, petals

Springing unto itself until it hurts

But never to be mistaken for a weakness

If an opening is taken advantage of then that is not your fault

The river never stops flowing just because a schism forms

Water can curve and shape the earth around it- as love can change the people you hate most

Your biggest issue is your reckless heart so solve it with a shell

Hate the shell, hate the shell like the petal hates its bud

Love the bud because it was just a first step

A tentative peek into what the world could offer, what the world could be

Some people don’t understand the beauty of the color green simply because

It is so gorgeously abundant

There is no issue with stumbling

So forgive yourself, my heart

For overflowing

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Frank Kameny Ezra Zhang (‘25)

Even before Stonewall, there was Frank Kameny, who is overlooked in the story of LGBTQ+ liberation. Kameny served in the U.S. Army during World War II and earned a Ph.D. in astronomy from Harvard University. In 1957, he got a job as an astronomer for the Army Map Service, which was part of the Department of Defense at the time.

Kameny was coveted by the government at the start of the space race, but in January 1958, he was reported as homosexual and fired from his job. Kameny was blacklisted from jobs in astronomy, which was mostly government dependent, so he was continually unemployed or underemployed. This was part of a larger movement in the U.S. called the Lavender Scare, which persecuted gay people and lesbians the same way the Red Scare persecuted Communists.

Kameny stood up against his dismissal, even though he had little support. In 1960, he sued the government. His attorney abandoned him, but the case went all the way to the Supreme Court, so Kameny wrote his own brief. Unfortunately, Kameny did not win his case, but he co-founded the Mattachine Society of Washington in 1961 when the national Mattachine Society disbanded. The National Mattachine Society operated in secrecy, but Kameny’s D.C. branch did not. Other gay rights activists used pseudonyms, but Kameny did not. This was risky; other groups who worked overtly shut down when their members were arrested. The Mattachine Society of Washington helped the Daughters of Bilitis, an independent lesbian organization, launch their magazine in 1956. In 1965, the Society led one of the first pickets for gay rights in front of the White House.

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They then joined the East Coast Homophile Organizations and continued picketing along the East Coast. Kameny also took on the American Psychiatric Association’s classification of homosexuality as a mental disorder. Only in 2009 did Kameny receive a formal apology for his 1958 dismissal. Kameny’s work laid the foundations for the activists who would come after him.

Understanding Frank Kameny means understanding the past, present, and future of the fight for LGBTQ+ rights. Today, Kameny and the other pre-Stonewall activists are hardly mentioned, but without understanding the discipline of pre-Stonewall gay rights, it is impossible to understand the explosiveness of post-Stonewall gay rights. Stonewall had a great impact, but groups like the Mattachine Society and individuals like Frank Kameny set the stage. In the present, understanding Kameny’s experiences helps identify the tactics that politicians use to target transgender individuals; the antitrans rhetoric of today is recycled anti-gay rhetoric. Kameny’s methods were not perfect, but he serves as an example of what resistance means. The world has changed, and directly copying Kameny is unlikely to work, but adapting an existing course of action is much easier than creating a new one. Finally, history repeats itself. Kameny will not be the only one to lose his job because of identity-based discrimination. Understanding the events that led to the Lavender Scare provides opportunities to prevent it in the future. If society does not learn from its mistakes, it shall never progress. Kameny is no longer here to provide his wisdom, so it is up to the people of today to continue his legacy.

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The Straw Philip Lunger (‘30)

I scowl at the rough surface of the Styrofoam cup

that has been placed in front of me.

As I look up four straws are placed in the middle of the table,

each one I wince at.

Everyone eagerly grabs one

except me.

I feel it calling to me

as I look around all the straws say to just take it,

“Take the straw”.

As I reach my hand forward,

“No.”

“I’m just a straw take me,” it says.

“No.”

I snap back; the straw is laying on the table.

I hear the slurp of pink lemonade,

as I take off the cap

and push the straw away.

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sun•burnt

42

Love Scarlett Macy (‘30)

Love

Love is a pain in your chest,

Overly excited feelings

Very scared to be near them or say the wrong thing.

Ending of feelings as they change

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Nature Mason Herr (‘24) Blushing Petals hide Cruel thorns on their underside.

Decadent feathers obscure A scavenger’s true nature.

Shining scales conceal Venom prepared for the next meal Fate is a cruel mistress, yes.

Yet, is our mother any less?

Misty morning drew, catching the dawn’s early light, like flies, drips off her web.

Do you lie in league with death, oh dame of decay?

Yet, I am grateful.

I love her.

Is this blindness, or beauty?

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A Life in Three Parts Annabel Maidorn (‘25)

I.

The color of my eyes is dirt brown. I like them. I am born of the Earth, my eyes say. I am the world’s

riches. I am her beauty, the beginning of her beauty, the end. I am the fragile space between the shoe

and the core. I am grounded, I am nurturing. I grow and grow and decompose and revitalize. I am

eternal.

II.

My eyes are equidistant from the center of my heart; meaning that they aren’t symmetrical on my face.

Nothing is. My mind cannot rip its gaze from my imperfections. I will torture myself with ideas of perfect

love. I want to be forever close to the beat of your heart.

So how about this: let me wrap my hands

around your cage of bones and let me crack it open. Let me sneak through the red caverns of your veins

and the strings of your tendons. I’ll swim through the acids of your stomach and crawl up the ridge of

your esophagus. I’ll skip around the bend of your throat where I’ll rest in your lungs, breathing in your

oxygen. Your lungs are thinly veined like marble, fragile

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like a rabbit’s ears. This is where I’ll rot and

perish. I will latch on and grow and multiply, bubbling and settling into the cavities of your tissue. From

this perspective I can observe. The cells of your heart are beautiful like cracked earth or the venation on

a leaf. Your skin smells like baby powder and is moist from the humid summer air. The bones of your

teeth are spumous and your gums are pink like a frail spring air. We are finally perfect.

A concept between green and gold is where my adoration exists.

III.

Bury me under that willow tree in the graveyard, next to that worn white stone bench. Let the squirrels

hide their acorns above me, let the bees make their nest in the flowers you leave for me. Let them fly

the course of their short lives around me and let me understand. My own fragile body died too quickly; I

see it in the striped husks that are littered above me.

Let the seasons pass: let the grass that blankets my body wither and become green again. Look at the

shoes that step on me, the strings of their laces worn. Let them decay like the strings of my flesh. Let

your tears salt my earth, let your smiles brighten my sky.

Let the world spin and spin and spin around

the aching pull of the sun. Let time eat at me until there are barely bones left; yes, let time feast. For I

am happy, desperately so, to let the Earth swallow me once more.

Today I am me, tomorrow I take my place among celestial bodies.

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We were loved Sophie Mei (‘30)

We were loved, said the people in the stars

We were loved, said the people on Mars

But who were the people, the people who lived far away

Who were the people who swayed in a very strange way

Why did they lie to us

Why did they say that we were great and healthy when we truly had cold cuts

When did it all begin

Why did they come and attack us and out kin

Why did they aim for our throats when we fought

What did they say to make us lost in thought

We were once loved, said the people who lived on tarts

It was a lie, from ending to start

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Lego Man

Adam Sirianni (‘30) The man who was in the shower

Thinking

Dreaming of having millions of dollars

Saying he is not good enough

Then stares down his reflection in the mirror

While he was drying off

And said

What should I do?

Then he saw it

A beautiful black shiny new camera

He gets dressed then

He grabs it and sprints down the stairs

Then goes outside

and tries to use it

Wow! This is so cool

He says

And found his new hobby

Now he makes millions of dollars

Every year

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The Red Robin Taran Patil (‘30)

It perched on the hard, stone ledge, overlooking the world beyond it through its little, black eyes.

As if thinking, am I the highest, the most worthy for this place of ice.

It let out its blazing red wings, as if it was as blazing and hot as the sun.

The wind whistled, beckoning the brilliant bird to take off, just for fun.

It took off in the wind, flying over its home, like a king overlooking its city.

It flew higher, and higher, so high, that the air seemed to crush its lungs, and as it looked down, his

ambition of being the almighty grew silly

By then, it was as small as a speck of dust, as it overlooked the towering mountains below it,

The icy plains, and the rows and rows of spruce trees silently swaying gently in the breeze,

And it realized to himself, I really have a long way to go, don't I?

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Lifeless Patient Olivia McVeigh (‘30)

Arms locked and disappointed

The arms of doctors, nurses, and surgeons

All of them

Clenched jaws and wrinkled foreheads

Stethoscopes hanging carelessly

The vital beep slowly decreasing its frequency

The blood splotches on their gloves

Nudging their glasses back on their noses

Contagious sighs spreading the dead silent room

And the beep trailing off in the distance

Until the faces trace to the monitor and see a straight line

12:03 am

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The Wind and Sea

Roderick McKenzie (‘24) I had taken to the sea like my father before.

The daring foggy sea, her cold yet energetic heart,

I felt her calling me day after day.

Her words crashing, yet gentle, pulled me deeper.

The wind carrier her voice frigid and strong.

I took my father’s old sailboat,

Its peeling color, its old wood hull.

I drifted far as she carried me along

the white tips of her long blue hair.

All the way to an island of grey stone.

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Davies B, Arthur. Bear Island Light. New York 1900-1928 Painting.

As the wing came jealous of my love for her

she pushed my sails away as she wailed her longing song.

Her tears falling as her grey dress covered the sky.

She sang her song of sadness into my sails,

Yet my love for the sea could not waver.

I grappled the rope as I was pushed by the wind and pulled by the sea.

The island of white just ahead of me,

Its lighthouse standing defiant to the wind.

Through the storm, I heard her call,

I would reach her.

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The sea shook the storm and brought me high on her wave

High enough that I could see her waiting for me on shore

Her deep blue eyes, her long wavy hair, her flowing dress of blues

Her voice shook my boat, calling me to jump.

I knew I would be safe in her gentle arms.

The Courtyard

Raffaëlli, Jean-François. Village Square, Cagnes.

1913. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

William Hook (‘24) Brisk, single, alone: the tree stands outside

the courtyard. Swaying in the crisp early morning

breeze. The sun rises in the morning every day.

The hens croak while the donkey slumbers.

Routine.

While the father is away on the boats,

the young child is out with the animals.

Grandma watches over the house.

She always had a desire for more.

But the generations have grown up

in the same village square.

Routine.

Grandma goes inside to make dinner for

her some when he arrives home.

He does at 6pm, routinely.

Carrying fish in one hand and his briefcase in the other.

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The Petal Jacqueline Liu (‘30)

A light breeze carries through the air,

The blossoms bloom in the rays of sun.

I sit upon the siren’s lair,

Against the water, the only one.

A train rushes by the river.

Disturbing the peace and quiet.

But I know it will pass.

Eventually.

the bees are buzzing,

The people are leaving,

A single petal left, floating along.

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A Life Well Lived Annie Bhat (‘30)

A life well lived

With people you love

Us grieving your loss

With you up above

A life well lived

Soaking in all the memories

You are now gone

Can we freeze time for centuries?

A life well lived

I hope you are okay

There all alone

I will pray for you all day

A life well lived

Don't worry so soon

If you wait a little bit

I'll be waiting for you too

55

Herons’ Home Natan Solomon (‘30)

The bulldozers roaring. The herons yelping. The glimmer of the sun shrouded in the darkness of the clouds. The bulldozers crash and the herons fly. The constant show of power and helplessness. The squawking herons go in hope to find a new home. I hear a loud boom as the once beautiful natural surroundings are covered in dust and debris. The birds look endlessly for a new home as hope is slowly lost. But then the clouds went away and a beautiful home awaits the herons like a hand-wrapped gift just for them. As the sun goes down, the herons settle in.

And the hope that was nearly lost forever has come back never to be forgotten.

56

Social Media and Polarization Ezra Zhang (‘25)

Social media platforms exacerbate polarization. Paul Barrett, Justin Hendrix, and Grant Sims, researchers at New York University, wrote in 2021 that increasing polarization is not a platform’s intent, but they promote content that increases user engagement. Often, this content elicits strong emotions like anger, sadness, and fear. In times of unrest and uncertainty, extremist organizations hijack these emotions, which, according to the National Institute of Justice, can induce feelings of power and connection for users. Social media is an effective tool for radicalization because it disseminates propaganda efficiently by mixing it with non-extremist content. As a user interacts with the propaganda, the platform prioritizes it on their feed, leaving the user stuck in an extremist echo chamber.

Jan-Jaap van Eerten, Bertjan Doosje, Elly Konijn, Beatrice de Graaf, and Mariëlle de Goede, researchers at the Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, the University of Amsterdam, and Utrecht University, identified in 2017 that counter-narratives, which challenge extremist beliefs, help undermine extremist narratives and reduce vulnerability to extremist ideas. Unfortunately, various psychological theories predict challenges to using counternarratives. For example, according to Cognitive Dissonance Theory (CDT), counter-narratives reaffirm an extremist’s beliefs, rather than challenge them. Counter-narratives cause tension, which extremists instinctively avoid. CDT also suggests that extremists may avoid counter-narratives altogether, which is also enabled by social media algorithms’ echo chambers. However, platforms refuse to ban hate and extremist content because they want to maintain profits and avoid First Amendment battles.

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For those tied tightly to extremist ideologies, deradicalization through counter-narratives is unlikely to succeed, either online or offline. Instead, van Eerten et al. argue that counter-narratives should target members of extremist organizations who are resisting radical beliefs because they will be more responsive to deradicalization on social media.

Once an audience is identified, the challenge becomes the successful implementation of a counter-narrative. This begins with the creation of the message; specific attention should be paid to plausibility and credibility. By definition, a counter-narrative counters an extremist narrative, but a blatantly moderate message might be immediately dismissed. Then, the content is not absorbed, and the counter-narrative is ineffective. There is an appropriate balance between the truth and the truth that will be accepted by the audience, which is different for each extremist group; each counternarrative must be tailor-made, even if the general message is the same. Once the message has been created, the counter-narrative must be disseminated from a credible source, which, to an extremist, is not the same as a credible source for the average user.

The message must mimic sources the extremist trusts, and it must come from an account that does not stand out as moderate.

Masking an account as extremist can take advantage of the platform’s algorithm and help the content appear on a user’s feed. In some ways, deradicalization involves infiltration to understand how the extremists understand the world. Unfortunately, one unanswered question is how a counter-narrative campaign might backfire and incite further action from extremist organizations.

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sun•bleached

59

Untitled Ethan An (‘30) In the arctic circle,

Up so high.

It feels to cold.

You might want to cry.

White-coated mountains,

And white-coated reindeer.

They’re roaming around.

Everywhere.

It is a winter wonderland.

And it is truly

A beautiful sight to see.

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Photograph by Rowen Wang

Swim

Rowen Wang (‘30) In the waters deep,

Where dreams take flight,

With each stroke, our spirits ignite.

With every kick and graceful glide,

We swim upon the surface bright.

Bonded by practices and meets, beaming with pride,

Through every lap we push ahead,

In waves of love our fears we shed.

In unity we reach our gleaming beam,

In love for swim we freely roam,

For in our team, we reign supreme.

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Have you ever heard Amelia Smith (‘30)

Have you ever heard that saying

"one man’s trash is another man’s treasure"?

What makes something trash?

Just Something no one wants?

In that case can humans be trash?

When their hearts get broken?

Thrown away?

I think nothing is trash

There is always a way to help it

Or reuse it

Because

"one man’s trash is another man’s treasure"

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LEGO MAN Blair Kelly (‘30)

Wake up early in the morning

To do what everyone else calls boring

But he makes bands

By holding that camera in his hands

He drove his g-wagon to rainy for the ‘rarri

He bumped into an old granny so he had to say sorry!

Pulls into his mansion

Lays in the hot tub

Goes with his girlfriend

To the vip pub!

63

Stroll The Levee Evan Astrike-Davis (‘24)

I woke on Thursday's morn so heavy,

Within me, a weight, a struggle unsteady.

My body spent, the illness bevy,

Between life and death, I stroll the levee.

The sun arose, just as did I,

Both breaking free from the pitch-dark sky.

Both waking up - the night's alumni,

Seeking purpose, while time saunters by.

My book askew, on the nightstand fair,

A metaphor for my thoughts laid bare.

Its tilt a tale, of life to share,

But within, silent chapters, pain and despair.

The window sat where it always stood,

A reflection of me, and all that I could.

Four feet tall, surrounded by wood,

Yet a façade of beauty, soul misunderstood.

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Three feet wide, a portal grand,

To frame perspective, where thoughts expand.

A realm of past adventures, at memory’s demand,

A threshold to false truths, told from lie’s command.

The mountain yonder, its curve so fine,

A wave in the sky, just a sight divine.

A reminder of heartbeat, that sickening line,

I'd left the hospital, despite health's decline.

A surfer ascends up the mountain's crest,

Unfulfilled dreams, an anchor, on my chest.

Riding rays, my journey blest,

Finding solace in this ending’s quest.

Oh, heavy Thursday, you start askew,

Windowing my soul in shades of blue.

Your light so bright, though I must pursue,

I now leave this Earth, find strength anew.

65

My Father’s Father An Ekphrastic Free Verse Poem

Austin Marchand (‘24)

My father says we are at Mother Earth’s mercy.

So, I never fear a freezing fate.

I wholeheartedly trust the fragile blanket of ice beneath my skates

That creaks, cracks, and groans but never gives way.

My father’s father says we are at Mother Earth’s mercy.

So, my father believes the spring salmon soon will return.

He never grows weary; he trusts his steady hand.

He will find a way to feed his family.

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Kekknoek, Barend Cornelis. Winter Landscape, Holland. 1833. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

My father’s father knows we are at Mother Earth’s mercy.

He watched winter wonderlands come and go,

The river freeze and flow,

Spring saplings rise above the snowy tundra,

He knows Her all too well now.

So - this must be why my father’s father rises at dawn. He strolls the same snow-packed path,

reminisces of childhood memories racing over the frozen river,

remembers the calloused, broken hands of fatherhood.

Even so, he wakes to admire the good Mother Earth brings our family.

He truly believes that She blessed mankind.

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Inner Peace Abigail Fox (‘25)

You are walking down the road. There is no light to guide your path, save for the sea of stars that glitters above you. Cicadas warble from the treetops. A breeze blows by. You stop for a moment to gaze at a pond that catches your eye. The water ripples and splits as a turtle breaches the surface. It floats about aimlessly, seeming to bask in the moonlight. The water stills once more as the turtle dives under, leaving no trace of its disturbance behind. All that remains is your reflection upon the water’s surface. You turn away, continuing your journey. The night wind does not whip your hair about this outing, nor does it send shivers and goosebumps along your body. It simply hovers about and caresses your shoulders from time to time, as a mother might comfort their child. You pause your stroll again as a deer slips out of the foliage with no more than a rustle, hesitating as it snares you in its gaze. You inspect each other, as strangers do. You are drawn to its pelt, speckled with white spots of youth that glow amidst the shadows cast by the forest. Its mother does not seem to be nearby, but the fawn seems not to mind its predicament. It turns away from you, continuing across the path and sliding through the underbrush. A flash of white marks its farewell as the ambience of night returns to its cadence. Perhaps you will encounter each other again, perhaps not. As strangers do. You continue to walk down the road. The sun will rise soon, but night is not over yet.

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As the ball flew up Arjun Taneja (‘30)

As the ball flew up It felt like ice flying into a cup I reach for the sky

I fly up like a fly

I squeeze the ball

I hear a call

Ring-Ring-Ring

Ding-Ding-Ding!

I caught it I caught it!

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Slowly Jackson Curtis (‘30)

He slowly walked through the forest

Where he had once been free

slowly.

slowly..

slowly…

With the occasional

Footsteps

It echoes

Through the forest

He was walking through

slowly.

slowly..

slowly…

There is a human

he is scared

So he runs away

The human chases

And he keeps running

slowly.

slowly..

slowly…

He stops.

The human approaches.

And then

She gives him food

And brings him home with her

And he lives

Happy

But also

70slowly…

Twisted ‘Love’

A Petrarchan Sonnet

Mason Herr (‘24) Ocean eyes hid from you a dark design

Lips dripping poison fed you pretty lies Like siren’s song, their touch was your demise You fell in, reason drowned, and you were mine Plucked your every string, I felt divine High in the sky, your awe made me arise Yet, your love was, for a fling, most unwise Soon, it would be you…you I would malign

Now Silent Sands of time have drifted past Seasons changed—seen the error of my ways Yet, your hate burns—fire raging bright and vast flame set alight in my self-absorbed haze And now I’m left to bear the scorching blast Yet, burn of your love’s ashes was worth your praise

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Calling Your Bluff Kainda Nzinga (‘25)

I’ve forgotten the lyrics to the anthem

The last time I had to look at an American flag every day was 6th grade

Most unGodly kids I ever knew

Red was for apples, my least favorite subject’s folder, the color of blood in our history books

White was for my english teacher’s smile when she tells me my good writing surprises her, her equally white skin and the whiteboards

And blue was for the color of the sky, my science teacher’s phone case, my backpack

Now that I’m in high school me and my friends know it isn’t stars, stripes and everything nice here

The boys basketball game starts and everyone stands before the flag, before the anthem too

We have our own rituals for our boys in white and blue, we don’t sing “Oh, say can you see” we have an instrumental version

My friends don’t put their hands over their heart

They stand stiff or look at their phones like they’re at a protest only they can see

I wonder what that does for them

I put my hand over my heart just to feel it beating. I’m still here. No matter how much some people didn’t want me to be

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I miss the rhythm most of all

Is that bad? That I want us all to sing a song none of us believe in just to harmonize?

I feel so nostalgic for it, hungry for the recreation of an epic.

Lord knows high school is boring

That’s why some kids were allowed to leave before the StarSpangled started

Believed in God too much to praise an idol

That’s just what it looks like now, in the basketball stadium.

A cardboard cutout.

In elementary school the flag was outside and we sang while the sun was still a bright, weak ball in the sky

Never cutting through the haze of fog well enough to get in our eyes

I’m nostalgic for that too Even in 6th grade, there was a blast of dust that would enter the air as we all stood up and shaped the first notes

It’d float through the class and fairy dust the flag

We brought it alive with our voices, our beating, bleeding hearts

So why don’t we do that anymore? Guys? Why don’t we watch a science documentary about how light from the sun interacts with our eyes? Makes the flag look so much brighter! Almost brighter than if you

Set it on fire

I forgot the lyrics to the anthem

I haven’t forgotten America’s place in the economy

And I guess that’s what high school is all about

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Black Cats Sophie Mei (‘30)

"Black cats are bad luck," believed almost everyone

Stared and ran one by one

Only the lilies and earth stood by calmly

They swayed quietly and peacefully

I just wished someone cared

I wished they stop their glares

Curling into a ball, licking my black dark paws, I shut my eyes as I slep in a hollow birch tree

Tears fell down my fur, wishing I was free

Only the flowers were my friends

The others we tend

Alone in the world

I died while the wind whirled

If only I was loved

In this world of unloved

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Cary Academy Brianna McGauley (‘30)

In our school, Cary Academy, we're all about

Respect, Integrity, Compassion, there's no doubt.

We work together, everyday

With RIC, we are all so slay

Helping each other, that's our thing,

With kindness and honesty, we fit together with a ding

In every class, in every hall,

RICs there, to help us all

Cary Academy, where friendships are made

With RIC, it helps each grade

Respect, Integrity, Compassion, we follow

At Cary Academy, our hearts are not hollow

75

Neither Here Nor There

Third Person Limited Fiction Short Story

Brooke Murgitroyd (‘25)

March 23rd, 2002

The early morning sun beamed in the window from above colorful farmhouses freckling the Northern French countryside.

Glimpses of peacefully roaming horses and gently swaying grasses and early-rising, porch-sitting coffee drinkers passed quickly by the high-speed train.

In the seat by the door, an older man with chocolate skin and thoughtful eyes sat perfectly still in his tan corduroy pants, gray button up shirt, and scuffed up, once black loafers. His small trunkstyle suitcase in the luggage compartment, labelled conveniently by the worn leather tag with the engraved words William James held a few other sets of clothing, all of the same nature. He also had a toothbrush, toothpaste, hair gel, and a compact phone book with yellowed pages. Besides his glasses and billfold, which he kept in his right pant pocket, and a tarnished, gold analog watch fastened around his left wrist, he owned nothing else.

The man and all of his belongings remained on the train for 5 stops - 4 hours and 3 minutes - through many miles of green fields and occasional villages. He had no book or headphones, and he didn’t sleep or twiddle his thumbs. For 5 stops - 4 hours and 3 minutes - the man sat in peaceful, thoughtful stillness.

September 8th, 1951

“William James, don’t play with your food! You are seven years old now. I think you can handle eating like a grown man” said his mother, who spent all day slow cooking the chicken that William was now airplaning around the room while mimicking engine sounds.

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“Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz! Mom, look! The plane is about to land!” exclaimed William, ignoring his mother. He sent the full, dripping fork into his mouth and closed his lips around it. His bright red shirt and dinosaur shorts acquired a few new oil stains. “Mmmmm, this is so good, Mom!”

“Thank you, baby, but seriously. Sit down,” his mother laughed, rolling her eyes as she guided him to his chair with her hand on the back of his head and half-heartedly patted the food off his outfit with a napkin.

William was the only kid his mother ever had, but he still didn’t know how his mother kept on top of him all by herself. William didn’t know his father, but he never cared to, really. Not with his mom around to watch out for him and play with him and feed him and give him a good old talking-to when he needed it. He didn’t think he’d ever love anyone else like he loved his mother.

November 20th, 1962

William had never worn all black. In fact, he didn’t own anything fit for a funeral, so he went to the men’s dress shop on Bardot Avenue, which he had passed probably 20,000 times but had never stepped foot in, and bought the nicest suit they had under $75, along with a pair of black loafers. William shaved for the first time in a week, although his sense of time was significantly warped and he wouldn’t know what day or time or even year it was if not for his prized gold watch, a present from his…

Mother. He still found himself thinking of her in the present tense, and every time he heard a car door shut on his street, he hoped it was his mom getting home from work.

William knew about death, but in a sort of distant, conceptual way. The empty spot on the far left of the third pew where an old church-going lady used to sit and keep to herself. The white cross propped up against a tree on the side of the two-lane highway, always 77 accompanied by a fresh floral bouquet.

The racks of size large clothes - seemly from one old man - in the thrift store, probably donated by the nursing home down the road.

William knew death abstractly and implicitly.

But when faced with the loss of his own mother, none of it felt familiar. The overwhelming heaviness that weighed down every step he took; the way his throat tightened up when he walked past her room and how it made him much too aware of his difficulty breathing; the way every color was significantly less saturated than usual. He hadn’t known death like this.

William was sure he must have shaken at least 500 hands and hugged at least 200 people, although he hardly remembered any faces. His mother’s coworkers, old neighbors, childhood friends, and distant relatives all came to the big AME church in town for the funeral, but William only knew the names of a select few who had been over for dinner once or twice.

He didn’t cry. Not in front of these strangers who pretended to know him, to know his mother, to care about him. They would all head out after a few hours, maybe leaving behind a card, flowers, or a meaningless phrase of condolence for the sake of manners.

“Dear boy, you must be so distraught…”

“We are so sorry for your loss… and so young too…”

“I hope you know how much your mother talked about you…”

“If you need anything, please swing by…”

All of their comments floated in and out of their ears, seeing right through the southern charm, and recognized it quite easily after 18 years of living in rural Georgia. William was nauseated by the white ladies in big black hats and gloves, making their presence known as if to prove a point, even though his mother told countless stories of them talking down on her and the way she spoke so “black”.

“Bless your poor heart,” they pitied, although it somehow felt more insulting than if the white ladies hadn’t spoken to him at all.

William spent all day in the sanctuary because his house 78 didn’t feel much like a home anymore.

The place itself with its leaky roof and its broken tiles wasn’t all that special. But his sweet mother. She was home.

So, even in the church filled with people reminiscing their favorite memories and speaking of her fondly, he thought he might as well be on another planet because he felt so alone, so far away from the love and joy and celebration of the hero who raised him. Under the blue rays of sunlight tainted by old stained glass, William was in complete and utter darkness.

March 23rd, 2002

In the seat by the door, William James sat in perfect, peaceful stillness as the train sped though many miles of Northern French countryside. He looked out on the world as it woke up with the rising sun, and William wondered if there was a boy somewhere on the other side of the window had just lost his home, his hero, his heart, and would find himself on a train. Maybe the boy, like William, would come to find that he was most at peace in the interim, the in-between.

Afterall, a vagabond is most content when he is neither here nor there.

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- Cary academy lit mag team

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