Patchwork 2022

Patchwork Cushing Academy Literary Magazine 2022

Patchwork Cushing Academy Literary Magazine 2022

Editors

Xuan Claire Chu ’24 Keaton Razik ’23 Samantha Striebel ’25 Vinh Jerry Vo ’24 Evan Wingard ’24 Gabrielle Wojdyl ’23 Jiaming Perry Zeng ’22

Faculty Sponsor

Mr. Simon Hunt

Cover Art

Eunah Kim ’22

Patchwork gratefully acknowledges the support of Mr. Donny Connors, Mr. Josh Doyon, Ms. Deb Gardner, Mr. Christian Housh, Ms. Jen Viana, and the Cushing English Department.

Table of Contents 2 4 5 6 7 8 10 11 12 13 14 16 17 19 20 21 24 25 26 27 28 30 31 32 34 36 37 40 44

Grief and Gratitude | Gabriel Westreich ’22 Dear, est 致，亲 | Jiaming Perry Zeng ’22 Aphorism | Harry O’Connor ’25 The Light of a Year Past (genethliacon) | Mx. Logan Cody Milo’s Haiku | Carolina Ortiz Mena Trevino ’24 Haunted Autumn | Armand Hilmansyah ’23 I Fall | Chelsea Mukete ’23 The Leaves That Covered Us | Evan Wingard ’24 Lonely Night | Topya Sassine ’24 Dear New England Fall | Matisse Schutten-Burgess ’22 Nostalgia | Hongtao Chen ’22 Toddler’s Embrace | Corneilia Davis ’22 Lust Obsession | Stone Evans ’24 Communique | Dan Lichtman ’22 An Aubade of Haikus | Mr. Ryan Conroy Group Work | Fiona Riley ’24 Souls Were Precious Entities that Floated Across the Universe | Kyla Keating ’22 Monster | Jiaming Perry Zeng ’22 Flypaper | Mx. Logan Cody Gratitude | Yenae Gebru ’23 A Solitary Person Is Either a Beast or a God | Xincheng Derek Xiang ’22 Escape | Seamus Cummings ’22 New Beginnings | Corneilia Davis ’22 The Last Memories Of His Love | Evan Wingard ’24 Without Them What Is There? | Zahira Branch ’22 How Much I Love You | Samantha Striebel ’25 Note To My Future Self | Michelle Liang ’22 Nonviolent Protest and the False Flag of Civility | Talia Trigg ’22 One Last Time | Soraya Jeffery ’22

1

Grief and Gratitude

Gabriel Westreich ’22

It struck him immediately as he woke. With a slow, casual roll-over, James’s body shifted from the interior of his bed, which was against the wall, towards the other side, which exposed his view to the mirror parallel to his bed frame. “I don’t like what I see,” he thought. The image reflecting back at him showed a young man, of about 25, leaning on his right side with his left arm hanging loosely over his sheets. He dreaded the effort it would take him to pull back his sheets and swing his hurting feet to the ground. “Reality,” he thought, “is not where I want to be.”

James was a dreamer, or at least that’s what everybody told him. With his constant inability to stay focused, he often found himself drooling over his desk, thinking about what could be, and thinking about what life was and wasn’t. Every so often, he’d get shaken back to reality with the loud “THUD” that came from his boss dropping a massive stack of paperwork on his desk. “You’re doing it again!” his boss would yell.

“Get outta lala land and get back to work!” He wondered why, oh so constantly, his life was the way it was.

As his senses came back to him more and more, he looked up to his left at the high right corner of his tiny studio apartment. The clock showed 10:30, yet he felt like it was nighttime. All of time had become dark like the night to him, and he trotted through each day without any enthusiasm or desire for anything. He swung his bleary, blood-shot gaze once more back to the mirror, and with that same left arm picked the fabric from his carpet piece by piece. Due to the weight of his body and gravity, he began to feel the tingling sensation go up from his pointer finger through his wrist, then to his elbow, finally reaching an abrupt stop at his shoulder, and it all felt numb. James lay there a while longer, until he thought of something that hadn’t crossed his mind for who knows how long. He got caught in a trance again, but this time his mental image cast a light on his surroundings, similar to the glow that comes with the warm, intoxicating display of daybreak on a warm spring morning. It engulfed his consciousness, and he felt what seemed like a live shudder go through his body, and he felt the tension and elasticity rush back to his muscles, only instants after his prolonged numbness. He was thinking of his mother.

Ever since she had gotten sick three years before this, and passed, James had made it his number one priority to stack his life with such work and distraction that he wouldn’t have the time to think of her. He didn’t want to fall into the dread and negativity of the grieving process, yet for some reason, on this morning, he felt that it was necessary. He knew she wasn’t with him anymore, but it didn’t matter to him. His memory raced back to all the times when he was a young boy and his mom would be waiting at the door for him with open arms, after a long day of school. “She was beautiful,” he thought, “and the most loving individual I ever knew.” He was staring at the dimmed ceiling light directly above his eyes at this moment, and the tipped brass of the light shell became blurry in his gaze as his peripheral vision clouded 2

with tears. He wasn’t tearing up out of sadness, though. He was crying because of how happy these memories were; these memories that he had left in the dust with the hopes of getting rid of them, because if his mom was no longer here, and he knew she wasn’t coming back, he thought it would make things easier.

He quickly remembered the box of old photos he had left on the upper shelf of his old oak desk drawer. Ignoring the effort it would take, which he thought of almost every morning when he would dread getting up, he bolted down his stairs and into his study. Swinging the drawer open with a staunch effort, he almost broke the wooden borders which held it in place. He grabbed the box and tossed it on the couch and then took a long, deep breath and reminded himself to slow down. Walking calmly over to the box, he opened it, and immediately the once cloudy-eyed gaze turned into a flood of tears. He looked over the box, and, as single droplets bounced off the shiny surface of the printed photos, he grabbed handful after handful of the photos he had of himself and his mom. While still crying, he began to laugh and smile, and the photos held such weight in his hands he would’ve struggled less to hold a log of wood. “You’re still with me, aren’t you?” he asked out loud. He looked up as if he could see her and began to smile wider and laugh with such happiness and joy that he felt like he was a child playing outside with his mom again. He came to realize that, even though his mother wasn’t present as a physical figure, he would never lose her and she would always be with him, and for that he felt tremendously grateful.

3

Dear, est 致，亲

Jiaming Perry Zeng ’22

One is never the brightest star in my sky, ta从不是星空中最耀眼的那颗星,

Nor is one the firework in the dark. 也不是在暗处里闪耀绽放的烟花。

One may be a dry branch in a pile of firewood, ta可能只是柴堆里的一根干枝，

Yet one is the fuel to my negligible spark. 但是ta点燃了我微不足道的火花。

One is never the flaring sun who leads to new day, ta从不是迎来新天地的雄雄烈日，

Nor is one the moon that brightens my night. 也不是照亮我的夜晚的那轮弯月。

One may be the lonely beacon guiding the way, ta可能是指引船舶的那座孤独的灯塔，

Yet one is the one and only guiding light. 但是ta是引导我人生的唯一的一道亮光。

One is never the waterfall with infinite vigor, ta从不是那涌流不息的硕大瀑布，

Nor is one the dancing antelope, untrammeled and carefree. 也不是不受约束且自由奔放的羚羊。

One may be the open sign that everybody ignores, ta可能是过往行人无视的牌子，

Yet one is the haven that always opens for me. 但是ta是永远为我敞开的避风港。

One may never illumine gloomy mist, ta可能永远不会点亮阴郁的迷雾,

Yet I here exist, for one too exists.

但我之所以存在，是因为ta也存在。

4

Aphorism

Harry O’Connor ’25

Somebody once said that to see the light you must have seen the dark. You have never felt the light of being together if you have never felt the darkness of being alone.

Would there be light if there was never darkness, or would there be together if there was never alone?

Talia Trigg ’22 5

The Light of a Year Past (genethliacon)

Mx. Logan Cody

The room would be haunted I supposed in a breath; but it was on the mountain the next day where the insistence of dewed kisses, misting light into the open spored confessions, dazzling through columns of light and knotted promises, rooting warm in the dirt awoke to my footsteps and on steaming air swam to the crook of my neck

6

to hold me there.

Milo’s Haiku

Carolina Ortiz Mena Trevino ’24

I Milo is easy His love for ice cubes and grapes Keeps him occupied II Written by Milo Was this happy haiku Woof woof woof woof woof

Yue Molly Wang ’23 7

Haunted Autumn

Armand Hilmansyah ’23

A cold breeze signaled the coming of autumn. Plants teeming with life transformed into a bleak brown color. The garden was a thicket of waist-length grass run amok, infected with gloomy brown and haggard yellow leaves. Bulky boulders strained across the sodden earth like savage beasts poised on hooks, preparing to lunge; these humongous leviathans stood unbelievably still, their harsh sides cloaked by patchy streaks of snaking, zig-zagging creepers. A tree stood alone and naked in the sky.

It had an odd resemblance to a beggar, with scraggly boughs and arching trunk.

Its sharp twigs trembled in spells of sentimental sadness, like fingers. At its feet grew dense orange vegetation, with brambles and spiky nettles thrown in for good measure. An aged piece of marble with lichen teeming protruded from the gloomy undergrowth.

As I pushed the wrought iron gates open, they yelled and moaned a grief-stricken lament, leaving a freezing shiver that climbed up my spine, first from my palms, then up to my back. The metal’s rough biting contact sliced into my skin, staying, leaving a chilly trace. There was a cobble-laid garden trail in plain sight, with tufted borders and hedgerows on both sides. Everything had an uncanny allure; everything exuded a strangeness, an unfamiliarity; everything exuded a baleful bleakness, terrible wretchedness. I took a step forward, reluctant at first.

An ominous block of construction, a single-story home with one door and a haggard facade, loomed over the yard. Rain-rotted shingles drooped over the veranda’s eaves, where dead clusters of ivy hung; the windows were stained, their mottled, opaque glass panes like cataracts; and the coarsely plastered brickwork on the mildewed walls, caked in dust, peeled off in hideous flakes. The house appeared to sag beneath the weight of the fragile tiles that covered the roof from every angle.

I came to a modest front porch where a broken rocker swayed ever so slightly as I walked along the garden route. A door stood ajar to the far left, without a bell or knocker, its oaken panels engraved with senile rot, where splinters of wood flaked off and the veneer cracked and grooved. The wind whispered the faint croons of weird lullabies. The sway of nature reduced to a mournful calm with each passing second.

From the gunmetal sky, a gentle drizzle began to fall.

My pulse skipped a beat when the door flew open with the touch of a fingertip, the rusted hinges screeching. Suspicious, I gazed into the darkness: the inky blackness was an invitation, a crooking finger, inviting me to venture past the cracked door beyond the front steps. It felt like time was moving at a snail’s pace.

8

I slowly crept in. I winced as a reek that smelled eerily like putrescent flesh wafted from every nook and crevice of the house. When a single, guttering candle appeared out of nowhere, its flickering illumination throwing shapeless shadows on the scarred walls, unbridled revulsion turned to dread. My bones were pierced by fear, and my body was electrified. Without a second thought, I dashed out of the house and raced as fast as my legs could take me. My heart was pounding so hard it seemed like it was about to explode.

Tianyue Phoebe Zhang ’23 9

I Fall

The seasons change when I become the new me I fall The weather becomes gloomy but I am the peak of light I fall The campus love and support bring warmth that I feel I fall The support given from Cushing and family–I give them thanks I fall The fall of falling in love with I myself will be infinite I fall The future I am excited for brings me morning breeze I fall The beauty I find in the little things brings me grace I fall The learning of new things makes I myself do better in life I fall The spirit of the holidays has I myself waiting eagerly I Fall But falling is where I become the new beginning like winter.

10

Chelsea Mukete ’23

The Leaves That Covered Us

Evan Wingard ’24

These leaves were always meant to fall We never know when they might decide to go They drop from their tree to flutter amongst us all Maybe now it’s time for them to finally fly They start to detach from their home on the tree We watch they as they first let go The world starts to wonder who they might be Until the wind starts to pick up its speed This wind starts to blow faster and faster The leaves start to twirl into each other Maybe the rain might make them stick to a wall like plaster All we can do is watch them for hours We can’t stop the wind from blowing We can’t stop the leaves from drifting away We can’t stop our minds from knowing We can’t stop our dreams becoming What would this life mean if we were just a leaf Would all that matter be to look pretty till we wilt away Is our life just made out of sole belief Or is our life the only thing we have

11

Lonely Night

Topya Sassine ’24

Table for one for a lonely soul As my wandering mind is at its best Our once-eternal love turned to coal Feelings of admiration turning into detest.

What in my eyes was fate But to you meaningless and vague Giving you full control, letting you dictate A toxicity that soon resembles a plague.

I never knew true love until I met you, And I never knew true heartbreak until your betray.

Weeks have gone by and I still feel blue.

The hope of you coming back is impossible to get away.

I sit here now, mourning over our past, Alone once again, losing my serenity, I was so naive to believe that we would last, Never thinking silence and loneliness would be a necessity.

Jaden Cronin ’23 12

Dear New England Fall

Matisse Schutten-Burgess ’22

Dear New England Fall, Thank you for teaching this Southern California girl about autumn colors and cold, rainy weather. Where I’m from, “fall” means it’s no longer 105 degrees and we can finally wear sweatshirts, at least in the early mornings. Coming to Cushing and experiencing real autumn for the first time was shocking to me. I had to actually buy an umbrella, which was crazy. My favorite thing I discovered about fall was the beautiful colors on the trees, every shade of red and gold and orange I could imagine. (Sorry, palm trees–I still like you too.) Walking to class, I could see the mountaintop covered with trees rising up from behind the buildings. Every part of fall seemed magical to me, even the cold weather and howling wind. Some people who grew up in this climate were indifferent about the season, but I was always delighted by autumn, with its piles of crunchy leaves, apple cider, and fuzzy sweaters.

My feelings remain the same about fall in Massachusetts, even if those fall colors mean that endless drifts of snow and slippery ice are soon on their way. Fall on the East Coast is so different from my native California, and I never tire of checking the weather app and laughing about how much warmer it is at home. Seriously, it’s kind of unfair. But I’ve learned a ton, like how, apparently, the first frost is kind of a big deal. Long story short: New England fall is a magical experience. At least until it starts to snow.

Sincerely, Matisse Schutten-Burgess

13

Nostalgia

Living in the distant part, a smell of dust Reminds me of the hometown I deeply love.

Surrounded by all walks of life, Wandering under Friday afternoon sunshine Were children on the old path-way, Singing yesterday’s Cantonese songs.

Composed of childish sounds, songs Depicted inside the land’s dust, On its doomed and destined way, Carried people’s passion and love.

Under the washed-out 1980’s sunshine, Generations stood out and devoted their life.

Those with no name but secular individual life, Silently composing revolutionary songs Where gloominess takes away the sunshine, Glancing at the farm full of rice dust, Pushing away from the ties of the beloved Stepping on the never-turn-back way.

What a pity the recklessly decided way Some strive for money, some strive for life!

Never mention the so-called in-heart Love That is only sung in children’s songs Damp and narrow, there is only sultry dust In this rental house that knows no sunshine.

Sweet air penetrated by shafts of sunshine Children wander on the cobblestone way, Picking up delicate flowers out of dust Overwhelming the greatness of life In the class, readings of poems and songs, Growing emotion for this land with love.

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Hongtao Chen ’22

Growing emotion for this land with Love Under the same euphoric sunshine.

Gone are the old days, left are the songs.

Briefly intense history was washed away, As well as countless mortals of Life Behind the rolling history wheels in dust.

What was fake was the song, which did not explain the meaning of love, But what was real was behind the dust, within the Tropic of Cancer, under sunshine.

Each generation contributes in their own way, which highly differs but equals Life.

Owen Tatro ’24 15

Toddler’s Embrace

When I look at you, My world slows down even in chaos.

When you look at me, I can see just how much you love me.

From the moment you came out of the hatch Like an injured duckling, I swore to protect you, to never leave your side, To love you until the day I die.

I see you racing toward me, Yelling my name with so much love “Aunty!!” you exclaim.

The curls of your hair engulf my heart– The quickness of your breath; Your small hands smaller than a newborn baby kitten Wrapped as far as you can around my diameter.

Graceful as you are in this place, I always want to remember this face.

The cars outside no longer make a sound in our ears, And I hold back tears of happiness For my fear is that one day It’ll be hard to hold you like I am today.

When you breathe in the scent of my perfume Mixed with the stew which is being cooked On a flaring stove, You sigh, for you have reached your safe place.

16

Corneilia Davis ’22

Lust Obsession

Stone Evans ’24

The scene of richness is obscure.

Seeing you without me throws me into a vast lust of vampire dew; inside you is truth, without loop, Smooth, cool moves for you.

Lights flash away when I see you, like satisfaction of ratchet action.

Please me, see me, hold me.

The scenery of beauty just pleases me.

Ask yourself what you see.

The me, the you, the we– What could we be?

Sometimes the inner chi carries me.

Just know love for you always lasts; clashed or lashed.

Thus my vast past shall pass; I may never grasp the stare of loneliness though they see my obsessed past will forever clash…

Mingrou Remy Dai ’23 17

Yichen Jack Ji ’22 18

Communique

Dan Lichtman ’22

Dear Mother and Father, This autumn is a very bad one. The rain is ongoing, and it’s hard to believe I’ll see you again. The food is good this week. Last week we ran out of biscuits and ended up with soup for the last four days. However, our spirits are high this week. I’m not allowed to tell you much, of course, but there are new allied groups arriving, and they are having much success. What I want to tell you is a strange tale, and I trust you will believe me.

I have been sleeping alright, and I am of sound mind. I feel I must somehow tell the tale, even if I do not return. Three nights ago, I was on night watch duty from midnight to four o’clock. The enemy line was only about 200 yards from our trench, and with my binoculars I could see them moving about, their lanterns glowing. All seemed quiet until just before two o’clock when a commotion occurred. An enemy shouted in pain, and other voices followed. My commanding officer awoke from the noise and ordered a flare to be shot up because he feared an attack. In the light of the flare, I saw a sight that I hope I never see again. A great dark figure was moving along the enemy’s trench, perhaps 20 feet tall. Whether it was in the shape of man or beast I can not say.

It had arms, I think, and legs, but how many I do not know. It seemed to be made of smoke or clouds of dark dust, always shifting and twisting like knots of matted hair. My commanding officer told us to send up another flare so we could see clearly. My fellow soldiers in the trench were dumbfounded. A few could not watch, but I saw it all.

This creature or beast, whatever it was, seemed to lift enemy soldiers from their trench one by one and pick them apart like they were spiders in the hand of a toddler. The popping sound of the delicate rip of flesh and the dead silent night will live with me forever. Limbs dropped into the mud with a splash; a head would fall in the light of the flare, a shadow rushing to meet it as the body fell. The beast was moving methodically, left to right, clearing the entire trench, taking the torsos that it dismembered into the darkness. It seemed to shrink and grow from time to time, never still, never one shape, always sliding along the earth, but silent, utterly silent. The only sounds were gurgles and screams of the enemy troops. I almost felt sorry for them. Were we to be next?

Suddenly it all stopped; the thing lurched to the right, out of the light of the flare into the darkness. It was done; all you could hear was the commotion of the enemy troops moving around in their trench, frantic cries, and moans. We looked at each other, hardly believing what we’d seen. Our commanding officer ordered us to tell no one, and we have done what we have been told. I write this to you in the belief someone should know what I have seen. I send all my love and pray that you will never experience this sight for yourself. We fear very much that the creature will return. Does it know or care what side we are on? Does it even have a base intelligence? Is it of this world or another? I miss you all so very much. Even though I’m supposed to be back by Christmas, I think perhaps I shall not see you again. I hope that I will.

Sincerely, Henry 19

An Aubade of Haikus

Shades drawn, a cold sun Blotted out, slow time rushes My pulsing mind.

A whimper, you turn Lidded eyes flicker day away And snoring, you turn.

Moments disappear Through the Sunday warp, until Arms reach to the world Glass shards, water falls, As you break the cup I brought Accidentally.

20

Mr. Ryan Conroy

Group Work

Fiona Riley ’24

Waking up at the place–Hospital 2 as I call it instead of its hard to pronounce name– was not fun. I had longed for a sense of control over where I chose to be. I had made my place here last night and tried to put myself out there. My eyes, fully awake, now took in one of my roommates. She immediately took me under her wing. When she turned to me and smiled, I took a good look at her face. Her eyes were still bright despite the scars on her arms and thighs, but the lines painted on her face showed how tired she was–16 and looking like a woman of 60. I imagined the lines eventually taking over her face, eradicating her eyes.

Entering the kitchen, I don’t feel like I did in Hospital 1–there’s laughter and jokes and a choice. I sit down, still nervous. I look around the group, and there are names that have since mostly faded in my mind. Jane and Beanie, my roommates, are both two years older than I am. Beanie. She has this mean look on her face and spends most of the time still denying her diagnosis, not wanting to be like her mom. No matter how she tries to deny it, the differences between her mom and herself don’t stop at the dark, curly hair and deep brown eyes. There’s also the small, sporty looking one–Boxy. The one with the rockstar hair: Stevie. The quiet and shy one who I knew from Hospital 1: Fran. Brit, the tall, constantly annoyed person. Finally, Olive is quite an aggressive girl with shocking green eyes. She doesn’t like me too much. I’m not a fan either.

The group therapy type thing is first. It’s up against a light-yellow wall and near a tv that has a crack on the side; weirdly, there’s also a guitar. I am terrified. I will get judged like a caged animal as people point and poke at the glass that keeps calling me weak compared to them. Their stories will break my heart more than that boy did in 7th grade.

“Alright–you start, Olive,” says a woman whose face, voice and name have entered the box of locked memories I do not wish to see.

“I’m Olive. I’m here because of self-harm, drugs I guess, and suicidal tendencies.”

Though I am not a fan of hers, the feeling that I need to wrap her up in a blanket that could protect her from the horrors of the world is a strong one.

The person sitting next to her goes next. “I’m Brit. I’m here because of self-harm and gender issues,” they say fiddling with their hands.

“I’m Boxy. I’m here because of suicidal tendencies, self-harm, anxiety and issues with isolation.”

21

Isolation, huh? My parents think I isolate, and I am lonely, but truly I like to be alone.

I like being able to be stuck in my mind trying to sew together why I’m feeling the way I am. But then again, leaking tears lying on the cold bathroom floor was not enjoyable. I guess sometimes our thoughts are too much to handle alone.

“Umm, Jane, umm, suicidal tendencies, self-harm and issues with isolation,” my roommate says, sitting next to me. There it is again: isolation. That word haunts my brain, roaming around the dark corridors of my thoughts, trying but failing to get into one of my locked boxes.

It’s my turn. What should I say? I should be honest, but I don’t know why I am truly here. I said all the things they wanted me to in Hospital 1, and yet they still sent me here.

“Umm, Alice, and, uh, suicide attempt.”

Time moves on, Brit is replaced by Cleo, a girl who relies on the cross on her neck to keep her in place and Stevie is replaced by Bobby, who needs someone to talk to her when she showers.

The question about isolation is still pressing against my temple. I’ve gotten better, knowing that the reason I’m here is not just my attempt.

“Hi, I’m Alice; I’m here because of suicidal tendencies and self-harm.”

Everyone is assigned a therapist at Hospital 2, but you share your therapist with others. My therapist, Dr. Kara, is shared with my roommate Jane, who becomes a sort of a sister figure for me since we spend every second of the day with each other, and Fran.

Dr. Kara takes us to the dining hall and has us sit. Fran rambles on while I enter my mind. The silence is overtaken by the vines in my brain wrapping themselves up in bad memories. Isolation. Who knew a word would mess up my brain so much? I always know the answers, but if someone asked me if I had ever been isolated, I would not be able to answer. Not wanting to think about this anymore, my head turns to the window, the vines in my brain creating an image.

It’s me in some sort of clock, my hair flowing in the window, my features small and my skin pale. I’m standing on the bridge outside the window. I jump into the cold water. I can almost feel the cold stabbing at my skin before I go numb and let the water take me down beneath the ice that I had shattered falling in. A peace that no one will ever be able to achieve overtakes me. Then there’s something my eyes see: 22

a deer. Don’t ask me how my brain works; I’m not fully sure. The deer stares at me while I sink deeper into the frozen water. The deer wants to help me. It paws its hoof against the ice, but no matter how much strength it applies the ice won’t break. My sight starts to go blurry and I– “Alice, you here?” Dr. Kara asks. I look to see Jane staring at me with concern.

“Yeah, sorry.”

My memories of my time in Hospital 2 are still unclear as I believe I have blocked them out, but I will never forget what I said on my last day there.

“I’m Alice. I’m here because of suicidal tendencies, self-harm, and issues with… “…isolation.”

Hongtao Chen ’22 23

Souls Were Precious Entities that Floated Across the Universe

Kyla Keating ’22

some, if applied enough pressure, would chip or bruise, affecting them permanently, never able to be fully repaired again. some would morph over time, taking new shapes, growing, shrinking, earning new qualities, becoming slightly brighter or duller. but this was unheard of: two souls combining completely, so close in structure and distance that they fused together, creating a new entity entirely, yet one that was oddly familiar. the two human bodies held onto each other with all their strength as they anticipated their ending. they breathed into each other’s skin, lives flashing before their eyes. they whispered meaningless gestures into each other’s ears, carrying the weight of the galaxy in their hands while they held each other’s faces. as their human bodies dessicated, their souls never left their position, gripping each other until they no longer had to hold on tight to stay upright.

24

Monster

Jiaming Perry Zeng ’22

He dwells in eternal darkness, Wishes to encounter the touch of light, Yet burns in intolerableness.

Born abandoned in coldness, Surviving through prejudiced sight, He dwells in eternal darkness.

His knowledge allows him to bless And illuminate the ignorant night Yet burns in intolerableness.

No one can soften the bleakness; Even Spring sights can’t bring delight; He dwells in eternal darkness.

Searching for the preserved mildness, Calling for the last hope for rights; Yet burns in intolerableness.

He wasn’t born with wickedness; It was forged by prejudice and spite; He dwells in eternal darkness, Yet burns in intolerableness.

25

Flypaper

Mx. Logan Cody

She looked at the flypaper and thought of crucifixion.

The thin strip of translucent plastic glistened slightly in the early morning light, slats of sun coming in sideways.

The bigger of the two was caught by four of its six feet – evidently trapped on landing. The smaller of the two, so much smaller, probably only a quarter of the other’s size, or less (?), was caught messily by its wing and right eye.

She knew the words she didn’t want to think before she thought them.

“I wonder if that's its child?”.

They were still, mostly. But with a slight exhale the two flies lurched to movement, flapping, vibrating the three good wings between them.

And that’s how their day was spent. Trapped and dying, fluttering their wings occasionally, not doing much else. And her, trying not to look but looking, watching from her corner of the room. The space they shared.

The next morning the flies were dead.

They looked similar to the alive flies, but now they were dead.

The smaller one hung (now lifelessly) as it had the day before, but the larger one had evidently succeeded in getting one of its legs free and had died in a sort of lopsided way.

It wasn’t troubling, per se, in that, well, why should it have been troubling? Flies were flies. They brought disease and death of their own. So she had been told.

Well, anyway, the point being that they were dead, and she wasn’t, and that was that.

And it’s not like she was the one who put up the flypaper.

But, looking at their frozen, crucified bodies And that's how her days were spent. Trapped and dying. Fluttering her wings occasionally, not doing much else. Trying not to look but looking, watching from her corner of the room. The space they shared.

26

Gratitude

Yenae Gebru ’23

Gratitude: the quality of being thankful; readiness to show appreciation for and to return kindness.

In life, most people tend to take little things for granted. I know I have. I’d like to say I live my life constantly expressing my gratitude towards people who deserve it, but I know sometimes I fail at it. I’m beyond grateful for so many things in my life, especially my family and friends. My family and friends are the most important people in my life. I would do anything for them. But I don’t tell them how thankful I am for existing as much as I should. Without my family and friends, I wouldn’t be who I am today. My mom, my dad, my siblings, and my grandparents have all impacted me as a person. Without my mom, I wouldn’t know what unconditional love feels like. Without my dad, I wouldn’t have grown up knowing my voice is just as important as everyone else’s. Without my siblings, I might not have been so accepting and caring towards people as I am. Without my grandparents, I would never have experienced half the things I have. These people gave me life and reasons to live. As for my friends, they have all helped me be who I want to be. I have gained friends just as much as I lost them. But even the ones I lost I am still grateful for, because at some point in my life they made me happy.

Not only am I grateful for people, but I am grateful for basketball and books. I grew up playing ball and reading about all the magical things I could. My safe place is a basketball court. It is the one place I am free to breathe and focus on one thing: the ball. I love the way the ball sounds when it hits the floor, the way the net sounds when the ball swishes, and the way the sounds make me feel. I love the leather feeling of the ball and the way it rolls off my fingertips when I take a shot. Basketball makes me feel alive because I am in control. When I’m guarding a person or have the ball, I am in control. I have the power. I can control whether or not I stop the person I’m defending or, if I have the ball, whether I pass or shoot. While reading, I like that I’m not in control. I love books because they let me forget about the world I live in and travel to a place in my mind where things like magic exist. Books have given me a passion for words and literature. They have helped me find what I want to do with my life. I want to travel and write about the things I see and experience. But I also want to write stories for little girls and boys who are also looking for an escape from reality.

Without all these things, my life would feel incomplete. The amount of gratitude I have for the people in my life and the things that have shaped my life is almost inexpressible. I don’t have enough words to describe how thankful I am for the existence of these things. But for now the definition of gratitude does the job of expressing how important these things are to me.

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A Solitary Person Is Either a Beast or a God

Xincheng Derek Xiang ’22

Often people say People’s sorrows and joys are not shared, But everyone will have those.

Sadness: nowhere to talk.

The happiness that no one shares.

And the anger that is hard to vent In the 2020s.

Loneliness seems to have become the norm.

Everyone knows that confidants can be met but not found.

Flip through the address book– Friends are sparse.

There seems to be nothing to say after all.

An incident that I am happy about– Others may just laugh it off.

Ask yourself: People who are truly happy to jump with you or release together in sadness– Are there many?

But then think about it: Some people say it feels really lonely But when asked can’t seem to tell why.

Sometimes it feels like one’s always studying, busy with exams, and rushing to competitions…

A very interesting thing: Homo sapiens existed hundreds of thousands of years ago, But the word “loneliness” is only a modern thing.

The loneliness of modern people often comes from a strong sense of meaninglessness for no reason, of discomfort that is not understood, of isolation.

I guess many people suddenly realize how lonely they are at some point, Waking up and looking forward to messages, finding only daily news in the notification bar.

When you think you’ve overcome loneliness, Desiring a response on the Internet but not getting it is the reason for loneliness.

Even if you get it, it’s just a momentary happiness, which relieves only a moment of loneliness.

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Most of what we can do is to accept our solitude.

Tagore says: Loneliness is a personal revelry; Revelry is the loneliness of a crowd!

Every night in Gatsby’s mansion, He never participated, only waiting for his Daisy.

Think carefully when lonely; enjoy loneliness.

Indulge yourself and enjoy happiness when not alone.

Cherish the carnival.

Learn to face loneliness.

Maybe you will be able to appreciate your own beauty by then…

Eunah Kim ’22 29

Escape

Seamus Cummings ’22

There is no better time in my life than when I am alone. The calm peacefulness of thoughts in my head keeps me at ease with the people around me. I stay quiet and humble, carefully thinking about the entire universe. When I was a child, kids made fun of me for reading my favorite comic books at recess. Every day I would bring in a new one to show my fake friends whom I truly did not care for. But there was something about me that looked for the acceptance of my peers. I would bring one in; kids would laugh at me, and then I would return home depleted and alone. Every day I did this as a child: sat in my bed after school and imagined a life with a mother and a father. What it would be like to have a family where the person caring for me was not getting funded by the government. But I didn’t know that as a child. All I knew was being alone. After 5th grade, everything started to make sense to me. I would never see my Mom and Dad again. As I looked for them and their love, I found myself. I found that I was the only one who can validate my belonging in this world because if not me who else? It is me, myself, and I in this life.

Now, sitting here in my old, beaten down 1992 Dodge Dakota, which I earned after I helped my teacher build his house a couple months ago, I have realized something.

If I don’t get the hell out of Fairbanks, Alaska, I am going to die here, jumping off a bridge. I’ve fought with the same people, gone to the same school for 12 years, and now–18 and a free man–I’m out. I hate it here.

So I started my car, rolled out of Kelly’s Diner, and headed for a place I had only ever seen pictures of: Los Angeles, California. In my head, I planned all of the things I would need to do to survive: sleep in my car, steal from small shops, and somehow make a living. I would only steal for a little bit, just until I got my first pay from someone, anyone. I took a right and headed for the highway.

It was dark out as the sun sets early in the winter in Alaska. My headlights weren’t that great as my car is twenty years old this year. I drove slowly as there was a little sleet coming down. I pulled up to the only light in the direct center of town and waited for it to turn green. It felt like an eternity as I sat there. I just wanted to leave everything behind. I stared at the light, counting the seconds. Just as it turned green, I pressed my foot on the gas pedal. What I didn’t know on that cold December night was that the Green light was the last thing I would ever see. A drunken man driving his new 2012 GMC Sierra ran a red light with no headlights on and rammed directly into my door in the middle of the road. As the cars collided, I took my last breath and let everything go. I died in the car almost instantly. I think now of my dreams in heaven, of the warm air of freedom. But I guess some things are never meant to be.

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New Beginnings

Corneilia Davis ’22

Swift in the wind, colors changing wild. The scent of life creeps into my nostrils. I can’t help but feel connected to something bigger than me and everything below.

In the distance I wait my while, hoping to fall in love with the taste of red. Rough and soft, day and night, quiet and loud, close like family. Screams of agony. Life and death. New season begins. The color white covers the ground. As gray as is the sky.

Ethan Hale ’25 31

Eunsoo Kim ’22 32

The Last Memories Of His Love

Evan Wingard ’24

The words he last said lay still in my mind Drowning words that slowly crept around Taking over my thoughts by the second Maybe this time I wouldn’t give in This time I would let those words go This wasn’t the first time the words he spoke took over This wasn’t the first time I looked over at the water below the bridge This wasn’t the first time I planned on jumping This wasn’t the first time his words were a tether that kept me afloat This wasn’t the first time knowing that I was about to lose it all As I step onto the railing, I remember him Not just him, but the ways he loved me Ways that not even I could love someone He showed me this world and what it meant to live If I stayed here any longer, I’d be trapped in remembering him As I stand, the breeze brings a chill down my spine He used to say that the breeze was people’s dreams Dreams that were on their way to become true Our dreams went on that light spring night air But maybe, as this breeze comes, I realize they won’t come true As I look over the edge, the smell of water rushes through my nose Throughout my life, water was always my enemy wherever I was When I first saw him, the waves were extra rugged They attacked me and left me on the shore barely breathing I wish I never went into the water, if I knew i would meet him As I take this final breath, his voice returns to me He told me that this world wouldn’t mean anything without me I never knew how to respond when he said those words to me Every night I thought about those words like a haunting dream But I knew his world would be better without me I don’t think; I just let my body fall It’s almost as if the world decided not to catch me I finally feel free for once as I’m falling It was always supposed to end this way But as I open my eyes one last time, I see him looking over the edge 33

Without Them What Is There?

Zahira Branch ’22

The memories leave a bittersweet aftertaste as time marches on.

It seems there are no words to describe what continuous loss can do to a person.

The day will come when the grief becomes overwhelming and I will wish I too was gone.

All the fun and all the achievements can cover the pain briefly, but I still mourn.

Grief can be a burden and intensify with time. It can be a poison!

The memories leave a bittersweet aftertaste as time marches on.

Because they’re gone, I want to do nothing and everything all at once; I’m torn.

Life keeps changing with or without my consent, as if these changes have a reason.

The day will come when the grief becomes overwhelming and I will wish I too was gone.

Remembering my time with them makes everything ache, and I question why I was born.

The world seems dull without them. I no longer want to be in this melancholic condition.

The memories leave a bittersweet aftertaste as time marches on.

Sometimes the never-ending days pierce my side like a thorn.

This grief will continue and so will my attempt at controlling it; of this I am certain.

The day will come when the grief becomes overwhelming and I will wish I too was gone.

Dreams of them or of the champion himself, death, leave my mind forlorn.

And no matter how many good moments there are, without them I am always broken.

The memories leave a bittersweet aftertaste as time marches on.

The day will come when the grief becomes overwhelming and I will wish I too was gone.

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Eunah Kim ’22 35

How Much I Love You

Samantha Striebel ’25

I love you when you’re happy.

I love you when you’re sad.

I love you when you’re grumpy.

I love you when you’re mad.

I love you when your smile reaches from an ear to ear.

I love you when you talk so fast I can barely hear.

I love you when your pupils look bigger than the moon.

I even love you when you sing my favorite song so far out of tune.

I love you when you prove me wrong, cuz I know you’re always right.

I love you when you kiss me, under the dark blue night.

I love you when you think I’m mad, even though I’m not.

I love you so so so so much my heart could nearly stop.

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Note To My Future Self

Michelle Liang ’22

I had finished most of this note, but I read it over and thought it was missing something. I wanted to add a sentence to let the reader feel what I felt until I realized I didn’t have the word to describe it. I scoured the internet, not even knowing what word I was looking for. What I felt consumed my brain, but I couldn’t find the right thing to type into the search box. The feeling was just there. Trapped inside my head.

I never talked about this to anyone. Until it all flowed out. It’s a feeling whose definition has multiple clauses that cannot function or mean the right thing when taken apart.

I fell deep into a shell that I had no idea I had.

It’s hard to describe an indescribable feeling. Trapped inside my head, the feeling consumes me entirely. I hear people telling me to tell someone about it, that it will help me let it go. But all I can do is sit down, staring at a blank wall, filing through every word, every thought, trying to find the one that conveys the feeling wholly. I can’t find the words to fully encompass the sentiment that echoes through my body.

For two years, Audrey, my best friend, had been through everything with me–or should I say, I had been through everything with her. She terrified me, even though I didn’t know it yet.

Why are you being passive-aggressive… like what the f*** ok then. Whatever.

I don’t understand you. I’m trying to be nice and ur friend here but ig u don’t want that. It seems like you can’t stand to see me be happy or be having a good time and that’s really sad.

hey sorry, I am in Guangzhou right now and I was on the flight this morning :)

...then why did Instagram say you were active

I don’t know.. I’m sorry.

I accepted everything she threw at me. I couldn’t see the future; all I saw was a best friend. A best friend with mental health issues whom I would help make happier, which would, in return, make me feel like a better person.

You’re gonna b so mad at me…

No like it’s so bad and you’ll NEVER forgive me.

No... it’s much worse…

ahahahah omg no just tell me what happened!!

what?? no way! If u didn’t stop eric from stealing beer from the supermarket, i told u i’m fine with that, he’s my boyfriend, not my dog :)

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No, I can’t tell u :(

ok what? ur scaring me... alright well lmk when you’re ready! i’m at breakfast w my dad rn he’s in the buffet line

She proceeded to outline every little detail that happened that previous night. Something about drugs… rooftopping… his room… climbing out the window… I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember. But I know that, at that moment, I struggled to plant my feet on moral ground. I felt betrayal. I felt my heart become so vulnerable that it could burst any second. I became numb. I couldn’t feel my hands frantically running through my hair. I couldn’t feel my forehead scrunch up, eyes staring at the screen, rereading every single word that she had just typed, trying not to believe it.

All of the tears hidden behind smiles rushed to my eyes as my arm rushed to cover them, and I let my eyes go to the ceiling to allow the tears to well up and dissolve into my sleeve. I looked around to make sure my dad hadn’t gotten back yet, took my ice water, and placed the ice cubes on top of my eyelids, hoping that it would depuff them.

The rest of that day was hell. I could barely walk; I felt my heart drop to my feet, and, with every step I took, my heart crumbled a little more. I could barely speak; it was as if my throat had swollen up, and every time I’d try to speak all that would come out was a gasp. I could barely think; my head beat with the mourning of the years we had spent before, all the time spent wasted.

On a post-it note, I wrote

I did not get to be mad And it’s not fair It’s not fair It’s not fair.

I did not get to yell I got to sit in silent tears.

That night, my heart pounded so loudly I couldn’t sleep. A rosy color rose to the tip of my nose, glassed over with the tears that trickled down from my eyes. I could barely hear my own breath shaking, rippling through the silence. Sat in the darkness of my room, the 12:26 A.M. moon shone in, the silhouette of my body visible.

My hands covered my mouth, suppressing the hiccups, my body shaking with every sound I made.

A few weeks later, Audrey texted me again. I responded because I was still numb. I couldn’t feel what was right.

I allowed myself to become reimmersed in the friendship only one month after the fact.

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I miss you so much.

How are you??

It’s so horrible.

I feel like killing myself everyday.

Can you help me

why hello there!! i got into APAC theatre! life is so good, how are you? hey, stop, don’t think like that it gets better. you’ll be with these people for only 3 more years And then off to college where you can be whoever you want to be and be surrounded by people with similar passions u wont feel like too much of an outsider in college i promise

If I had allowed myself to forgive them, it somehow would have felt like I wasn’t upset, and if I weren’t upset, it would have disregarded the betrayal that I felt and how much I really cared. So that’s why I was hurt for so long. Because I wanted to hurt. I needed to show that I cared, not for them, but myself. At that point, I was so used to pain that it had become my remedy.

I didn’t think I was ready to write about this, although I try to be stronger. My skin is getting thicker; I can feel it sometimes.

It’s hard to write about something that I have closure from, although I don’t know if I will ever have complete closure from some things. I sit here writing this note right now, still confused about what happened. The closest I will get to closure is acceptance because I never really got what I needed to end that chapter, but time did its magic allowing me to grow. From the start of this note to now, I realize: there was no suitable word.

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Nonviolent Protest and the False Flag of Civility

Talia Trigg ’22

At 8:39 a.m. on April 12, 2015, Lieutenant Brian Rice made eye contact with Freddie Gray. Within an hour, Gray’s spine was mostly severed. Within seven days, he was dead. His crime? Running away when he saw the police and having a legal pocket knife in his jacket.

Soon after Gray’s imprisonment and subsequent death, mass protests began in downtown Baltimore, the site of the incident and Gray’s home. By April 25, some of the protests turned violent in response to the heavy police presence, leading to the destruction of two police cars and a CVS pharmacy, as well as many injuries. This turn of events was met with public statements of disapproval from those in power and calls for protestors to “remain peaceful” and nonviolent. 1 But what is nonviolence, in this context? Historically, nonviolent noncooperation with the demands of those in power has been harnessed to great effect. It is a powerful tool available to even the most oppressed, which is rooted in the temptation of violence and the belief that a human life — and its potential for sacrifice — is stronger than the ability to kill. But the calls for nonviolence following Freddie Gray’s death were not calls for resistance; they were calls for compliance. They were, in essence, calls for civility.

The term “civility” may seem to be similar or in line with nonviolent protest — and by extension, noncompliance and protest — but it enforces norms that are antithetical to the radical resistance that characterizes nonviolent noncooperation. That is, civility and nonviolence are not synonymous, but rather antonymous. To understand the deeper problem at hand, one must dive into the violent and oppressive past of the notion of civility.

Since the fifteenth century, with the birth of the idea of races as broad social groups defined by skin color, one of the primary motivations and justifications for European colonization was the “civilization” of lesser peoples. This stemmed from an understanding of non-white people as inherently inferior and bestial, an idea first put into print by Gomez de Zurara in 1453. 2 The white man’s burden — the belief that white men held a divine duty to colonize, convert, rule, and oppress other races in order to bestow the gift of European civilization upon them — evolved based on this narrative. Its primary function was, and continues to be, the justification of the economic and material exploitation of colonized nations, as well as the creation and continuation of the institution of slavery.

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1

Baltimore Police Department

2

Kendi

From this history comes the concept of civility: literally, being civilized. In the historical context of life in colonized nations, it was functionally synonymous with conformity to the ideas and practices of European colonizers, who brought with them their own conceptions of “civilization,” which they imposed on the colonized population.

Although the word has evolved to signify a general politeness and courtesy of speech and interaction, it still carries with it the connotation of compliance with societal norms.

These norms continue to be those put in place by the dominant groups in society.

As researcher Gaye Johnson explains in an interview with NPR, “[p]eople of color don’t get to orchestrate the terms of civility… Instead, we’re always responding to what civility is supposed to be.” 3 Civility is generally perceived as a positive, healthy element of successful interactions, but the ways in which the societal values that form the basis of civility are dictated make it a vehicle for containing oppressed groups and preventing social mobility. So, “the relationship between alleged civilizers and the people they’re ‘gifting’ with civility,” Johnson points out, “is inherently undemocratic, unequal and racist.” 4 As a result, it is inevitable that any resistance to the status quo will be seen as inherently uncivil, because civility is characterized by conformity to societal norms and the status quo.

Nonviolent noncompliance is, on the other hand, far more radical than most realize.

To truly understand mass nonviolent protest, one must understand the ideology of Mohandas Gandhi, its most famous practitioner of the past several centuries. In contrast to popular beliefs, Gandhian ideology is far more than the romanticized view of peace and love that it is often understood to connote. In Gandhian thought, nonviolence is not simply a tool to be harnessed or used; it is an innate, elemental force whetted on violence and fueled by sacrifice. This last part is key, because if we are to understand Gandhi we must leave behind the notion that his model of protest was one that avoided violence at all costs. As Oxford professor Faisal Devji explains in The Impossible Indian, “Gandhi had always been clear about the fact that his movement had nothing to do with avoiding violence, but was meant rather to invite [violence] and in so doing convert it.” 5 To Gandhi, nonviolence was not an alternative to violence, but rather a process by which the immediate, qualifiable power of violence could be appropriated and sublimated. This process of deriving power from the violence of others is based upon the bisection of the idea of sovereignty, in this sense defined as any authority that can ask people to kill and die in its name. As Devji describes Gandhi’s approach, “by separat3

NPR

4

Ibid.

5

Devji

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ing dying from killing and prizing the former as a nobler deed, he was doing nothing more than retrieving sovereignty from the state and generalizing it as a quality vested in individuals.” 6 To understand this, one can imagine violent exchanges as net-zero interactions, in which the perpetrator of violence generally possesses a higher level of power than the victim, by virtue of the power of determination of life and death that they wield. By Gandhian thought, the power resident in a violent exchange lies not with the individual perpetrating the violence, but with the individual who willfully sacrifices themself. Thus, the power that one wielding violence exerts over their victim is taken from them, and that power — the power of determination of life and death — belongs instead to the sacrificer.

The sublimation of violence does not have to involve the death of the sacrificer to be effective. An apt example of the concept of individual sovereignty and power in violent interactions is the case of Aleksei Navalny, leader of the Russian political opposition and nemesis of President Vladimir Putin. 7 In August of 2020, Navalny was poisoned with Novichok, a deadly nerve agent developed in Russia during the Cold War. The nerve agent was also recently used in the poisoning of an ex-Russian spy in Britain, implicating Putin with near-certainty in Navalny’s attempted assassination.

Navalny recovered in an induced coma after an emergency medevac to Berlin, but it is important to think about what would have happened if the poison had worked as intended and he had not survived. In that alternate scenario, Putin (the perpetrator of violence) holds all the power. Navalny (the victim) does not have any agency whatsoever in his life or death; that determination lies solely in Putin’s hands. This is what happens in the vast majority of violent conflict; the aggressor holds power while the victim is left a casualty, the complexity of their existence flattened in their death.

But that is not what happened. No, Navalny recovered from his poisoning and immediately decided to return to Russia of his own volition, where he knew instant arrest followed by lengthy imprisonment and possible death awaited him. Indeed, he was detained upon arrival and has spent the last year in a notoriously harsh prison, twenty-four days of which he spent in a hunger strike. The obvious question is: why?

And the answer is: Gandhi. Perhaps not directly, but Navalny is demonstrating the concept of individual sovereignty that forms the basis of Gandhian doctrine. By choosing to return, he is taking his fate into his own hands. By choosing to refuse food, he is stating that he is willing to die for his cause, on his own terms. In so doing, he has robbed Putin of the power of determination of life and death, and reclaimed it for himself.

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6

Ibid.

7

For the purposes of this essay, Navalny is a clear contemporary example to demonstrate a principle of Gandhian thought, but the comparison is not intended to extend to the complexity of his impact on global politics.

This is nonviolent noncompliance. It is a belief that is wildly radical, bordering on philosophical anarchism in the way that it divests sovereignty from the state and bestows the same power of sacrifice on every person, regardless of their station in life or ability to perpetrate violence. Whether all the intricacies of Gandhian thought are accepted or not, this idea of the fundamental strength resident in every human life, the ultimate equality in life and death, is part of the legacy of nonviolent protest.

With this in mind, it should be evident that nonviolent noncooperation is the antithesis of civility. It is not compliance at all; rather it gives the oppressed the ability to claim their own freedom at an individual level, and in so doing to reject the standards of civilization that contain and criminalize them.

Civility and nonviolent noncompliance are not just etymological opposites; they are ideas that are ideologically in conflict with each other. One represents the status quo, while the other turns the status quo on its head by refusing to yield to the hollow authority of an unjust state. Thus, there is a real danger in repeatedly equating the two. When the word nonviolence takes on the meaning of civility, it is agreeing to the oppressor’s terms. Such a conflation leads to the pacification and suppression of the voices of the oppressed because civil nonviolence is, by definition, compliance with societal norms of credibility, legitimacy, and value. And while civil behavior is a threshold for basic respect and consideration, nothing can change.

Sources Baltimore Police Department official Twitter account, Twitter post, April 27, 2015, 3:02 p.m., https://twitter.com/BaltimorePolice .

Kendi, Ibram X. Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America. Bold Type Books, 2017.

Bates, Karen Grigsby. “When Civility Is Used as a Cudgel against People of Color.” NPR. NPR, March 14, 2019. https://www.npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2019/03/14/700897826/when-civility-is-used-as-a-cudgel-against-people-of-color .

Devji, Faisal. The Impossible Indian: Gandhi and The Temptation of Violence. Cambridge (Mass.): Harvard University Press, 2012.

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One Last Time

Soraya Jeffery ’22

Cold tea in a stained white mug sat at the foot of the bed.

My head thumped like a pulse as my headache spread.

A small ice room with warm hearted people wasn’t enough.

I remembered him holding me, but not recognizing him was tough.

I peeked out the window to see ocean waves clash with one another And realized my cousins were soon to not have a father.

Dry like sand, my hands against my mouth, I stared at the dry brown blood stains on my aunt’s blouse.

Gasping for air, I watched the eyes of my family drop to the floor Cries I never thought I’d hear from my father made my eyes open up more.

Just like the dried up plants near the square window, I felt unalive and tired, my bloodshot red eyes; it showed.

Father whispered it was time to say bye to my uncle one last time.

I wrapped my arms around his fragile body, saying it’ll be fine.

He held onto me longer with all his strength to give me his final sign.

Mingrou Remy Dai ’23 44

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