Arguments Against British Rule Thomas Paine As mentioned in the pamphlet Common Sense, written in 1776 It was absurd for an island to rule a continent. America was not a "British nation." It was composed of influences and people from all of Europe. Even if Britain were the "mother country" of America, that made her actions all the more horrendous, for no mother would harm her children so brutally. Being a part of Britain would drag America into unnecessary European wars, and keep it from the international commerce at which America excelled. The distance between the two nations made governing the colonies from England unwieldy. If some wrong were to be petitioned to Parliament, it would take a year before the colonies received a response. The New World was discovered shortly before the Reformation. The Puritans believed that God wanted to give them a safe haven from the persecution of British rule. Britain ruled the colonies for its own benefit, and did not consider the best interests of the colonists in governing them.
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The Wissahickon is dedicated to the faculty and staff who make Chestnut Hill Academy special, and who inspire the students to learn and grow.
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Table of Contents
Page Arguments Against British Rule…………………………………………………………………………….2 Dedication……………………………………………………………………………………………………………3 Table of Contents…………………………………………………………………………………………………4 From the Editor……………………………………………………………………………………………………5 Writing Advisor Speaks Out: How to Achieve Writing Success………………………………..6 Pink Moon……………………………………………………………………………………………………………8 Purpose……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..9 Float………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….10 Sir Edwin the Lax Bro…………………………………………………………………………………………11 Go to Sleep…………………………………………………………………………………………………………12 A Reflection on Values………………………………………………………………………………………..13 Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff…………………………………………………………………14 Coupon……………………………………………………………………………………………………..............15 Rick Astley…………………………………………………………………………………………………………16 I am the Greatest Basketball Player……………………………………………………………………..17 Layers of Perception…………………………………………………………………………………………..19 Institutional Names That Never Caught On………………………………………………………….21 Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird……………………………………………………………..22 In Loving Memory………………………………………………………………………………………………24 Meet the Staff……………………………………………………………………………………………………..25
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Letter From the Editor By Tate Sager I believe that the most attractive feature a person can possess is an interest in other people. This fascination with the human mind, and how it is reflected in the physical actions of a person, can make life amazingly rewarding. In essence, everyday I try to ask myself: “Why do people do the things they do, and what are the thoughts behind their actions?” Some days I am successful and observant of the people around me: in the library, in the hallway, in the classroom, in co-ed environments, in single sex environments. I love watching the ways in which people behave and become aware of their surroundings, but more often I am too caught up in my own emotions, to pull such happiness out of watching the little mannerisms that every person has. Several emotions like the ones that usually distract me have been plaguing the student body in the past semester, and those emotions do focus around that particular question: Why do people do the things they do, and what are the thoughts behind their actions? The choices that have been made for the future of the students at this school have certainly caused pervasive feelings of gloom and dread. How very easy it is to jump to conclusions, make snide remarks, complain, whine, revolt! Calm down. You should be spending more time on your essay for Mr. Parker than on the choices of people you most likely have never even seen before. I urge everyone to understand that the choices made for you will never define you unless you want them to. Some decisions will be made for you in your lifetime, but that doesn’t mean that the path that decision leads will be a bad one. In the meantime, think about the question that I asked. “Why do people do the things they do, and what are the thoughts behind their actions?” In this edition of the Wissahickon, many of our writers have asked that question about themselves and about other people. Writers like Mike Blake and Skip Rosamilia have utilized the knowledge that they have gained from the teachers to create their pieces of writing. Writers like Dustin Wilson and Henry O’Reilly have used their personal experiences to create both sharp-witted and wonderfully observant pieces that I hope you will enjoy. Nick McCall and Connor have looked within themselves to understand why they perceive their surroundings the way they do. Matt Brenman has contributed his photographs, which are documentations of the ways in which Matt sees his surroundings. During this 150th anniversary of our school, I am delighted to have been able to compile this edition of the Wissahickon with group of writers who are able to equally balance humor and drama in these literary works that make you want to find out: “Why do people do the things they do, and what are the thoughts behind their actions?” I’ll leave you with a quotation from a character who is near and dear to my heart: But I think people are just so madly interesting, don’t you? It’s because you never know exactly what other people are like—or what they are really thinking. For example: you don’t know what I’m thinking about right now, do you? Christopher Wren With Warm Regards, The Mousetrap, by Agatha Christie J. Tate Sager ‘11
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Writing Advisor Speaks Out: How to Achieve Writing Success By Dustin Wilson 1. Locations and Image: Starbucks is an excellent location to accumulate writer cred, and learn from others. You must order minimal food. Remember your goal is to cause as much trouble for the establishment as possible. In short, flirt with loitering and freeloading. (See Tips 4 and 5 on “The man”). Remember you must keep your laptop open to Microsoft Word, and sigh contemplatively at least once every 20 minutes to attract attention to yourself. 2. Formatting and Appearance Obscure borders and offbeat fonts will put you on a one-way trip to writing success; there’s no way your teacher won’t notice you after you write an entire paper in Helvetica. 3. Thesis/Introduction Now onto the meat of the paper, you must assert your dominance over the paper by beating the thesis into the reader’s head. Chances are they will be impressed by your ability to repeat the same thing over and over. Saying the same thing three or four different ways will not only fill space, but also give you an opportunity to show creativity. Any nuances, or “hooking” should be avoided at all costs. It makes the writer look foolish unless it is done excellently, and chances are you will botch it. Just say no to hooks and other “advanced maneuvers.” Also, pick a broad thesis that can be supported without even reading the book. Heck, you can make something up entirely if you know how to work stereotypes and exaggerate/misinterpret the text. By using the “stereotype, exaggerate, misinterpret ” method, you can support any erroneous claim. 4. Prudent Topics All English teachers are degenerates. They don’t want to be here. They’re just waiting for the book deal to come through. “But Mr. So-and-so has been here for 47 years, he must love teaching!” you say. That would make you wrong. Mr. So-and-so’s book deal never came. It is The Man’s fault. Consequently, if you distort the prompt and blame The Man, Mr. So-and-so will agree with you regardless of the content of your argument or the topic of discussion! 5. Buzzwords The following words are gold (use at least one, but no more than three in each paragraph) you don’t need to know what they mean, just sprinkle them into your essay. Imagery Conflate
Juxtapose Microcosm 6
Conceit Milieu
6. Post Mortem Well, it’s finally the day you’ve been awaiting. Mr. So-and-so returns your paper and, regardless of the grade, you’ll end up a winner provided you’ve followed my instructions verbatim. If the grade is high: Congratulations! You’ve gotten a good grade, and that’s all that really matters. If the grade is low: Congratulations! You’re now a member of the not-so-exclusive club of misunderstood writers. Your paper couldn’t have possibly been sub-standard. Your teacher simply must not have understood it. You are now smarter than him, and smarter than anyone else who doesn’t think that your essay was brilliant.
Tate Sager
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Pink Moon By Henry O’Reilly His room quiet now. And the bed, well, a bit of a mess A picture of rough and tumble sea storm framed over his bed and high school desk The desk covered in stains and crumbs of guts; the wood hard and stained the color of a dark tea. The bolts have began to rust The shoes, tightly lined up like little soldiers awaiting orders. Suede and leather chaffing together and the room drowns in the light of dismal weather A bookshelf jammed with Chaucer, Joyce, and Shakespeare sags at the bottom like a hammock bearing a heavy burden. A dark coat hangs on the bedpost old and downtrodden Clothes hang crisply from a wire hanger, an old record player keeps repeating itself for a long forever a broken guitar though holds the centerpiece in this imaginative plight, guitar strings point to yellow tape and I’m afraid Nick Drake isn’t coming home tonight
Tate Sager
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Purpose By Skip Rosamilia I’ll never know exactly how she managed to fit all of those bright lights into her eyes. I couldn’t even quite tell you how they stay incessantly illuminated whenever the curtains are drawn back from those clear, azure windows. Sometimes, when I peek through my own drapery from my seat next to her, I can see the light still fluttering, even when the curtains are curtained, and shutters shut. Nonetheless, she’s got a spark unmatched. Her hair seems to be a hue redder than actuality, because of the fire bursting in her every step. That tousled hair not being unkempt, but just naturally, and elegantly, falling in perfect harmony with her purposeful walk. How does she stalk Purpose so? The best thing, though, is she’s great friends with Purpose. He even lent her a bit of himself to sprinkle among the people she wanted to grant passage on her great quest. Not to brag, but I have a Smidgeon of it in my pocket. But please don’t take Smidgeon and make nothing of it. It really is all that’s needed. Purpose, to her, has no size. Purpose is purpose, as person is person, and person is purpose, as purpose is person. Those lights really do dazzle. Do you think she stole them from everyone else?
Matt Brenman
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Float By Connor Small My dreams are yet to come both in this night And in reality, and until that moment does come, That moment which, like a flame, that sometimes burns twice yet only for a second stretched out over hours, could easily come unnoticed. Until that moment comes, I shall travel the vastly expansive yet infinitely tangible deepness of my in-between-dream-world. I shall be tossed and pulled by the Inhaling And exhaling of lungs, A sea, the waves of which Permeate my soul Calm… Am I to work to enter the world Where my dreams become a reality? Or will my desires fall neatly into my lap, As they seem to do for so many others in my life? As I wander and wonder in my purgatory, I meet others… Others, who are trapped as well. I wonder: do they think Like me? Are they too wandering and Wondering how exactly to break the black Walls encasing us Separating us from our dreams? Well, until I find out, I think I’ll just float.
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Sir Edwin the Lax Bro By Michael Blake Based on the series of stories by Geoffrey Chaucer He hailed from the city of Baltimore But his legend was known to the Jersey shore. If you played lacrosse, you knew him as "the boss" Otherwise, he was simply Edwin. The boss had a uniform on and off the field For with his peers it was revealed He had the lax bro style few can surpassCardigan, Madras clothing, flip flops- I wish I had that much class. Across the campus from March through June He would strut preoccupied with his spoon Named ‘Fawkes,’ titanium with a custom head At night it slept upon his bed. The boss’ legend is preserved By all the beatings his team had served But alas, a kingdom built upon a ball Won’t roll forever, after all.
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A Reflection on Values By Nick McCall Here in reflection I sit and writhe, Unable to dodge the reaper’s scythe, For I see the wasted time out of my reach. If only I could just go back, And fix all that my past does lack, Then maybe, life, I would not thee beseech. My wrinkles plentiful and gaping, My hair is constantly escaping, I await the day that I expire. But death is not a living state, I’m prodded to the starting gate To leave behind my feet a path of fire. Yet all I do is moan and cry, Do little more then question why, I’ve chained myself to this pathetic place. Little do I ever try To rise and give the couch a sigh And give one final sprint in this great race When all I want is closure To retain some more composure In the box behind my family as they speak. Too late now, the figure’s here, The one so fabled drawing near, Instead of weep I think at my death’s peak. If my family is going to share, Then what haven’t I accomplished there? Isn’t it enough to just be loved? And the pain at my chest then calms. Insurance in the form of psalms Protect me as I ascend to evermore.
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Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff By Tate Sager Mr. Hubert Blaine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff has the longest recorded personal name ever used. A German typesetter from Philadelphia, Hubert was mentioned in the Guinness Book of World Records from 1975-1985 for his astounding name. His full, 746-letter name is: Adolph Blaine Charles David Earl Frederick Gerald Hubert Irvin John Kenneth Lloyd Martin Nero Oliver Paul Quincy Randolph Sherman Thomas Uncas Victor William Xerxes Yancy Zeus Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorffvoralternwarengewissenhaftschaferswessenschafew arenwohlgepflegeundsorgfaltigkeitbeschutzenvonangreifendurchihrraubgierigfeindewelc hevoralternzwolftausendjahresvorandieerscheinenwanderersteerdemenschderraumschiffg ebrauchlichtalsseinursprungvonkraftgestartseinlangefahrthinzwischensternartigraumaufde rsuchenachdiesternwelchegehabtbewohnbarplanetenkreisedrehensichundwohinderneurass evonverstandigmenschlichkeitkonntefortplanzenundsicherfreuenanlebenslanglichfreudeu ndruhemitnichteinfurchtvorangreifenvonandererintelligentgeschopfsvonhinzwischenstern artigraumen, Senior. His surname may be translated to mean: “Who before ages were conscientious shepherds whose sheep were well tended and diligently protected against attackers who by their rapacity were enemies who 12,000 years ago appeared from the stars to the humans by spaceships with light as an origin of power, started a long voyage within star-like space in search for the star which has habitable planets orbiting and whither the new race of reasonable humanity could thrive and enjoy lifelong happiness and tranquility without fear of attack from other intelligent creatures from within star-like space.” Hubert had immigrated to the United States from Bergedorff, Germany. He first attracted attention when, in a law suit against the Yellow Cab Company, the case was supposedly settled because they couldn’t pronounce his last name. After naming his son Hubert Blaine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff, Junior, the senior gained more attention after trying to correct the misspelling of his name on his 1952 Philadelphia voter registration card, a case that caught the attention of Time Magazine. Who is to say that a name is right or wrong? Hubert’s name is extremely inconvenient, but without it I would not be writing about this man. Hubert’s name became a source of pride for him because of its nonconformity. On the other hand, he became a nuisance to his community that had a deeply rooted tradition of surnames that could be pronounced in one breath.
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Rick Astley By Connor Small “Never” lets me live my life as if I’m Going to fail. It allows me To live without expectations and Give myself a chance to breathe. You may think that I’ve made this Up, however, you’re Never Going to understand. To live your life freely, to Let yourself go is to create a world where You are never disappointed, never let Down
Tate Sager
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I am the Greatest Basketball Player By Nicholas Barile This is the story of when I was the greatest high school basketball player in the nation. The day started out like any other summer day, with a playoff baseball game for my hometown Roxborough Bandits. After the game, my friend, Matt Stoff, suggested we go to the Reebok U basketball tournament. Reebok U is a recruitment tournament at Philadelphia University that brings together the top 120 high school basketball players in the nation. They separate the players into teams, and they play games all day in front of college coaches and pro-scouts. Somehow I was not one of these 120 athletes, but I definitely could have been, because I have the nicest three point shot in the Tri-State Area. Nick Boyle, Matt Stoff, his brother Chris, and I went to this tournament and watched some games and saw coaches like Jay Wright of Villanova; Jim Calhoun of UConn; Roy Williams of UNC; and Tom Izzo of Michigan State. We had fun watching the games because we got to see players from different states play before they made it to big time college basketball. We stopped watching the games and started to walk around Philly U. We tried to find where they kept all of the shirts and shoes that they give out to the players so that we could look at them (obviously we weren’t going to take any for ourselves). We found ourselves at the warm up court, which was hidden downstairs near the locker room. We were shooting basketballs when some players came in to warm up. This was in 2007, when we were freshmen, and the players we were watching are now all big time players for college basketball teams. We tried to start a game with them but they didn’t want any part of us, not until one player came over and challenged us. His name was Lebryan Nash, and he was senior in high school from Texas. He towered over us at six feet and eight inches. Right now, he is ranked #4 in the nation on the ESPN list of the 150 best basketball players in the NCAA. Nick Boyle and I began to play against him and Mike Marra, currently a starter for Louisville, in a game of two-ontwo basketball. They took an early lead, but we made a comeback and tied the game at 5 points each. Big-time players usually want the ball in big time situations, so I let Nick take the check and feed me the ball in the corner. He did his job, and I got the ball. As I caught the ball and looked up, I saw the 6’ 8” tall giant coming at me. I put my team on my back and faded away from Lebryan, and I shot the ball as he reached out to try to block it. The shot went in, and we won the game! We had a crowd of about 15 players from the tournament, and they all tired to recruit me onto their team for the Reebok U tournament, but they didn’t have my number so I had to decline their offer. Lebryan Nash was lucky that no coaches were there watching, because I might have been the one signed to Oklahoma State right now instead of him. Since that day, Reebok U posts guards by the doors of the warm up court because they don’t want their players getting embarrassed by 5’ 7,” 185 pound midgets. The story is 100% true. We did beat the #4 ranked basketball player in the country, and I did hit a fade away three-pointer in his eye. You can find Lebryan Nash on Google. It’s too bad that none of you knew that I was this good at basketball. You could
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have had me on your Herb Peluzzo team, because I carried my team to the Final Four with some help from Mike Hayes and Wally Hawkins.
Tate Sager
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Layers of Perception By Nick McCall People dress the world in beautiful clothing To disguise its grotesque fear and loathing But underneath that horrid face Lies a natural beauty that’s lost its place Faith in this inner kindness gone We replicate with gifts and song Yet no one believes that it is there That trust, and love, our souls all share To see beyond the clothes and masks Was never a very simple task, But to read beneath the ugly “truth” Requires a unique, insightful sleuth If faith was put in this great light It wouldn’t take the keen of sight To see the beauty that is there Hidden beyond the monsters glare We all are frightened of its stare That lumbering beast that warps our care With breath like blood and tears and sweat (So used to this smell, we all forget…) Its voice like begging, screaming, silence Its mind is filled with all our violence With thoughts of gunshots, theft, and rape It makes us feel we can’t escape But beneath all that (if you can see) There’s an inner core that we could free All we would have to do is trust That there’s benevolence in all of us Then maybe we could live in peace, Accepting the world for every piece Of faith, belief, even its faults Fear left trapped inside the vault That we had sealed with all our hearts Soon after we would see the surface part
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The grotesque face would start to split Because it could no longer fit The core that had so long been dormant Expanding to dissolve the torment That had for so long kept it sealed With the fear we now had locked away Until that day (if it will come) Its up to us to take the steps Towards faith in others innate good By trusting what we doubt we should Because that doubt is made of fear That keeps our view from being clear Until then the monster’s face remains Though we’ve learned how to disguise its frame For now it’s hidden in our veil Of pretending to help others frail But one day we will find the source Of the light that’s under our chaotic lies.
Matt Brenman
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Institutional Names that Never Caught On By Dustin Wilson The Radcliffe Harvard University for Women and Men for Advanced Studies The Barnard Columbia College University of Men and Women The Vassar Yale University for Men and Women The Seven Sisters Axis of Education of New England The Pembroke Brown University of Providence for Research PPSCHCK pronounced “Pipsqueak” (Pomona, Pitzer, Scripps, Claremont, Harvey Mudd, Claremont, Keck Fashion Institute For The Advancement of 98 lb. Weaklings) The H.A.M.A.S College Consortium for the Education of the New Hampshire River Valley H.A.M.A.S. for political reasons was renamed to the following in 2008: The Hampshire , Amherst, Mount Holyoke, Amherst (UMass), Smith Consortium of Colleges for Not, Repeat NOT, Domestic Terrorism
Tate Sager
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird By Tate Sager Based on a series of poems by Wallace Stevens Coldness. It’s creeping, seeping into the cracks and spaces of the house. Its frosted arms reach out towards me. Where to run? Where to hide? My only haven is the window seat, underneath which the radiator calls home, but even he recedes away from the cold, unwilling to share his warmth. Blankets! Yes, many blankets! Piled over me, trying their best to keep me warm, but the cold attacks and attacks. Shiver. Damn her! Damn her and this house and this cold! The cold belongs outside, away from home, away from here, beyond this window, outside, with that blackbird, sitting on the cedar branch near the window all day. Why does he prefer the freezing Connecticut winter to the welcome warmth of the south? Isolated. Surely he is not alone. Surely he does not find solace on the arm of the great tree. He has no blankets, as I do, no shy iron creature entangled within the roots. Yet the black splotch stains the hanging forest of frigid icicles. He stares at me and I can’t help but meet his gaze. He, unflinching, why does he not shiver! Coldness surrounds him, hugs him, whispers in his ear. Shiver! Yet, he does nothing, a stone with a stare unmoving just as he. Lifeless! No warmth, no compassion, just staring at me. The inescapable rhythms of cedar poking, tapping at the window like the cold knocking, wait to be invited inside, inside of me. She has left, and I am left alone to face the cedar, the bird, and the cold. These forces against me, the blackbird staring atop the shoulder of the hefty tree, poking and jabbing and pointing, and the cold is so tempting. For a moment I feel the need to give in, accept this coldness, feel its comfort, its tempting caress up and down my back. How amazing it must feel, to be like the blackbird, so comfortable in the cold, so unfeeling. Shiver! And yet I feel, the pain, the ache of the warmth leaving me, and the coldness reacts to the feeling of my memory. It was so stupid of me to be angered by such a small instance. It was my fault, my fault alone, and now she is distant. I am becoming cold. Outside, I watch as the eye of the blackbird finally moves. He watches the men coming back from work. The figures long and spindly trudge through the snow, towards home, towards warmth. For now the cold batters and bruises them, their shadows only touching snow. Their shadows like sticks stretched upon the blank canvas. Oh thin men of Haddam! Do you not see that blackbird staring out! He mocks the warmth you try so hard to contain, in the comfort he possesses. Move quickly to your palaces of warmth. Move quickly to where your sources of heat wait patiently for you to return. Can I ever expect the same? The blackbird thinks not, and should I think as he does? I walked away from her, furious. How can she ever forgive me? Shiver! No! No! Please go away! Bring her back! I long to be warm once again! I wish for this numb feeling to leave! And there she is, and even the blackbird turns to look at her. She stands silhouetted by the light from the hallway, and her glowing edges brighten with her approach towards me. If I could take everything I said, and everything I did, back, I would. I say, “I’m sorry,” but all I can do is shape my prayer for forgiveness
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with my chapped lips that have been singed by the cold. The freezing air has left my throat dried, raw from the cold trying to reach down inside of me. The sight of her is too much. I am ashamed by the way I’ve acted, and I turn away from her. Heat presses against the back of my neck, making its way to my shoulders. I still feel the cold inside of me as it fights to maintain its newfound dominion, and the hand covering my face does not help to soften the redness of my nose. Through the barbaric glass, the bird is whistling, like the sharp cold around him, whirling. It has begun to snow, and the ice-encrusted needles of the cedar do not provide shelter. The bird tries to adjust his position, but the needles stick into his feet. He cries out sharply, for his net of safety has been cut away. He shakes violently, shivers. His tremors try to push away the falling snow, but the snow just tumbles into the forest of icicles, building up around him. The cold wind has no place to rest upon the bird for the snow has taken his place. All that I can see is the eye of the blackbird continuing to stare at my window, and what he sees is the her hand on my shoulder, burning. Her touch thaws my shoulder and helps to fight back against the cold. Her hot breath begins to fog the windowpanes, and the blackbird sees that the cold has deserted him and fled away from this scene. He is no longer comfortable in the cold, but feels numb. He has had enough. With the flap of his wings, the blackbird takes flight with another sharp cry, for his place of comfort is now too harsh for him to remain. His shadow crosses the window to and fro as he whirls up into the sky, into the cold wind that now stings him. The window fogs from the warmth that I welcome gratefully, and the last thing that I see is the blackbird flying into the green light of the sunset, out of sight towards the twenty snowy mountains of the west. The hand on my shoulder burns so badly from the heat of its warmth, and I turn to face her gaze. Her beautiful eyes melt away the cold inside of me, and the shivers no longer occur. I deserve nothing, and yet she has always given me everything, even the calm and patient expression that looks down upon me. I open up the blankets to let her inside, and I embrace her. I will never let her go. Warmth.
Tate Sager
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In Loving Memory: The Blue Devil
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Meet the Staff Editor-in-Chief: Tate Sager Staff: Dustin Wilson Skip Rosamilia Chris Eisenhower Contributers: Henry O’Reilly Connor Small Michael Blake Nick McCall Nicholas Barile Matt Brenman
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