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Fall Issue 2013

Letter from the Masthead Fall is synonymous with change. As swimsuits are exchanged for corduroys and eight-hundred-odd bodies cram into the Winter X for Convocation, life at Choate Rosemary Hall begins anew. Two hundred and forty-six newly crowned seniors fill the orchestral rows of the PMAC at the first school meeting, and we are once again given the opportunity to meet several hundreds of new faces that hail from throughout the world. Here, fall is not merely the season for the quintessential New England prep school postcard, but a time to start fresh, learn new things, and begin the yearlong journey through the highs and lows of Choate and its leaf-trodden paths.

At Lit headquarters, change has been in the air. From our farewell to Humanities 119 as our Thursday meeting place to the wonderful new addition of Ms. Neall as a Lit advisor alongside Ms. Devine, the Lit too has begun its journey through this school year. With a new masthead, eager Literati, and minds bursting with new ideas, fall has been a time of growth and creativity. The first meeting entailed human knots outside of the Rotunda, with new and returning students alike collaborating on the best methods to untangle from one another while bonding with their fellow Choaties. Since then, we have started a new voting system, laughed at the photos found on the #litselfieswithteachers Instagram tag, and enjoyed the opportunity for all to come together and discuss our opinions of art and literature. Our journey has been filled with change and through it, the Lit has grown. Now, we the editors present to you the fruits of our autumn adventures. These pages represent the extraordinary talents of some of the eight hundred or so individuals that you were seated amongst during Convocation, and we hope that you will join us in celebrating such artistic and literary accomplishments. With love, The Masthead



Contents 4

Lucifer Chelsea Swift ‘15 Photograph Katherine Overstrum ‘16


Artwork Grace Tully ‘16 Photograph John Vaughn ‘15


Mutual Zemia Edmondson ‘16 Photograph Rebecca Bernstein ‘16


Photograph Christine Liu ‘14 Photograph Sophie Imamura ‘15


7 8 9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Conform[t]ity Zemia Edmondson ‘16

Photograph Ashley Kim ‘14 I Would Send You a Present Truelian Lee ‘17 Keys Sonja Eliason ‘15 Photograph Rebecca Bernstein ‘16 Artwork Karlin Wong ‘14

Azure Truelian Lee ‘17 Photograph Rebecca Bernstein ‘16 Countdown. Sonja Eliason ‘15 Artwork Karlin Wong ‘14


24 25 26

The Muck Story Anonymous

Photograph Sophie Imamura ‘15 We speak our own English Sophia Swart ‘15 Halloween Haikus Members of the Lit The Lit Instagram Competition

Front Cover Art Karlin Wong ‘14 Back Cover Art Grace Tully ‘16

A Lost Connection Esul Burton ‘16 Photograph Sophie Imamura ‘15 Photograph Rebecca Bernstein ‘16 Canvas Truelian Lee ‘17 Photograph Nina Sheridan ‘14 Untitled Kevin Ampofo ‘16

O St. NW Sherri Afshani ‘14 Photograph Rebecca Bernstein ‘16 Static Sonja Eliason ‘15

Photograph Sabrina Levin ‘15

Fuck Humans Sophia Swart ‘15 Photograph Rebecca Bernstein ‘16 Photographs Nina Sheridan ‘14 Untitled Emma Raddatz ‘14


Lucifer Gleaming bright- luminescent Flaming yet effervescent. This whimsical white light: dusky and dark. Rapidly rising before your eyes. Calm and sound, bearing demise. Feeling frustrated: Floating in a fishbowl With weak fins; swimming Til a torrent of water is no more Pushed, pressed precariously Against the glass. While witheringA wandering, welcoming flash slides swiftly with vigor. Growing and glowing Shining; singing sweet sounds A mellifluous harmony. This unexpected lucifer light Glorious and truly white. CHELSEA SWIFT ‘15




This piece is an imitation of “Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid Eat your grits; wave at the neighbors; keep your head in the car; don’t look people in the eyes; read the Bible; pour your cereal before the milk; don’t believe everything written in textbooks; listen to Pastor Keith; sing “How Great Thou Art”, don’t just move your lips; pray; set the table; speak only when spoken to; be nothing more than an ornament at social gatherings; study the Saints for guidance; don’t lie to your father; ask the Lord to forgive your sins; stop staring at that black boy; but why should I talk to a man in the sky?; this is how you sing in the choir; this is how you attend Sunday school; this is how you avoid those negroes; this is how you rejoice; this is how you repent; this is how you ask for forgiveness; this is how you forgive; this is how you hold a grudge; pray; this is how you join the Ku Klux Klan; this is how you remember; this is how you do not forget; this is how you love your neighbor—unless they are black; this is how you dress for church, you wouldn’t want people to label you as the sinner you’re so insistent on becoming, now would you? but why can’t I love the black person like the white person?; this is how you accept punishment; this is how you stand up for yourself; this is how you read the Bible; this is how you interact with the scum on the streets; this is how you spit; this is how you stare; this is how you hold a rifle; this is how you load a rifle; this is how you shoot a rifle; this is how you shoot to kill; this is how you shoot a wild animal; this is how you shoot a human animal; this is how you talk to the pretty girl in school; this is how you ask her to dance; this is how you deal with rejection; this is how you overlook your sexual preference; this is how you say faggot; this is how you say it to the right people; this is how you agree with the Grand Old Party; this is how you vote; this is how you listen; this is how you accept; this is how you discriminate; this is how you toast your bread; this is how you spread the butter; this is how you leave the jam for your sisters; this is how you remain pure; this is how you don’t talk to that faggot boy down the road; God hates gays, did you know that?; this is how you handle a wife; this is how you control a wife; this is how a wife tries to control you; this is how you don’t let her; put on your white mask; this is how you perform God’s will; let people think that you are strong, don’t let them see the weak boy inside; this is why you are better; this is how you pretend that you are better; this is how you sit at Church; this is how you sit at school; this is how you sit on a bus; this is how you sit on a bus when a negro tries to sit next to you; don’t smile at colored people; disregard pleas for equality, you know what God does not love, or are you so imbued with sin that you have forgotten?; pray; boil rabbit for two hours, no more; accept the word of the Lord; the Lord hates individualism, and you do too; what if I don’t agree with the opinions of the masses?; you mean after all this, you don’t know how to conform? ZEMIA EDMONDSON ‘16


Mutual Their reunion was by chance. He recognized her walk, a scuttle of equal parts awareness and self-consciousness. He couldn’t remember if she always walked that way, with her eyes glued to the floor and spine crumpled. Memory suggested that her walk morphed over the course of their relationship, but he assured himself that it had always been that way. Why had they split anyways? He couldn’t remember, probably something trivial, like the way he always left the toilet seat up. Nothing he couldn’t fix. He realized that she was beginning to disappear, scurrying off outside his existence. So, he hurried his pace to catch her. He stretched his arm out, excited to see his past lover for the first time in a few years. Maybe we’ll rekindle things, he thought giddily. Upon feeling his touch, her shoulders shuddered and she whipped her head around. Her burns greeted him first, and then her voice. “Jack,” she smiled as she said his name. Recognition was mutual, but he pretended otherwise. “Sorry—I thought you were someone else.” He bit his lip and sharply turned around, never looking back to see her face, the living reflection of his extinct brutality. So that’s why we, he began to think, but then he replaced his thoughts with his new truth. Huh, strangers just keep getting stranger. ZEMIA EDMONDSON ‘16



I Would Send You a Present


I would send you a present, if not for the pigeon with chrome tipped feathers that could not be tamed with a few keys. But if I were, the wind would sing, the leaves would dance, as the chrome tenderly cradles its treasured package. A mobile of colors twirls with the sky, spinning even when there is no breeze. I would send you a present, but it would be indistinguishable, hidden among the dark chrome feathers of the pigeon that would not be tamed. TRUELIAN LEE ‘17


Keys “Another girl you didn’t call back?” I asked, eyeing the key scratch on his car. “No,” he replied. “Her boyfriend.” “You really couldn’t just find someone without a boyfriend?” He shrugged me off. “She said she was single.” “You’ll have to get it repainted.” “I have enough paint left from last time.” SONJA ELIASON ‘15




Azure As the dominoes topple one by one, clanking and clacking into each other you will fly from their ruin, your azure wings spreading wide to cast a shadow over the forgotten. As the gleaming dots fade into white, losing their luster and appeal, you will soar into oblivion, only visible to those who dared glance up oblivious to happenings elsewhere, down there. Fly away . . . Feathers catch the wind, whistling through the air like sailboats, only to crash when landing. Fly away . . . TRUELIAN LEE ‘17


Countdown. They stood over the stone, talking. “She had a bucketlist,” Michael said. “30 things to do in her last 30 days.” “Did she do them all?” Josh asked. “All but the last one.” “What was it?” “Beat the cancer.” SONJA ELIASON ‘15



A Lost Connection I remember when I first saw you. We met by chance, bumping into each other while rushing from one train to the next. You dropped the stack of papers you were holding tightly in your arms and I knelt down to help you, our foreheads smacking together, your infectious laugh and my nervous giggle audible despite the noise of bustling travelers. The soft brush of your hands against mine, a quick nod of your head as you ran towards the closing doors, and left on the floor was your driver’s license, which I pocketed. I couldn’t stop thinking about you as I went to work. I read your ID over and over again, saying your name silently, savoring each syllable. Ryan. Ryan Hershel. Ryan Hershel, born June 9th, 1987. Ryan Hershel, born June 9th, 1987, male. Ryan Hershel, born June 9th, 1987, male, brown eyes. Ryan Hershel, Ryan Hershel, Ryan Hershel. I’ve always been infatuated with the idea of love at first sight. My parents had met that way. My father saw my mother as she got in a cab and he knew he had to have her. He hailed the next cab, waving frantically, gave the driver $50 to chase my mother’s taxi (license plate ADL4681) and caught up with her just as she was about to enter a restaurant and took her to get coffee. They’ve been getting coffee together ever since. My parents were lucky. They didn’t end up divorced a few years later, no brutal hours spent in law offices, no page after page after page of legal jargon, no custody battles, no pointed words, no vicious fights. Maybe this is why I’m so desperate to find you. After growing up as a product of their seemingly perfect marriage, I want my own chance meeting, my own fairytale ending. I didn’t think anyone would care enough to chase after me so I decided to chase after my love-at-first sight. And Ryan Hershel, that was you. So here I am, standing in front of your 5th floor apartment, shrouded in darkness because the hallway lights are out. I spent half an hour outside the heavily graffitied door to the building, peeking through the dusty window slit, not sure if I should ring the doorbell or not. A neighbor of yours, who was coming back from the grocery store, let me in. He’s old, looks like he’s 70 or 80, with inch-thick glasses that make his eyes look like the size of golf balls. Do you know him, Ryan? You probably do. Maybe you give him a nod, like the one you gave me, when you run into him on your way out. Was that nod even special? Or is it something you do to everybody? The door to your apartment is well-weathered, the red paint is flaking off. The gold stenciled numbers are barely visible, the 5 now looks like a 2. I’m about to knock when I hear noises emanating from inside. Loud voices, angry voices, but everything is coated with a layer of sadness, every worddripping with misery. A plate shatters, the sound of the impact echoing beyond the door. Who’s in their with you, Ryan? A friend? A lover? An ex? I can hear the voices coming closer to me so I hide in an alcove and see a blonde head leaving, you shouting after her. You don’t look as happy as when I met you. You look worn down, bitter, as if the weight of the world just collapsed on your shoulders. The smile you gave me is no longer there, its shadow non-existent. I don’t know why I came here. What was I expecting? True love? That doesn’t happen in the real world. I should have known that. I did know that. But I refused to believe it was true. I watch you go back inside, watch you slam the door shut, and then I run out, run as fast as I can until I’m safely inside a subway car, where I can be left alone to my own thoughts, my own fantasies, my own ghosts. You were just a naive dream, Ryan Hershel, a vision of what I wanted my life to be, not what it was going to be. I keep riding, curled up against the cold metal pole, knowing that when I get off, I won’t be running into you again, no more fallen pages, no more sly smiles, no more friendly nods. Its just going to be me and me alone. ESUL BURTON ‘16




Canvas The colors bleed sluggishly dripping tears, streaking sharply across the blank canvas. Sobbing with an anger that causes them to pace relentlessly, venturing into territory that was never explored before. But even in their sorrow, they never acknowledge each other, turning, hiding, avoiding. And soon, the once blank canvas, is full. TRUELIAN LEE ‘17

Untitled Lost: Freedom. If found, keep it. KEVIN AMPOFO ‘16



O St. NW Three twenty three, twelve (point three two) of twenty six and a fifth, five times sixty, plus eighteen;

nine slices of a year, two hundred and seventy three suns, coffee for two, Cforty-threeHsixty-sixNtwelveOtwelveStwo squared; four dials, twenty eight brrrrrgs, thirty four teardrops, CtenHtwelveNtwoO, one voicemail.




Static We had, for a brief moment, wondered about the illegality of our actions; looking back, I realize that any action that didn’t cause us to hesitate in deliberation was not one we would have ever considered doing. It was in our nature to only do that which we had to spend time convincing ourselves to do. Anything else was just simply too boring to waste our effort on. It had seemed such a small thing at the time; the concepts of theft, laws, right and wrong were not nearly so prevalent as our need for the six-pack. Our personal desires seemed more immediately rewarding than half-hearted obedience to a set of laws scribbled on some old paper by some old man. That was how we thought back then, rationalizing the near-animal instincts and selfish desires with self-imbued logic. It worked for us; it just didn’t work so well for everyone else. We knew that the cashier at the 7-Eleven on the corner of Levinger Street would take a smoking break at approximately six o’clock. No, we hadn’t stalked the store for days, carefully cataloging the man’s habits. It was just common knowledge we’d obtained from lurking around street corners at odd times, trying to fill the hours with teenage rebellion rather than homework. Since we hadn’t memorized his schedule deliberately but merely by chance, I didn’t feel guilty about using our knowledge of it to our benefit. The fact that we simply knew without trying the best time to sneak into the store seemed like God’s encouragement to us—or at least his passive permission. Mike waited at the corner and signaled to us when the cashier had quit the store. We knew (again, from purely coincidental experience) that we had about three minutes if he was fast, and seven if he was leisurely. Jacob and I opened the door agonizingly slowly, watching the small bell at the top to make sure it didn’t give us away. The store smelled like dirty bathrooms and cherry-flavored Slurpees. We saw the empty stillness as just more encouragement for our decision to take advantage of the opportunity. We were young and bold and entitled. And what the hell did we have to lose? The funny thing was, we hadn’t even opened a single can by the time the police caught up to us. We were saving them for tonight, cause what fun is it to get wasted at 6pm with no booze left and a whole night to go? I didn’t see why the police couldn’t just take the pack back to the store with our apologies and let us go with a lecture, but adults have always been illogical that way. They put us in separate holding rooms at the station. The chief officer of our dinky town, an Officer Schultz, came in to speak with me. I smiled as he sat down and asked about his son, who’d just turned five. He’d ride around the neighborhood on his bright red tricycle, screaming loudly like daddy’s sirens. Schultz sighed and shook his head. “Why, Fitz? You boys are smart enough to know there are cameras in every store. What were you thinking?” I shrugged. “To be honest sir, I never really thought of it as doing something wrong.” He raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t think of stealing as wrong?” I shifted in my chair, suddenly uncomfortable with the task that lay before me. How was I supposed to explain the self-indulgent reasoning of a rebelling teenager, who rebelled for no other reason other than that his entire life had been handed to him, and the only thing he could work for was to ruin it? And what incentive did Schultz have to try to understand? He was America’s Everyday Superhero, an Average Joe, a Little League coach. I was the afternoon’s regular annoyance, like that one TV channel you can rely on to always have static. “No, not wrong. It wasn’t stealing to us, not really.” Schultz didn’t say anything, just kept staring. I tilted my head and looked over his shoulder. “We weren’t purposefully hurting anyone, or committing a crime. It was just beer. We wanted beer, the store had beer. The guy left the store. We entered the store, took the beer, and then we were happy. Stealing, breaking laws, getting into trouble… it wasn’t really part of the picture.” 16

Schultz shook his head, unable to understand, as I predicted. “Of course it was part of the picture, Fitz. You can’t just take what isn’t yours.” “But it was ours, officer,” I said. “For all intents and purposes, that beer was ours. It was part of our plan, our life story for the day. It existed solely for our use of it. You see officer, when it came down to it, we didn’t really have a choice. That pack of beer had no purpose in this world except for us.” Schultz was silent for a while, simply staring at me. “So you admit to committing the crime?” He asked finally. “If you want to call it a crime, sir, then yes, I do. But I would really just call it living.” SONJA ELIASON ‘15



Fuck Humans The lizards sip tea on Saturday afternoons and discuss the bourgeoisie and the effects of the French Revolution on their political stability. Rabbits sniff their butts and eat their poop because the sake of science calls for it; they know that better than humanity.

The monkeys’ choice to live without clothing was conscious and involved their understanding of their roles in the delicate ecosystem. Ants live without emotional attachment Because before they evolved Too many died from broken hearts and they realized it wasnt worth it.

Trees dream every night of the places that birds whisper about in their branches and cry at the corpses that go unburied at their feet. As humans go, they live lives climbing not to the sky But social ladders leading only to unhappiness and unfulfilled lives full of ignorance and take baths of political corruption and suicide. Yet they say they are the superior species... SOPHIA SWART ‘15




Unititled When I was eight, I established intricate back-stories for each of my dolls. Some were dressed as different characters: Little Red Riding Hood, Peter Pan and Wendy, or Sleeping Beauty. The African Princess was a favorite of mine; her name was Nala, and on the eve of her father’s death, she was disowned for marrying Peter (the only male in the group). She moved to America and lived out her days in the exotic California, until she discovered Peter was cheating on her with the French maid. She went to go live with her best friend, Princess Aurora, only to realize her love for Prince Phillip (also played by Peter). A catfight ensued but was interrupted whenever my grandma shot me a concerned look. I quickly brushed Aurora’s hair, flattened Nala’s wrinkled dress, and sat them beside each other like perfect ladies.

In my teenage years, I stopped playing with the dolls. But sometimes, I crept into my grandma’s bedroom to find my old friends. I would unfold a white sheet on the stained carpet and lay each doll on its back. They sat in rows like perfect tollhouse cookies on parchment paper. I looked into Nala’s eyes, searching for that twinkle, but only saw two black painted pupils. As I scanned the rows, I discovered a single doll was missing – the “My First Communion” doll. My grandma had three options when buying this doll: the white blond, the white brunette, or black brunette. The white brunette, which looked just like me, was adorned with a miniature cross and held a small bible. She was covered in white lace, like a baptized baby. I used to keep her in my nightstand drawer – sneaking a peak of her pristine white gown in the depths of the night. Now, like a worried mother, I imagined her tucked beneath a couch or dirtied by my cousin’s sticky hands. I never gave her a backstory; the cross on her chest and the reflective look on her face didn’t match the drama-filled lifestyle of Nala and Aurora. Frantic, I searched for the unnamed doll. Having confidence that my grandma would know right where I left the doll, I tentatively walked into her bedroom on the first floor. After my grandpa had a stroke, she slept on the worn, floral couch in the living room – ready to assist him the moment she heard him groan, “Bevvv.” After a year, my sister persuaded her to buy a day bed; she never let herself be too comfortable, for fear that she would sleep too deeply and not hear his calls. “Have you seen my Madame Alexander Doll?”

My grandma’s head was bowed, and her arms wrapped around her lilac nightgown. Her hands methodically rubbed each bead. She looked up briefly, eyes unfocused, and whispered, “I’m saying my rosary…hail Mary, full of grace…” Her voice trailed off, like she was in a trance. Having interrupted a sacred ritual, I slipped out of the room. But from the kitchen I heard her call, “I’ll say a prayer to Saint Anthony, so he can help you find your doll.” EMMA RADDATZ ‘14





The Muck Story In a remote swampland located in the most beautiful, happy country of the world lived a family that waded so profoundly in muck that they knew nothing but the stench, the taste, and the texture of muck. The family spent every moment of the day in muck—they walked in muck, played in muck, drove muck-cars, and even ate muck. They spent so much time surrounded by muck that their bodies were slowly becoming semi-solid; their outlines became less defined with each passing second; the stench of muck sunk deeper and deeper into their bones. Since the children had always lived in the swampland, they went about their lives uncomplainingly. Yet the parents had seen golden meadows; they had smelled the sweet scents of flowers; they had experienced sunset in all its multi-colored glory. Mother longed to escape the swampland; she wept each night as she stared skyward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the stars through the muck. However, Father had sunk into a paralyzing complacency—he was so used to living in muck that he never thought, or even dreamed, of leaving the swampland, and this made Mother even more depressed. Though the eldest child did not understand what Mother cried about each night, he believed that Mother did not deserve to suffer. He became restless trying to figure out what could make Mother smile. As time passed by, the eldest child noticed Mother changing. It was as if all of her anxiety, sadness, regret, and tears had solidified and then colorized, making her less amorphous and changing her skin color from bland brown-gray to red-green-yellow-blue. She became more resolute, more ready to do something. Father, who was stuck in his brown, liquidy oblivion, did not notice the changes in Mother and did not even try to console her when she wept. One night, after crying and searching for the stars, Mother announced to the family that she could not stand the muck any longer—she was going to leave the swampland. Unlike everyone else, the eldest child did not cry and supported Mother’s decision because he understood that Mother would only find happiness by leaving the muck. Yet when Father stared at the eldest child with a look of pure loathing and said, “Why are you betraying our family? Why are you trying to break it apart?” the eldest child was thrown into a state of inner turmoil. Was he supposed to support Mother’s decision to find her happiness, or was he supposed to remain quiet and loyal to the family like the rest of the children? Confused and distraught, the eldest child remained painfully detached from the argument between Mother and Father.

Little did he know that what Mother needed most was support. During the time that Mother had grown confident in her decision to leave the swampland, her heart had been cleansed of the muck that caked its ventricles and chambers. She gained clarity of thought and figured out what she needed to do to find happiness. But without the support of her eldest child, Mother was left susceptible to Father. With his words of discouragement, pessimism, and complacency, Father planted a grain of brown-gray muck in Mother’s heart. This grain grew and multiplied until the muck overflowed from Mother’s heart—until it was being pumped into every inch of her body. In the end, Mother chose to stay in the swampland, convinced that she would one day see the stars through the muck. The eldest child wondered why Mother would deny herself happiness after being so close to attaining it, yet the thought was too painful. So he just tried to eat, play, and walk in muck without thinking too much about it. ANONYMOUS






We speak our own English the three of us sat with music playing and the tires rolling and unplanned adventures in front of us on the road. With a few bucks in the bank and a bunch of ideas floating in our skulls, the aches and pains to escape the mundane were finally being treated. My best buddies and I spoke only out of true stoke and excitement over our lives. Laughter carried the weight in all of our conversations. Our words were hardly coherent because they were beaten through giggles, coughs, and mumbles. Nothing was to be taken seriously and nothing was to be judged. We were free to mumble whatever words we pleased, so long as we laughed. The car muffled its own contribution to our discussions about cats, rebellion, pounding Mountain Dew, and jumping off of shit. Those things are our only cure from monotony, so we spoke of them often. But we also shared thoughts on intellect, society, passion, and time; however, we took them out of their limitations. To be friends means to leave the judgment to the strangers, and to help each other grow. We followed these guidelines as an unspoken constitution. As friends, we understand that there is much more to a person than can be expressed in words, so words often take the short-end and we do not care much for their maintenance. We will speak our brains. SOPHIA SWART ‘15 24

Halloween Haikus In celebration of Halloween, members of The Lit wrote Halloween Haikus. This writing exercise allowed members of The Lit to collaborate and create pieces of writing together. We hope you enjoy reading these as much as we enjoyed writing them!

Jack-o’-laterns glow Crumpling wrappers like dry leaves Abandoned costumes

Terrified children Shriek and run in your disguise Black and orange (k)night

The fat-bellied bag Splits, spills on the sidewalk -Surprise piñata

Stay awhile, Autumn, Let’s have more gourd-flavored things. Pumpkin time, gangsters.


The Lit Instagram Competition: #litselfieswithteachers Instagram has quickly become one of the world’s most popular social media sites and is now all over Choate’s campus. Even our illustrious Headmaster has an account. To encourage creative, fun, and artistic submissions, The Lit is now in its second year of holding Instagram competitions. Congratulations to @emraddz, @notreallythatmicky, and @yuhan_wang! If you’d like to see more of the Lit’s presence on Instagram, follow @thelitcrh.


Acknowledgments Patrons


Kathy Bigham Shari Bailey Clare Findley Chaihyun Lee The Furlo Family Pamela Hamilton Natalie Hills Vincent Intrieri George Markantonis Rod Richardson Heather Zetterberg

Winnie Byanyima Moya Coulson Randall Eliason Barbara Kage Sarah Khan Sudha Kumar Blake Lasky Myungho Lee The Lisi-Lengel Family Margaret Martin-Heaton Melissa Matthes Tal Nazer Alexandra Paladino Alexander Paolozzi The Rothburg Family David Rubin Min Hee Shin & Jeong Dae Seo Janine Smith Kenson So Lili Zhou

Special Thanks Alexa Cordova Todd Meagher Pat Tarasiewicz


Gabriel Davis ‘14 Emily McAndrew ‘14 Angela Sim ‘14 Lily Stern ‘14 Channy Hong ‘15 Rachel Kang ‘15 Micky Kieu ‘15 Kyra Goldstein ‘15 Sabrina Levin ‘15 Minas Markantonis ‘15

Masthead Sherri Afshani ‘14 Brandon Chin ‘14 Lindsey Lui ‘14 Milly Battle ‘15 Merrick Gillies ‘15 Zemia Edmondson ‘16

LITerati Taylor Rossini ‘15 Helena Seo ‘15 Gary Wang ‘15 Yuhan Wang ‘15 Anna D’Alvia ‘16 Rebecca Bernstein ‘16 Esul Burton ‘16 Stephanie Chan ‘16 Esther Clayton ‘16 Sara Feinstein ‘16

Faculty Advisers Ellen Devine Sarah Kate Neall

Tulasi Kadiyala ‘16 Harley Kirchoff ‘16 Sojeong Lim ‘16 Jaylin Lugardo ‘16 Pann Maleenont ‘16 Olivia Matthes-Theiriault ‘16 Josie Battle ‘17 Sophia Gillies ‘17 Stephanie Grossman ‘17 Genevieve Richardson ‘17

The Lit Fall Issue 2013  

Choate's Literary Magazine

The Lit Fall Issue 2013  

Choate's Literary Magazine