Perspectives 2018

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Perspectives 2018 Sacred Heart Greenwich

1177 King Street, Greenwich, Connecticut 06831 phone 203 531 6500 fax 203 531 5206 www.cshgreenwich.org

Co-Editors-in-Chief Madeleine Black & Elisabeth Hall

Layout Editor Anissa Arakal

Assistant Layout Editor Sofia Caruso Art Editor Annabell Knollmeyer & Natty Pazos

Assistant Art Editor Nina Rosenblum

Photography Co-Editors Caroline DeVita & Annabell Knollmeyer

Writing Co-Editors Emily Coster & Laura Ferrucci

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Writing Staff Olivia Batal Lauren Burd Sofia Caruso Madeleine Jenkins Sloane Kratzman Abigail Leyson Art Staff Lianna Amoruso Andy Bella Caroline Conrod Linley Himes Eliza Stanley Faculty Mentors Dr. Cristina Baptista Ms. Lesly Deschler Canossi Dr. William Mottolese Ms. Danielle Gennaro Special thanks to Emma Butler for her doodles and Mrs. Paula Westcott for her artistic support

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Table of Contents Front and Back Covers Mixed Media Statement of Philosophy Recent National Awards Digital Photography Garden Digital Media Da Graphite Digital Photography A High-Watered Fling The Ending Digital Photography Mixed Media Mystery in the Moonlight A Portrait of Dr. King Digital Photography Mater Mary Digital Photography

Attic Mixed Media Acrylic Words Cotton Hearts Digital Photography Darkness Digital Photography 4

Nina Rosenblum Kate Ruberti Anissa Arakal

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Anissa Arakal Annabell Knollmeyer Andy Bella Sammy Clark Lauren Burd Lauren Burd Zoe Kassapidis Nina Rosenblum Piper Van Wagenen Bridget Cobb Caroline DeVita Paige Pucel Anissa Arakal

10 12 13 16 17 18 18 20 21 22 22 24 24

Andy Bella Emma Butler Emily Coster Laura Ferrucci Caroline DeVita Lindsay Morgner Celia Daigle

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X Too Many Ghosts Graphite To Lose Your Mind and Find it Again Digital Photography Fragile Mirrored Plane Acrylic Time Mixed Media Digital Photography Cheyenne, Wyoming Digital Photography Last One Standing Digital Photography Another Bleak Tomorrow Ink and Watercolor Bedroom Watercolor Acrylic Lost Relations The Quiet Poet Acrylic Celeste Digital Photography Hyphen Digital Photography America Angst The Mixed Media

Linley Himes Nina Rosenblum

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Caroline Conrod Natty Pazos Katie Keller Caroline Badagliacca Elizabeth Asprinio Nina Rosenblum Olivia Batal Daisy Steinthal Caroline DeVita Katie Keller Elisabeth Hall Caroline DeVita Andy Bella

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Eliza Stanley Natty Pazos Elisabeth Hall Laura Ferrucci Emma Belmont Laura Ferrucci Sofia Caruso Kaitlin Edwardson Katie Keller Sofia Caruso Andy Bella

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Color of Ten Thousand Miles Digital Photography Den Digital Photography Digital Photography Joy Ride whoever Doctor’s Orders Digital Photography Digital Photography Hope in Terror Roots Digital Photography Debussy’s Dream Digital Photography Colophon Digital Photography Digital Photography Dedication

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Emily Coster Julia Welsh

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Caroline DeVita Julia Welsh Arielle Uygur Daisy Steinthal Clara Geffs Katie Keller Caroline DeVita Peyton Lauricella Nephthalie Rene Anissa Arakal Laura Ferrucci Olivia Andrews

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Christina DeConcini Katie Keller

Mixed Media Kate Ruberti7

Statement of Philosophy Personal Growth in an Atmosphere of Wise Freedom is one of the core goals of a Sacred Heart education. Through Perspectives, students explore their creative spirits independently and in doing so, contribute to an authentic body of work that reflects the human experience. Students submit pieces themselves or through encouragement by English, Art, and Photography teachers.

This issue of the magazine highlights student work through a variety of media categorized by the theme of home. Each room within a home begets a specific emotion or feeling. A garden initiates freedom, warmth, growth, and the roots of our identity. An attic reveals a sense of nostalgia, a place of both memories and hopes for the future. A bedroom demonstrates a dreamy state, a place where we are safe and, many times, alone. A den highlights the comfort of family, being open, and sharing good and bad times with others. Each of these rooms reflects all of our individual perspectives on life.

“We should come home from afar, from adventures, and perils, and discoveries every day with new experience and character.” ― Henry David Thoreau

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Recent National Awards CSPA Gold Medal, 2016-2017 CSPA Gold Medal, 2015-2016 CSPA Silver Medal, 2014-2015 CSPA Silver Medal, 2013-2014 CSPA Silver Crown, 2012-2013 CSPA Gold Medal, 2012-2013 CSPA Silver Crown, 2011-2012 CSPA Gold Circle Award, Certificate of Merit in Nonfiction Column, 2014-2015 CSPA Gold Circle Award, Certificate of Merit in Humor Writing, 2013-2014 CSPA Gold Circle Award, First Place Certificate in Photography, 2012-2013 CSPA Gold Circle Award, Certificate of Merit for Literary Multi-Page Presentation, 2012-2013 NCTE Excellent, State of Connecticut, 2016-2017 NCTE Superior, State of Connecticut, 2014-2015 NCTE Superior, State of Connecticut, 2013-2014 NCTE Superior, Nominated for Highest Award, State of Connecticut, 2012-2013 NCTE Excellent, State of Connecticut, 2011-2012

Digital Photography Anissa Arakal

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Digital Media Anissa Arakal 10

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Da

Annabell Knollmeyer My grandpa, Da, is a legend in body surfing. Kids at Breezy Point drop their shovels and pails to watch him in the water. Da taught me when I was only five years old. He had a simple way of describing it to me in the context of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, categorizing the waves as “too big, too small, and just right.” Da stated that there are only four rules to follow. “Keep your head down, hold your body and arms straight, enjoy the ride, and always get back up.”

My first go-around was futile, barely moving an inch. Da encouraged me to “go for it” and try again (and try again) until I made it to the sandy shore. Despite that I was a timid little girl, his belief in me allowed me to believe in myself. After what seemed like an endless cycle of trial and error, I finally felt that sand under my belly. I had done it, and both of us were ecstatic. And now, we were ready for something more advanced: The Competition.

To win The Competition, one had to travel the farthest on a single wave. Keeping Da’s rules in mind, coupled with a new sense of confidence, I finally caught a wave that was “just right,” but fell short from our “finish line.” Once again, Da was the champ without a doubt. As the years went by, The Competition became tougher. Not because we became more competitive, but rather because Da developed Alzheimer’s disease. Ultimately, this led to a complete role reversal in our relationship.

As Da helped me get up after my initial defeat, I now help him through his daily struggles. Body surfing, it is my turn to pick him up from the sand, remembering his words – “always get back up.” The challenges do not stop there; he forgets how to use a fork and knife; he forgets words, and he forgets names and faces. I wonder what it must be like for him. Is he as scared as I was that first day in the water? I assume he is, so I stay by his side. Da always made sure it was “just right” for me, and now I make sure that everything is “just right” for him. I cut his food “just right” – not too big, not too small. I make his coffee “just right” – not too hot, not too cold. I turn on the music “just right” (anything Frank Sinatra) – not too loud, not too soft. And I know I have made it “just right” if he says “sing it, Frank.”

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Graphite Andy Bella 13

In our partnership, I have grown from student to teacher as we have switched roles in showing our mutual understanding and love. I learned compassion for those in need and the simple daily moments of showing care and concern for another human being. Da’s rules initially taught me values of persistence and belief in myself. Not allowing rough waves to hold me back has laid the foundation for handling unfamiliar and challenging situations.

Da’s body surfing lessons became much more than enjoying fun competitions and amazing memories with my grandpa; they became invaluable life skills that I live by today and will help shape my future. While it is truly sad that Da’s mind is now close to gone, his mind lives on in me everyday. And that mind knows what to do in life – “enjoy the ride” and “always get back up.”

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Digital Photography Sammy Clark

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A High-Watered Fling Lauren Burd

Thinking back into the flesh of night when I felt your sun on my spine.

I wish I opened my eyes wider.

I wish I could have seen what it was.

What is it?

Does it crawl up and down my heart when I smell broken beginnings?

Does it swim through the dreams within my head?

When I hear my name my soul rises to meet yours waiting for the dark waters we float atop.

Freckled dirt upon the sky.

Flowers bloom between our bodies.

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The Ending Lauren Burd

Light is never the same as you remember it, growing through branches of your tilted torso, hitting the depths of cracks on sidewalks.

When light hits your eyes and lets you breathe its breath: you know that moment?

You grow closer to the rays, flowers blooming at your chest, sky nears your tongue.

You know where you belong, and if you don’t, you hope you will.

You miss the stare, the feeling that laid on your skin–– it pricks your thumbs, holes in your heart.

Old flowers die; fresh skin wrinkles.

Light is never the same as you remember it–– in your eyes, in your ribs, in your skull, hitting the back of your scalding neck.

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Digital Photography Zoe Kassapidis 19

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Mixed Media Nina Rosenblum

Mystery in the Moonlight Piper Van Wagenen

Two paintings: one front, one back, two opposites attached.

Like siblings forced to interact, they hang together, perfectly intact.

Both blue and grey, a woman watches her white dress flowing with many swatches.

Around she looks, seeing only hues.

Across the water, the town seems forgotten, light shines down like soft cotton.

The wind, quiet as a shadow, lurks through the air with a blow.

Standing at the water’s edge, she hopes one day to stay afloat.

Remembering when she fell off the boat–– a tragedy that must not be provoked.

As the night turns to day, her dreams fade away.

Her thoughts again become grey, only to be begin again the following day.

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A Portrait of Dr. King Bridget Cobb

To push children out; to push them into a world of dark and dreary blues where black is night and white is day: a world of colors drained from his face.

He watches these children, the burgeoning nights and days and times in between.

They grow together, twisting as twine only to be pulled powerfully apart; their upended roots tangle into tattered shadows.

Shadows hang from his face, interminable folds craving fervor from the months of marching, the miles of walking, the tries, their cries, his sighs.

They may push the children out but his gaze can pull them in.

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Digital Photography Caroline DeVita

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Mater Mary Paige Pucel

She sits on her chair–– patient–– holding thread, one hand over her knees.

She waits––there is no hurry.

All sounds silenced.

Her lush pink dress flows over her feet like dripping honey over its comb.

Her shawl perfectly wrapped over her shoulders, covering her blushing face in her own presence.

The shawl protects her–– now able to protect her children.

Her halo golden as sunflower petals–– blooming, growing from her knowledge.

Stars hover over her crown, so delicately placed–– subtle yet distinct, her royalty known.

Our Mother, Mother Mary before our eyes, most radiant, the softest colors.

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Digital Photography Anissa Arakal 25

Mixed Media Andy Bella 26

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Acrylic Emma Butler

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Words

Emily Coster

Rocks. Jagged edges scrape the back of my throat, blocking every breath. I choke out sporadic syllables with pathetic strain. Words like rocks, heavy upon my tongue. If I could, I would sink to the ground and silently slip between the floorboards. I steal a discreet glance beneath my feet. Scuffed vinyl squares––no gaps, no crevices. I’m out of luck.

Mine was the final presentation. Class resumes, and I hurriedly stuff into my desk the notecards my stutter has just butchered aloud. I am already anticipating––dreading––the next time I will have to talk. I can see myself half an hour from now, in my next class, feeling so petrified of speaking, of stuttering, that I cannot bring myself to ask to go to the bathroom. Anxiety inundates me. Shame seeps through my skin. I need an escape. I envision myself sprinting from the room – running home, running to California, running to China. Anywhere.

Instead, I stay. I reach into the desk and discreetly pull out a book. My contraband. As inconspicuously as possible, I rest it atop my legs and tuck the spine into the open space of my desk, rendering it invisible to my teacher and everyone else. I look down at the secret nook I’ve created. The gold cover of my favorite book gleams in the artificial light, its stark black text reading, D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths. A portal to another world.

In this book of fantasy, words themselves are also a portal: the ultimate escape from my human limits, especially the limits my childhood stutter imposed upon me. The words that paralyze me also offer me infinite worlds to explore. These words fuel my curiosity, enabling me to question, to imagine, and to stretch the boundaries of what I know. I take refuge in this challenge and in these words, the vehicle of my insurmountable insecurity.

As time passes, I feel my perspective shift, like rocks tumbling or tiles sliding out of place. I begin to envision myself crafting the sanctuary I seek in literature. The more I read, the more my passion for writing intensifies. I had always written privately, sporadically––it was a way to cope, to make sense of what weighed on my mind and articulate it to myself.

My first attempt at writing for someone’s eyes besides my own, however, was a mini science-fiction 29

novel my best friend and I wrote in fourth grade. But I stretched my boundaries. I experimented.

Poetry, essays, non-fiction, short stories, editorials––I wrote constantly. Every form of writing challenged me, each in a different way, to find the voice my stutter had silenced. I had stifled myself verbally by avoiding situations in which I would have to speak or by changing my words to avoid sounds that were difficult. I had hidden, burrowed deep into a hole where neither judgment nor vulnerability could reach me. My ardent desire to reclaim my authentic self––to retrieve it from the depths of some cave, some mountain in which I had buried it––impelled me to pursue writing. The antidote.

When I write, I feel liberated––empowered, even––as I express myself on my own terms. My words ring with purpose and potency. This is why poetry is my favorite genre of writing – I have the most freedom and the most power. Each word carries an unmatched gravity, anchoring a raw, authentic, and abstract expression of self with meaning through sounds, syllables, and associations. And I, as the poet, seize this liberty of expression, this immense power. I am the word-chooser, the meaning-giver. To borrow from Ralph Waldo Emerson, “the poet is [...] the man without impediment.”

Writing is no longer simply a sanctuary. Through writing, I have discovered my voice. Now, rather than relying on the refuge of someone else's story, I create and craft. I seek words and sentences to shape into a story. And now, I can tell my own.

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Cotton Hearts Laura Ferrucci

I used to hear them breathing.

Their shiny black eyes would blink at me, cry with me, understand my childish mumbling, and listen with reassuring sewn smiles as I rambled for hours on end sprawled on the floor, holding them above me.

Even though they never moved, I felt their heartbeats pulsing in unison, warm glowing light radiating from their souls.

I was loved––and safe.

Their kind thoughts like blue and yellow ribbons in a whirlwind around me, protecting me from the world.

I remember being so angry when I was told they weren't alive.

Soft purple dreams sewn into me, torn from my heart.

I heard stitches pop, seams broken beyond repair.

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My soul was bleeding but deep down I had already known.

Now I can’t even hear them crying when I forget their names.

I stare with stinging red eyes into their faces for hours on end, but I don’t remember.

I will never remember.

I will never hear the comforting steady rhythm of their heartbeats again.

Now they are only stuffed spirits and cotton hearts.

Digital Photography Caroline DeVita 33

Darkness

Lindsay Morgner Explosions fill the sky, shadows etched into asphalt.

Is this the end of the world as we know it?

Has the world finally stopped spinning as smoke fills the air?

Soul-consuming darkness–– reach for light, it’s gone.

Or did we find the light, discover it is not as bright as it once was?

Do your eyes still work? Can they see who else is consumed by darkness?

Is there no escape from the encroaching dark mass?

Will we lose the fight against time?

Can we find comfort in the fact we are not to blame?

Does it matter that it becomes harder to see?

Do we seek revenge upon the darkness or only strive to see light?

Where can we go so that we can fix the mistakes of our parents and their parents–– did they destroy earth?

How long until there is nothing left?

Will Lucifer come to collect his reward?

Can we sleep with guilt about the mistakes we've made?

How long ‘til our nightmares become reality?

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Will we wake in fear, go to bed in tears?

Did the earth stop spinning?

Is our world gone, or has the road ended?

Was the world that awful and cruel?

Why did it shun anyone different; anyone who tried to make the world a better place is now gone.

Were their efforts in vain?

Who is feeling our collective pain?

Has the sky turned black from pollution-scarred rain?

Digital Photography Celia Daigle

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Too Many Ghosts Linley Himes

I am who I am because you kept coming back until a frown was engraved on my brow, most of my younger years taken up by monsters creeping from under the bed.

I am who I am because of the ghosts that walk the halls of my past, telling me I could never be like her; I could never succeed.

Now I stand with blank eyes, staring into nothing.

The exact time the realization hit me, I’m not sure.

That what you were doing to me was not only cruel, but all in my head––another monster made up to slay my demons that went rogue, and turned on me.

But I don’t let who I was make who I am.

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There are too many ghosts behind me, their voices a symphony I can’t hear.

So I keep my blank eyes forward, not listening–– not seeing.

Graphite Nina Rosenblum 37

To Lose Your Mind and Find it Again Caroline Conrod

You may not believe it, but in seventh grade I lost my mind, not sleeping for several months.

And was in a manic state–– doctors did not know what was wrong.

Crying to laughing in a matter of seconds–– no control, no sense of reality.

It was not safe for me to go to school or remain at home.

I had lost control.

I went to the mental hospital: I stayed several weeks.

There, I learned to deal with emotions again, doctors watching, eyes on me at all times, taking notes: what I was doing and how I was acting, trying to figure out what was wrong.

It was the worst experience of my life–– but a necessary step towards recovering.

Four weeks later, having not been allowed to see family and friends, I could finally come home.

The doctors determined I had bipolar disorder, prescribed a medication that would work.

I now had a handle on reality.

But there was still a lot to do.

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I had to teach myself how to fall asleep again–– my body would not allow me to do so.

I realized how to interact with people, keeping my emotions in check.

By the end of the summer after seventh grade, I had made a lot of progress and was ready for school.

But I had missed five months of seventh grade.

Should I stay with my current grade: people I have known and been friends with my whole life?

But I’d work the whole year to catch up, forever behind, in a tornado of make-up work.

Or, do I repeat seventh grade, meet a whole new grade of kids while still struggling to cope with my recent diagnosis, kids in the grade below having heard about me, wondering, what happened?

I chose to repeat seventh grade.

It took time, but I made better friends than I could have imagined.

I excelled in school and sports.

I was happier than I had ever been.

Digital Photography Natty Pazos

I had found my mind again.

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Fragile Mirrored Plane Katie Keller

i’m from where sea meets sky where at twilight the tide is only a mirror of the night–– fracturing the moon into shards of silver light. i’m from where sea meets sky where at midnight the tide is a perfect mirror of the night–– pierced by each glittering star your gaze captures mine. i’m from where sea meets sky where in the blink of an eye i decide to take refuge in the tide–– remember and forget find and hide the shadow that was once mine. in the deepest of indigo nights, i cannot see where sea ends and ocean begins.

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where like a tightrope the universe straddles a fragile plane–– one state of being hanging suspended atop another. i’m from where sea meets sky where i am, and am not–– i’m from every place i saw–– and forgot.

Acrylic Caroline Badagliacca 41

Time

Elizabeth Asprinio You may not believe it, but I want to go to space.

Not just the moon, but a place unseen by human eyes.

I want something new, ground-breaking–– something impossible.

Time is the enemy.

The clock always ticking down down down until life is snatched from us.

If I could go to space, what would I find?

Not that I would have enough time to find out.

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Mixed Media Nina Rosenblum

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Definite start, no clear end, left to figure out everything in between.

I want to explore space, but the unknown is frightening.

I want to explore space, but there’s not enough time.

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Digital Photography Olivia Batal 45

Cheyenne, Wyoming Daisy Steinthal

“Hey, are you alright?”

“You don’t look good.”

“I’m worried about you.”

Attempts to help just add to the noise.

It surrounds me.

Trapped in my mind.

No, not trapped––lost, wandering through a field of thought so dense I can’t see what’s in front of me.

A cycle, a gyre, a storm–– hazy and distant and present and consuming.

Why and how and who, and can I and how, why not, are you sure, it’ll be ok––I promise.

Stop.

Stop the noise.

Stop the thoughts. Stop the wandering.

Stop the worry.

Just stop.

But then I look up and realize I’m not here.

I’m in–– well––someplace else.

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Digital Photography Caroline DeVita

I have been for a while.

I hear words, sentences; I see people talking, but I can’t comprehend what they are saying.

Stuck. Clueless, ignorant to my native language.

I nod. Maybe that will quiet them.

And really, what else am I supposed to say?

Sorry, I’m so weird sometimes.

Sorry, I’m not here, I’m trying to find my way back.

Sorry, I’m trying to convince my thoughts to leave me alone.

Sorry, I do care about what you’re saying.

I promise I’m paying attention.

Sorry, I don’t know what to do.

Please help.

No, that won’t work.

I can’t be a burden for someone else to bear.

I won’t be the undertow that takes somebody else.

“Oh yeah, don’t worry. I’m fine. What were you saying?”

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Last One Standing Katie Keller

The girl sways, the last leaf of autumn.

Autumn stumbles upon winter.

The golden yellow leaf fading to cinnamon brown, frigid wind turning icy white.

Accompanied by bare, interlocking branches.

A stem grabs the arm of a tree tightly–– for fear of falling to the empty chaos below.

She allows her grip to loosen finally fluttering down, a sense of relief; the loneliness over.

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Digital Photography Elisabeth Hall 49

Another Bleak Tomorrow Caroline DeVita

Leaning against the brick wall by the supermarket, I lift a cigarette to my lips.

The smell tells people to stay away.

Parents shield their daughters, lock their Range Rovers, keep their eyes ahead, as if virtue would scare me.

I used to be them–– I wore my pride like a fine coat.

I owned this town.

Now I live in its shadows.

I watch a small girl help her father with the groceries.

Her eyes speak to him–– how can so much love be in someone so young?

She looks over at me, stares.

I scowl with resentment.

Yet this town’s familiarity–– the way I smell my childhood when I walk by the bakery, or hear recess still in session as I walk past the school–– it gives me a reason to stay.

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Ink and Watercolor Andy Bella

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Sometimes this place is my hell, but usually it is my Garden of Eden.

I wonder where my bed will be tonight–– the old park bench, maybe.

That one’s a regular spot.

Living each day is swimming through an icy river.

At the end of the day I reach the other side, yet I know that tomorrow I will face another chilling riptide–– and each night I am still freezing, stumbling, shivering.

Sleep is my only haven.

I dream of what this town used to be–– a delusion of hope.

I wake back up into my nightmare, and cry to dream again.

I flick the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, just as dusk swallows the soft light.

I shiver in the brisk air and light a cigarette.

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Watercolor Eliza Stanley 55

Lost Relations Elisabeth Hall

I embraced your sweet affections willingly, enjoyed memories where we sat by the fire warmth, where laughter filled the room.

You checked under my bed, sought "monsters" I insisted hid within nighttime shadows.

After you placed your lips against my forehead, repeating "I love you," I drifted into serenity.

You were my protector and my hero, and I hoped to grow up to be a daughter who made you proud, who you could someday boast about to friends.

You were more than my father; you were my best friend.

I laughed and cried with you.

Our unbreakable bond seemed immortal.

Until you took me by surprise.

Rather than protecting me, saving me from heartaches, from tears you became the one I needed protection from.

Your words pierced my heart, betraying our trust--our love.

Simple acts to you led to the death of me; insignificant phrases impacted me significantly, crushing me.

Our communication became more distant, our relationship slowly fading.

At first, I worked to maintain our relationship, as a blacksmith works to renew dulled weaponry.

I reached out to you and accepted our differences.

I welcomed your new daughter and wife with open arms, allowing them to join our family and trusted circle.

A mistake.

There was only room for one daughter.

In time, I grew tired of trying to recreate our past.

You didn't even try.

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Acrylic Natty Pazos 57

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I waited that night, on the day of my birth.

I waited for you to call, text––communicate in any way.

I fell asleep in tears, curled up weak and wounded, knowing you had forgotten.

And still––you’ve never called.

I have grown into a woman now, with independent thoughts and beliefs.

I have passed essential milestones.

The lack of your presence at events became easier with time.

You no longer know me––and I do not know you, either.

Why do you pretend you don’t care when I know you must?

I am your first child, the only true daughter.

I must have some meaning despite your persistence in hurting me.

I remember the father who protected me from the evils of the world, who gave me hope and comfort when needed most.

But this man has changed.

Our relationship died with the birth of your new image.

Yet, I can’t let go.

I need my protector, my caregiver.

I need my father.

I need you.

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The Quiet Poet Laura Ferrucci

I am the quiet poet.

I draw my silk from the writhing aurora borealis in the frozen sky and twist its ethereal light into dripping ink still wet on the page.

You think you know me?

You don't know me.

I am the serene night sky and the boiling hot stars.

I am the tempestuous, unbridled seas and the playful shallow shores.

I am the relentless, scorching desert and the soft, smooth tides of sand.

I watch as diamonds fall like rain onto the fourth fingers of my peers, imprisoning them, but my ancestors slayed dragons–– I am free.

I will always be free.

No one can handle me anyway.

I am a captivated student of artists and poets before me;

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books are my haven, my lovers, my dreams, my life–– I am not human–– arms open, eyes shut, head to the sky, I am but a channel for the flow of the universe.

Acrylic Painting Emma Belmont 61

Celeste

Laura Ferrucci I decided one day as a child of no more than seven that when I grow up and have children of my own I will name my first daughter Celeste.

My baby girl Celeste... stardust shimmering in her black eyes hair the color of red giants Saturn's rings on her delicate fingers comets coursing through her

veins and constellations on her cheeks and collar bones.

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She will daydream too much but her teachers will understand that she does not belong in this world.

Her laugh will be as brilliant as glowing nebulae flowing purple silk trillions of miles wide floating in the void bursting with new life.

If you make her angry she will turn you to ice crystallize your tears make your breath freeze.

But if she loves like she will love me she'll never leave you.

Because my Celeste loves more than the Sun loves the Earth than black holes love the light than galaxies love their stars and she'll love until the universe itself stops cold.

Digital Photography Sofia Caruso 63

Hyphen

Kaitlin Edwardson Here’s how it starts: Drive the car. Arrive. Go. Get on the bus. Go. Back in the car. Home. Still not done. Keep going. Then you can be done, only to go the next day. You want to escape for a weekend? No. Go. Two words and two brains, completely expected to do it all. Yes, of course you can fail, but is it really okay? “Failure means you can learn.” No. Here, it means that you are incapable. The two different responsibilities are said to be united. I don’t buy it. Two different places, two different times, two different concepts. No exceptions, no excuses, no breaks. Hour after hour and then you are done. But that is just the end of the beginning. “You’re done.” No you aren’t. You still can’t be done. Go to your second life, go to your next expectation. The wheel of stress keeps on spinning and it does not care if you get stuck in the tracks.

Student-athlete. There it is.

Two worlds are united by a hyphen.

A single mark carries the emphasis of two personalities expected to be balanced by a single person.

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Digital Photography Katie Keller

Not even a “person.” Barely matured. A teenager, learning about balance, somehow expected to perfect it.

Student versus athlete. Student comes first? Game day? Early dismissal? Sacrificing student for athlete? You can do it all. Keep up grades, keep up physicality, keep up happiness. Perfect attendance. Live far away. It isn’t hard. Just keep going. Keep driving. The solution is so easy, just power through. Somehow easier said than done.

The stress is overbearing. Constant reminders of all you have going on are enough to send you into hysterics. However, the expectation: you cannot crack. You cannot lose it. You cannot skip.

You cannot defy the expectation. You cannot say you cannot. Simply because you are a studentathlete, held together by the bond of a punctuation mark.

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Angst America The Sofia Caruso

In and out

In and out, in and out People walk in and out of the kitchen

H…E…L…P No ideenttity...No escapee Sl.o.owly stoops working right One brain stuck within its cage

In and out, in and out People walk in and out of the kitchen

He did not deserve the cuts at all He was not worthy of the knives While one prepares to divorce the stars Two magnets fill one heart In and out, in and out People walk in and out of the kitchen

An athlete blocks up his bleeding eyes A ballerina spins with a painted face Erase their days with smoke and screams Two count their days with coffee beans In and out, in and out People walk in and out of the kitchen 66

Unerasable images: no plot, no escape Fog rolls off tongues, Rain lands in eyes Gilding and Erasing Earth’s underbelly Beneath silver clouds footsteps paint

In and out, in and out People walk in and out of the kitchen

Ripples spread in navy blue Pressing lips against water droplets Embracing bodies with warmed cheeks In the darkest times two eyes appear

Mixed Media Andy Bella

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Color of Ten Thousand Miles Emily Coster

Gold, the color of ten thousand miles, burns holes in the tide.

If I reached through the arc of a gentle trough–– the meniscus mirroring the atmosphere–– would I emerge with a fraction of the sun?

Stardust from supernovas sprinkles the vacuum like crumbs.

I think if I had watched a star die, I’d know why the ocean doesn’t hold its ashes.

But I can see the color of ten thousand miles, in its luminous youth–– clearer than a bullet hole–– transcending the gaseous confines of the sky, of the kaleidoscope sea, of the pupil of my eye, seemingly simmering through eternity.

Yet if I charred my fingertips reaching high, through ten thousand miles of vacuum and stardust, I couldn’t hold the gold I had sought to find.

And if I plunge my palms beneath the waves, through bullet holes from ten thousand miles, I’d emerge with stones trampled by soles, seaweed tangled between toes–– not even stardust, the ashes of gold–– just a pebble bigger than a bullet.

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Digital Photography Julia Welsh

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Digital Photography Caroline DeVita 71

Digital Photography Julia Welsh 72

Joy Ride

Arielle Uygur A “joy ride” is what this is called. It is an enjoyable moment shared with my sister Claire and me, listening to the same playlist on repeat, over and over again, while intentionally heading the wrong way. Going in the opposite direction of where we should be going. If Mom is being annoying, we jump in the car, escaping, and run any spontaneous or unnecessary errands we can. For example, “go pick up the prescription from Finch Pharmacy,” which is seven minutes away, becomes a fortyminute excursion through a series of the backroads of Greenwich, Connecticut.

We hop into our familiar navy Toyota Highlander, zooming out of the long driveway, grinding taupe and crimson-colored maple leaves under the tires as we continue into new terrains. The leaves crackle like a bonfire on a cool summer night. The serenity of the car pours over me while Claire speedily plugs the auxiliary cord into her cracked iPhone. “Our Own House” by MisterWives floods the car speakers. She spins the silver dial on the dashboard, exceeding 60 mph, until the song reaches full volume.

We roll down the windows. The fluttering of crisp autumn air brushes against my face like feathers, tangling my tamed hair, like I have just rolled out of bed. Claire’s signature blue aviators fill the entire rearview mirror. A smoky fall smell makes its way into the car. As we coast down Riversville Road, the music slows, then stops. Power lines are engulfed by maple and oak trees. The windy roads prevent the music from loading. Skipping back and forth, like a scratched CD, the speaker sings “we built our own house.”

Claire turns to me. “Error 5. You know what to do.”

Ah yes––“Error 5.” The most classic part of our joy rides: when I must find a solution to music mishaps. When the music stops, and Claire makes me fix it because she is driving.

Next to the gear shift, I unplug Claire's phone, plug it back in, then hit the auxiliary button on the dashboard. This is quite the process. It seems simple enough––it’s not. Yet, “Error 5” continues to flash on the screen. I try again. First reconnecting the phone, then pressing the auxiliary button.

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Still––nothing. At this point, Claire begins her own process: the nagging. “FIX IT.” “I AM TRYING.” Alas, I try again, and reconnect her phone, and press the auxiliary button.

Third time's a charm: it works.

Passing cars stare as I uncontrollably fling my arms into the air. I push my body up from the grey leather seat, and grab the useless handle bar on the car ceiling, simultaneously popping my head through the sunroof. A gust of air whips my face. The clouds begin to dance. They’re like a TV commercial you are fast-forwarding through to get to the good parts of a show. For a second, I escape from the momentous ordinary. I try counting the lampposts running from my eyes as the tires keep turning along freshly-paved roads. I count five. My ears discover the piercing whistle of the wind, my mind distancing itself from my body as the gentle hum of the car escapes me. The song playing in the car seems miles away.

I duck my head back into the car and am met with reality: an extremely tight seatbelt restraining me. I return to the steady pace within the car. No, Arielle, this is not a music festival, is the facial expression Claire is sporting while I fist pump to the mellowing beat of the song. Despite her expression, I can tell she is equally content. Her fingertips tap the side of the shiny black wheel.

She mouths the lyrics “seems like yesterday” while the song reverberates for the fifth time. I try opening my mouth to sing along, when I am reminded, “MisterWives sings this song, let’s keep it that way.”

Laughter spreads throughout my body; an embarrassing wheeze forms from my lungs. Claire’s infectious giggle catalyzes a smile I cannot hide. I roll up the windows because my eyes are dried out from the cold air. I roll down my flannel sleeves: the car is now cool within. The song chants the last chorus as we approach the turn onto our street, where the driveway resembles nothing less than a forest, and our journey comes to a close.

Surrounded by color-changing foliage, I look to Claire with a realization.

“We forgot the prescription.”

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whoever

Daisy Steinthal a girl acting stupidly for the hell of it. why must she ask to live? a girl dancing and singing with abandon speaking in flawed French for the sound. everyone who understood her smiled. a girl sitting on a beach towel picnic blanket leaning into the safety of ignorant arms growing towards the music of newly familiar voices drinking in fresh air with every sip of spiced apple cider. she forgot she had been suffocating. a girl squealing as the sting of icy water hits her bare legs, realizing, perhaps for the first time, she is free. and dancing on the coarse sand–– it doesn’t matter if she cuts her feet.

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Doctor's Orders Clara Geffs

Is he dead? I think to myself as I stare at the tall young man lying in the gurney.

He must be. No one drinks that much before driving and lives to talk about it. I wish I could scream my questions aloud. However, the doctors in the unit are busy trying to save him and do not have time for my thoughts. And so, I continue the conversation in my head.

Who is this man?

As a volunteer at Westlake Hospital, it gets harder each day to witness pain and suffering.

Nevertheless, I watch the other volunteers, interns, residents, and doctors keep a straight face and remain focused every night, so I must, too. Inside, however, I have endless questions and my head spins, imagining the answers.

The trauma unit of the Westlake Hospital is a large space wallpapered by graphs and computer screens. Usually, one patient is enough to fill the entire area with doctors, EMTs, and sometimes even priests and rabbis – never family though. The family must wait outside.

Tonight, however, two patients occupy the space: a tall young man, whom I now know is Mark, and a young girl around my age who Mark killed with his speeding car – she may still have been alive when the EMTs got to her but now she lies lifeless. So here I stand, inside Trauma Room 1.

Staring at Mark.

“Hey! Hey! What a roller coaster!” yells the newly awoken Mark in a lighthearted voice.

“He is awake!” a doctor yells in shock to the EMT. “You guys would not believe what just happened to me,” Mark blurts out again drunkenly for all the unit to hear. He is awake? Was he just taking a nap? I glare in the direction of the waiting room where I imagine the young girl’s family will soon arrive to hear the worst news of their lives. Thinking about their pain, my face contorts. And yet, Mark dares to make jokes. Emotions overwhelm me and I feel the urgent need to do something. But, there is nothing to be done.

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Digital Photography Katie Keller

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Digital Photography Caroline DeVita 78

Hope in Terror Peyton Lauricella

The sunless afternoon tries to overpower the banner.

It cannot.

Wind moves the thin trees and swirls the dead leaves around the sky, believing it can do the same to the insignia.

It cannot.

The sun attempts to shine through nightmare clouds.

It succeeds.

Slim glimpses of sun highlight the blood, navy, and eggshell flag in the sky.

Fear sweeps the atmosphere like rain as the storm starts to grow.

The flag will not stand down.

It waves proudly, keeping its freedom and liberty intact. The flag sways as one, while the storm clouds separate.

In the face of terror, America comes together.

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Roots

Nephthalie Rene I am from cool pools of cyan blue, emerald leaves of palm trees that crackle in the wind.

If you listen closely you’ll hear the red shouts of celebration and cries of history.

I am from the violent sun of a land that scorched the backs of my ancestors, slaves who made history and created a force not even an earthquake could break.

I am from a rich culture where skin color makes no difference.

We are united by our language.

I am from celebrations and rainbow dishes of soup joumou, brown rice, and grio.

I am from a past where bold roots were formed, a present where my mind is awakening and a future where hope rings off my tongue.

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Digital Photography Anissa Arakal

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Debussy’s Dream Laura Ferrucci

The vast ocean of a winter night outside his frosty window.

Tattered maroon carpet beneath aching wooden legs.

Thousands of worn pages drowning the room in a sea of delicate ink pearls.

He sits at his tiny piano, shoes melting into the floor and puffing deep thought through his kaolin pipe rubbed smooth by the years that have now become as hazy as his gray smoke.

He stares with tired eyes like dying candles across the musty room.

Monet’s blurred pink lilies sinking, bleeding into vivid purple ponds kept alive only by an old wooden frame.

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He tries to find himself but sees only Monet’s mud in the mirror, the fuzzy residual memories of a colorful dream.

His eyes drift down to his own canvas trembling at the familiar wrath of his veiny, calloused hands, and he dreams once more.

Digital Photography Olivia Andrews 83

Colophon Perspectives is entirely the work of Sacred Heart Greenwich students under the supervision of faculty advisors. The magazine is headed by two editors-in-chief with a staff of writing, art, and layout editors working closely together. Art and writing submissions are encouraged by faculty members and peers, and are typically generated through individual creativity and classwork. Writing and artwork are stored on Google Drive and the publication’s email account, to which students submit art and writing. The book was selfpublished with the help of Blurb, Inc. using BookSmart software on Mac. The typeface is Garamond. The image files are formatted by staff using Adobe Photoshop CC 2017.

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Digital Photography Christina DeConcini85

Digital Photography Katie Keller 86

Dedication This year’s edition is dedicated to Ms. Kev Filmore. She is a vital force in Sacred Heart's Art Department and the backbone of Perspectives. Even though she has been on sabbatical this year, she has inspired us to push the boundaries of art, writing, and layout. On sabbatical, she is furthering her photography career, creating a photography portfolio and exhibit centered around the theme of home. We dedicate this year's book and theme to Ms. Filmore and her artistic pursuits. She has been an inspiration to us, and we miss her a great deal. Ms. Filmore: we thank you for making Perspectives a creative space for so many of us and continuing to allow your classroom to be our home at Sacred Heart.

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