Caledonia Spring 2016

Caledonia Spring 2016

“You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.” -Maya Angelou

Dear artists, writers, poets, creative masterminds, and readers, Welcome to the spring issue of Caledonia! We hope to represent all of the genius creativity that can be found on the Castilleja campus through this magazine. The poems, stories, photographs, paintings, and drawings on these pages are just a small selection of the beauty the creative minds on campus can create. It has been such an honor to witness so much talent, and we are thrilled to be able to share it with the Casti community. With the buzz of spring around us and the prospect of summer, we hope you can sit down on the circle and enjoy the beautiful work of your peers as much as we have!

Cheers!

Juliet O’Brien, Claire Goldberg, and Isabelle Arnheim

Jigsaw He was in where Between everywhere and nowhere, surrounded By nothing and everything He reached for a jagged sky, Fit it against the curvy crest Of an ocean swell Pressed the undefined edges of starlit clouds Into their inky dark dwellings Dusted off cardboard cutouts of haze And smoke And set them above bright city lights White shards that glowed from black Unearthing rocky fragments, he pieced them Together, and together They stood tall, a menace of stone He was somewhere now All the pieces in place And the world was complete But still he felt it incomplete So he painted a sun

Kaitlin Rhee

Chloe Middler

Megan Carter

Tiffany Madruga

On Pancakes My grandmother owns one measuring cup. It’s small and squat and green, unscuffed plastic awkward in your hands. It bears no markings, but it never has: it only measures a third of a cup and needn’t measure anything else.

Ostensibly, it came with a few companions, since most recipes require measurements other than a precise third of a cup, but where those have floated away to no one knows and no one cares. This cup has collected dust and decades in the same back corner of the same unreachable cupboard since December of 1973, when I imagine one of my mom’s siblings shelved it there and never touched it again. It was a well-meant gift from the refugee organization. It came with the house.

I discover the survivor cup 40 years later on a stifling July morning, when I begin a misguided attempt to make pancakes and am stopped short on the second step. One and a half cups of flour is more or less impossible without a cup. In a sudden feat of memory, my grandmother conducts me onto an achy, creaking chair, and I retrieve the scoop and set to work before I realize the quandary. Either I scale the whole recipe to be in thirds of cups, or I forego measurement completely.

My grandmother, while she could still stand to do so, cooked very nearly every single day of her life, and not once did she use a single measuring cup.

She governs her kitchen in handfuls of this and spoonfuls of that, three ladlefuls of one thing and just enough of another to make the pan smell good. If she must be precise and measured about something, it’s done in pinches.

Needless to say, none of this bodes well for my beloved buttermilk pancakes.

The house follows this pattern. No one with an eye for interior design has ever levied their expertise at its mess. Instead, it has evolved on its own into a jumble of everything it is to be a family, from baby photos to diplomas to years and years of piled paperwork, battered toddler toys and 10 year-old calendars from the desi deli eight blocks over. It’s carpeted throughout in sickly, trod-down green, the 70s-style woven curtains have never been replaced, and the faded turquoise fleur de lis wallpaper has begun to peel off in large strips. In short, it desperately needs a renovation, or at the least a very thorough good cleaning.

This house, though, in all of its shag carpet glory, contains more than dust: it’s a haven for a culture that chokes on the muggy Minnesota air outside the

the front door. For me, it’s also a lesson in being an outsider. In the paintings on the wall, the elaborate Arabic inked carefully along the gold leaf is just another pretty facet of the art, and all I can understand of the ceaseless backdrop of Hindi soap operas are the pulsing drama of the music and the thickly layered sound effects. Under the pretense of making conversation with my aunts, I find a cushion near the AC unit to sink into each afternoon, only to spend hours silently watching what I’d say is probably an argument, if I had to put money on it. I can’t really tell. All I have to go on are the dozen-odd words I know and the tidbits I can glean from the English thrown in, terms too modern for kutchi-- airplane, mortgage, green card, baking powder.

Nothing is lost in translation if nothing is translated. My entire family history, all in my mother tongue, only partially understandable but entirely unaltered, is held in the house, swept into the corners, staining the carpet, unable to be scrubbed out of the plaster and paint. Every piece of dirty laundry I will never know has been aired to these walls, every dream possible thrown at these ceilings. It has taken every emotion three generations could punch it with.

No one in my family likes to talk about the past, at least not in English, but what little they do say this house must be able to tell me. The measuring cup, from its dusty perch in the corner of the cupboard, knows where I come from better than I do.

When my grandmother can stand, she calls me into that sunlit room at the back of the house to teach me how to cook. Her recipes, all unwritten, are impossible to translate exactly into the dialect of another kitchen, so I must learn here. “Fill up that one glass,” she directs me, “And add five spoonfuls using the spoon with the grey handle.” Instead of writing down approximations, I find cognates in senses. I know all the foods by bitterness and bite and how the smell creeps up on you when they’re steaming; how they should resist under the press of your spoon, how much grease should settle on top, when they should leap into a sizzle. The dense creaminess of burfi, the earthy cardamom of real chai, and the rounded pockets of patata champ are as familiar and safe and intuitive as prayer rugs and pancakes, and while on that morning I can’t measure the buttermilk exactly, I realize I don’t need to. The batter is as much a part of me as the house. Because it is my home, it is inherently in my language.

Sara Bell

Maddie Macdonald

Zannie Whittle

Rosie Crisman

1. The squirrel watches warily but touches the sad mound of peanut butter anyways. Trepidation tentatively leaks out of its bones. a. It is wiser than most. i. For it fiddles with the mechanisms. ii. But perhaps not as smart as we thought.

2. And the trap closes with a sickening bang and I hate the thought of being stuck in a cramped space and I am claustrophobic I sympathize but I need the holes in my house to stop appearing because the handyman is getting rich off of the hours I spend late at night with ten cups of Diet coke grading papers and the random jobs I find like picking out the beads from a filter until my hands have been rubbed numb.

3. I grip the metal handle until my fingers turn white. The squirrel shrieks paws laced with fright.

4. The cage won’t stop rattling. Why won’t it stop moving? Stop. Stop. This is hard enough 5. Soaked drenched wet sweat.

6. I stop walking and my fit bit watch says I am two miles away from home. When it’s only been a long five minutes. I think.

7. Too caught up in the chattering of the squirrel teeth and my own that the strange looks of the people around me a. Shoes are loud and they shout in my ear. b. I am carrying a metal handbag and a terrified creature.

8. Find a patch of grass. Find a field. Find a place to rid the rodent now.

9. I lift open the cap and it tears off to get away from a. Me b, Awful human being 10. It can’t believe it’s been given a second chance. a. Don’t seek out the peanut butter.

11. I cry for the squirrel-handler who hurt. hurt.

Sho Sho Ho

Mimi Tran Zambetti

Natasha Balogh

Hands, shaking with excitement ready to embrace the newest member of the family Legs, tapping with impatience longing to feel the familiar warmth of a bed once again Heads, bobbing to the sound of their favorite song eager to calm the pre-flight jitters Mouths, moving swiftly and automatically ready to end the well rehearsed plane safety monologue Eyes, captivated on his favorite book hoping to block out the rest of the world Fingers, dancing across the page Needing to capture a moment she was sure to forget Hands, Legs, Heads, Mouths, Eyes, Fingers, all different In every way shape and form But for some unexplainable reason They were, for this split second Suspended in the air, together in a way they would never be again.

Meg Johnson

Karina Fonstad

Rosie Crisman

Sophia Smucker

The Things She Carried Auden had been away from home for three days.

She carried floss and a ten-year-battery watch that had run out of battery. She carried a coke can filled with something brittle and black.

She didn’t know it, but she carried a piece of rubber that had chipped off from her skateboard. The teenage boy who lived across from her had given it to her in 3rd grade, when she still thought dogs resembled boys and cats resembled girls, when she still lived on Morning Glory Lane. The piece was in the smallest pouch of her backpack, tucked in front of some safety pins for the cheap jeans whose zippers wouldn't stay zipped.

She carried a Ziplock bag of quarters. She carried a pen filled with diluted ink. She carried a squashed origami daffodil, given to her by a nervous girl at summer camp. Always, she carried the pocketknife a friend had gifted her for her thirteenth birthday. It made her feel safe, even though she probably wouldn’t know how to use it when the time came. She often wondered if it’d be used against her.

She carried in her ears the tiny accordion sound that spooled from the ice cream truck back on Morning Glory Lane. The scratchy tone, the somber melody, the stretchy quality. She carried in her forearms that Oregon was not an external place but something within her. She carried a pair of wooden drumsticks with blue tape all over the ends and two free boxes of raisins from school.

She carried nail clippers used not just for clipping nails. She carried a tangle of red string. She carried from her backyard a smooth stone the size of her fist -- she had broken a door and a mirror with it once and could do it again. She carried a gym membership card because the gym was open 24/7 and had showers and lockers and benches. She carried three T-shirts, all of which she’d gotten for free by participating in something at school: soccer, the play, math club. All three shirts displayed the name of her school, so she turned the shirts inside out and tugged her jacket over her shoulders so no one would notice the tags. Not that she cared if people saw the tags, but if they asked her why her shirt was inside out, they might also wonder why she wasn’t at school on a weekday.

She carried text messages from an unnamed contact. She carried text messages from someone whose contact name was “Pepto Bismol XOXO.” She carried six and a half ripped out pages from her journal. She wasn’t sure why she still kept them. She’d salvaged them as her mother tore the rest of the journal to shreds.

She carried a musky perfume on her ankles. She always walked quickly so the smell didn’t catch up to her nostrils -- it made her want to take off her body like a heavy weight. She carried a pair of earbuds, which she stuffed into her ears whenever she went to sleep. On days she felt particularly strange in her own body, she hovered the buds in her mouth, turned the music on full blast, and closed her lips over them. Her gums, her cheeks, her teeth -- they pulsed physically to the vibrations.

Sometimes, the music made her feel like she could run out of the gym without any of the things she carried, catch a train to somewhere else. On those days, she wanted to leave everything behind: the messages from Pepto Bismol XOXO, the pocketknife, the ice cream truck accordion in her ears. Other times, the music tasted the way her perfume smelled: thick and heavy and sweet on her tongue, like

Margaret Zhang

Maddie Macdonald

Joan of Arc God, I have done what you asked me to; God, this isn’t a poem for you.

You, I have heard you whisper my name into the abandoned emptiness of glinting armor.

You are the barrier between sword and sheath, thought and sound, wood and fire, human and hell.

You are air: thick, thick air.

Air, I do not write this for you; I have hidden from you -from the ease with which light travels through you to excavate the pieces of me I leave behind: my body, you.

Body, this is for you.

O, you treacherous thing!

You are not home, not castle not casket, not structure not bones, not muscle.

God, is this what you meant to do?

Build body, build soul as a sacrifice to earth?

You have waited so long for war; I am no body, no more.

Claire Goldberg

Karly Quadros

Sam Jensen

Isabelle Arnheim

Katlejo Shuman

Chloe Middler

Smiles Smiles are Windows, walls and mirrors, The reflect, protect and expose, They tell a persons deepest truths , most hidden secrets and their most heart wrenching lies, Smiles portray a person's delight or conjure an illusion of it, Smiles bring people together and break them apart, Smiles are a double-edged sword, a shield and a magic potion.

A smile lets free the internal light in a person or reflects the joy around them while keeping a thin metal wall between their soul and the world, Smiles are pure and true but also black and wrong, A person can never know what the smiling face they are looking upon can really feel, A person can never just know someone from witnessing their smile as there are more to smiles than there are stars in the sky, Never the less, smile, Smile to show your heart to the world, to protect it and to make the smiles around you multiply, Smile for those you love and those you hate, We never know what is behind the smile but a smile from one person can turn someone's mirror into a window, Smile to create light around you and in yourself, Smile for those who hide behind the happy expression

Smile for those who expose themselves with a flash of their teeth, Smile.

Lauren Ashby

Sofia Smucker

It’s the slow pace of the car on the streets, moving toward an unreachable sunset.

It’s the stretches of houses and grass and trees that blur and shake and move in the corner of my eye. It’s your pulse and your hand in my hand and the touch of your easy drive. It’s the setting sun, a halo around your head. It’s the light, shining in and out of the window, hitting your smile and those eyes- eyes that know, that see, eyes that have traveled galaxies and have kissed the universethose eyes, the ones that can see into my very soul. The light kisses them, and the sunset gleams through our bodies like the we’re the only things that can exist.

The sun and our pulsing bodies, and your messy hair, and my tired eyes, and the long road to the sunset ahead.

The sun kisses the mountain top goodnight, and dips below it to rest its head.

The road still stretches on. And this one time, we can’t help but look up, instead of out, and see the intricate stars woven throughout the sky. Each one blinking and flickering and glowing, each one tangled and complex and burning. Burning angrily, burning softly, glowing embers burning their way through the woven sky.

We turn the car off this endless road, and sit together on the hood of your car.

The stars thrash and swirl and burn and tear, and their embers that rip the sky are the most beautiful rebellion I have seen in a lifetime. We sit on the hood of your car and watch the stars dance around the galaxy, watch them climb and swirl and fall. Watch them swell and thrash, watch them twirl their way through outer space and time itself. I never saw light in that way again.

Makee Anderson

Shivani Nishar

Shivani Nishar

Top 5 Diseases Plaguing Our World 1. Technologitis Described as an inability to tear oneself away from technological appliances, technologitis bears the capability to affect people of all ages. Symptoms include an inability to think creatively and a growing indifference to authentic relationships. The following signs are not to be ignored: shortened attention spans, sharp declines in productivity, and a withering sense of purpose.

2. Ungratefulemia In recent years, growth of ungratefulemia has been close to exponential.

Common symptoms include scorning at the mere 500 dollar Christmas present, or sobbing at the idea of having only five Vera Wang dresses. As the disease reaches its height, many patients experience feelings of nausea when attempting to utter the words “Thank you.”

3. Westopia Many contract westopia due to the media’s radical normalization of turmoil in non-Caucasian countries. During a recent outbreak, victims encountered difficulty showing compassion for other nations that suffered from acts of cruelty as devastating as the Paris attacks. Common warning signs include flipping past the channel displaying Syrian refugees, as well as an inability to locate or pronounce non-western nations.

4. Résumologia Résumologia is a contagious disease known for evoking revulsion at values such as integrity, creativity, and passion. Children of victims often spend their childhood checking off items for their résumé. Many begin micro-managing their child, from community service to SAT vocabulary in 5th grade. By living vicariously through their offspring, victims forget to live their own life.

5. Junkfoodilysis Characterized as an addiction to inserting affordable yet lethal objects into one’s body, junkfoodilysis is a disorder beginning with an inability to resist manufactured temptations. Individuals at the greatest risk are those who surround themselves with non-believers in obesity and stroke risk. Cautionary signs include visiting Burger King more than the library, and recognizing the golden arches faster than the ABC’s.

Riya Berry

Elizabeth Catherine Sheridan Foster

Sophia Smucker

The Girl Who Kept Her Kings in the Back Row I wonder if Holden remembers The way I used to climb over his summer house fence And how I ran up the porch steps, Hollering through the mesh on the door Until he appeared with the checkers.

As we played, his eyebrows would knit together in concentration.

He used to tease me For keeping my kings in the back row.

It was idiocy, according to him, But to me, it was salvation.

At the end of the game, Holden would smile triumphantly While I carefully gathered my kings and stacked them away in the wooden box, Safe from harm. *** I wonder if Holden remembers How that summer, my mother remarried.

I didn’t know what she saw in my stepfather; Perhaps she was just desperate.

I tried to avoid him as much as I could. *** One time it was raining out, And I smiled at the heavens And Holden Ran like a madman across our drowning lawn And hollered through the mesh.

I got our checkers.

That day, We couldn’t stop laughing.

The air was warm, And the rain that fell through slats on the roof Tickled our skin.

The smile faded from my face When I saw my stepfather standing in the doorframe.

I stared straight ahead Pretending he wasn’t there. *** I wonder if Holden remembers When the rain stopped: Taking my hand, And walking five blocks to the movies, Stopping occasionally so he could wipe the tears from my face.

These were the times I loved him the most. *** After Allie’s death, he pushed me away, Didn’t answer my calls.

He left for boarding school without saying goodbye.

One day, many years later, I sat in the lobby of Pencey Prep.

Holden went to school here, if I remembered correctly.

I saw my date descend from the staircase wearing a smile Phony, I thought, then giggled a bit Because I remembered that Holden used to say that a lot.

As Stradlater approached me, I asked him.

“Do you happen to know a boy by the name of Holden Caulfield?”

“Huh?” he said.

I knew he had heard me.

* * *

I wonder if Holden remembers

The girl who kept her kings in the back row.

based on The Catcher in the Rye

Naira Mirza

Spring 2016

Editors Juliet O’Brien Claire Goldberg Isabelle Arnheim

Front Cover Art Shivani Nishar

Back Cover Art Jas Ganey