Mirage 2021

Nez Riaz

Mirage 2021 Dana Hall School

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Dana Hall Charlotte Maffie

Dedicated to Nancy Mortarelli

It is a pleasure and an honor to dedicate this year’s Mirage to the great Ms. Nancy Mortarelli. In her 30+ years at Dana Hall, Ms. Mortarelli has met with and befriended countless students and families; she truly doesn’t know a stranger. Here are a few things that colleagues and students have to say about this remarkable woman: • “When you leave a conversation with Nancy, you feel ten feet tall. She lifts you up and fills you up.” • “Nancy is so loving and welcoming. The door is open for everyone, every day; I stop by and talk to her whenever I have a chance. And no--she’s not my advisor. She was my admissions counselor for middle school, six years ago!” • “She advances Dana Hall’s mission effortlessly by making everyone she meets feel seen, heard, and valued.” • “She is the most generous person on earth, both in giving of her time and heart and tangible gifts. She is there to offer a glass of water, a cup of hot chocolate, or a snack to anyone who walks through the admission door.” • “Nancy is selfless and she operates out of love, kindness, and fairness. She’s motivated by her propensity to help others and does not want any attention or credit for what she does.” • “Nancy is a phenomenal woman and a supreme colleague and admission professional. She’s leaving an indelible legacy at Dana Hall!” Ms. Mortarelli has brought us together in so many ways over the years. And by bringing so many creative students to our school, she has raised the bar for Mirage. We will miss Ms. Mortarelli’s positive presence, keen insight, and sparkling sense of humor. In her time here, she has made us a better place, and we wish her all the best in her new adventures.

Mirage 2021

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Transfer of Love / Mirage Cover Logo Design Ms. Riaz Chiaroscuro in Blue Just Wash Your Hands To Eden and Home Ascend Still Outside What I See While I Sleep Abyss to Safety An Ocean in the Horizon Dream As the World Burns A New Day Still Working When Day Turns to Night World in Our Hands Two Waiting Malfunction Coolestsniper41 The Glass Girl Clarity, A Somber Feeling The Apocalypse for 8, the Apocalypse for Silence Living Sewer Smoking Kills Poison Berries Childhood Pleasures October Curly Hair My Savior Wellington St., Central, Hong Kong Kayaking the Pandemic How to Pull an All-Nighter on a School Night What’s Seen By Twirling Once End the Stigma Waiting in the Rain code switched/at birth: a senior speech The Smallest Happiness Recipe for a Tuesday the gong Isabella’s View Plans Boat Talk

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Angel Fu ‘24 / Nez Riaz, faculty ‘14 Nez Riaz, faculty ‘14 Charlotte Maffie ‘21 Federica Peyrelongue ‘23 Talia Loevy-Reyes ‘23 Aimee Yu ‘23 Imo Gong ‘22 Aimee Yu ‘23 Ella Jang ‘23 Leah Sager ‘21 Mengqi (Sophia) Gu ‘24 Seowon (Emily) Hong ‘23 Lenzie Mitchell ‘21 Zoe Sun ‘23 Molly Han ‘21 Ilyssa Yan ‘23 Malak Ahmed ‘23 Sicheng (Sissi) Wang ‘24 Leah Sager ‘21 Sunny Shi ‘23 Talia Loevy-Reyes ‘23 Dawnya Green ‘21 May Gong ‘24 Imo Gong ‘22 Yuqi (Victoria) Zhou ‘21 Ari Dogani ‘22 Mary Cate Clayton ‘24 Angel Fu ‘24 Ellie Wellington ‘21 Cassady Churchill ‘23 Camilla Toledo ‘23 Zoe Yuen ‘21 Jessica Du ‘23 Alexandra Dent ‘21 Chloe Lee ‘22 Marissa Esposito ‘22 Sydney Jiang ‘23 Dawnya Green ‘21 Ella Jang ‘23 Marissa Lehv ‘21 Ellie Wellington ‘21 Sydney Jiang ‘23 Mengqi (Sophia) Gu ‘24 Julia Freedman ‘22

Dana Hall

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Leave the Box Too Valuable Elio The Spirit Dusty Canyon Worship Morning Light on Myrtle Street XLV Not-So-Abandoned Memories O Winged Bird of Winter Night Nougat Candy Pain Carp Friends Who Will Win? Stepping Stones of Memory Heaven & Earth To Kiss Rebellion Touches of Red Gaby’s Pandemic Self-Portrait Sophia’s Pandemic Self-Portrait Exhaustion Just Because You Wear A Mask Waiting

Jessica Du ‘23 Iva Jacoby ‘23 Caitlin Kuang ‘24 Jenna Lewis ‘22 Cassady Churchill ‘23 Yuqi (Victoria) Zhou ‘21 Claire Kenney ‘23 Ella Schweizer ‘22 Sophia Sahni ‘23 Flora Gu ‘23 Aimee Yu ‘23 Alexandra Dent ‘21 Chloe Lee ‘22 Indy Goldberg ‘21 Emma Shaich ‘22 Flora Gu ‘23 Nik Mobed ‘23 Lily Segal ‘21 Gaby Cao ‘24 Sophia Langlois ‘24 Lenzie Mitchell ‘21 Ava Morvillo ‘23 Molly Han ‘21

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Federica Peyrelongue Mirage 2021

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TO EDEN AND HOME

Talia Loevy-Reyes

Kee kidee key the chickens screamed when you were young kee kidee key you answered with the desperation of a child they never replied, speaking a language you did not know until you learned you spoke the tongue of humans cockadoodledoo, the human corrects it makes no difference. you still don’t hear Sssssssss says the asp when he is hungry was ssssssss the sound that Eve heard in Eden that was the sin and weakness of humanity for Eve was only Adam’s rib and Adam was... everything? Ssssss the sound of judgement and sins and wrong that you learned when you sat in dank rooms listening always listening kee kidee key you never shout you take eggs like snakes the way a child never could you eat them like the hungry Eden asp, a snake you never were thy kingdom comes, will you never be fulfilled? Never pray, never reach a holy land you can’t believe a stomach full of eggs and children and your own flock bobbling and singing kee kidee key like you taught them waiting in Eden like you instructed picking apples the way they saw you do never hopeless with hope the size of flightless wings

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Dana Hall

Aimee Yu Mirage 2021

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Imo Gong 8

Dana Hall

OUTSIDE

Aimee Yu

200 feet. I slow down, panting, when I see him approaching on the exact same trail. A man with no mask on. Remember the manners my mother taught me in front of strangers: hands knowing the gesture to wave, lips knowing the perfect angle to curve. I practice the movements, reminding myself to switch to a far-off route next time. 100 feet. He is coming closer, skin burning red from the frantic sunlight of late August, with those elbow pads and a tie-dye headband that make everyone look like real athletes during quarantine. He has a pair of sunglasses so neat that I wish I had not forgotten mine in the house along with the powder blue Yankee hat I bought in a stall in the corner of the plaza before shutdown. Really, stop thinking about stupid hats. You are now trapped with someone whom you have to pass by for a mere fleeting moment. 50 feet. Trapped. Probably this is not the best time to get overwhelmed with the fact that my social etiquette is slipping away. I’ve never been afraid of meeting new people, yet the sight of this stranger — and every pore of his skin freely dripping with water — exposes a terrifying disregard to the mask-only rule I’ve come to know as standard. 15 feet. Trees narrow, their branches pushing out the last peek of clear cloudless sky. Rocks and stones pile up in my lungs, and pebbles scramble to fill in the remaining space. I desperately need a divergence to appear; then I’ll be on one side while he’s on the other. My eyes are searching, but there is no off-ramp, no escape. His wrinkles create boundaries, crossing one another to sculpt his face. I examine those lines. The deep ones look like caution tape, keeping people at distance in public; even the almost invisible ones have been holding us back from each other since this all began. 6 feet: Social Distance Blood freezes. I stop breathing when I hear footsteps thumping the asphalt and year-old crispy leaves. Some from me, some from him. I listen, waiting for the two noises to merge, waiting for our shoulder-to-shoulder passing to clench my heart with a tightening grip. Crack. Crunch. Crack. 0 feet. Strands of hair are dancing wildly when the wind picks up between me and him, then they are back to still again, resting beside my neck as if nothing just happened. But everything did. I passed by him in silence, locking my eyes to the path without waving or smiling. Maybe his lips curled up at the perfect angle that I had practiced for so long beneath my mask; maybe he tried to say a courteous hello, wondering why I didn’t reply. I heard only the crushed autumn underneath my feet. More than 500 feet away. The restless thumping of my heart trailed off as steps took me back home. I felt no threat, no fear, but a sense of safety, surrounded in the balmy sunshine. And suddenly he seemed completely normal; a stranger so close to me, but at the same time too distant. I remembered his smile now, carefree as the summer breeze, and I regretted not giving him mine.

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WHAT I SEE WHILE I SLEEP

Ella Jang

My mom used to tell me What I see while I sleep Is the opposite of my reality. Short hours of dreams Sometimes 6 and sometimes 7 The time I can hide from harsh reality No pains exist Broken leg grows back Headache disappears without a pill Anxiety melts away like snow The hardest time Replaced with the greatest memory A dead friend smiles at me We hug as if nothing ever happened My dad used to tell me What I see while I sleep Is the reflection of my wishes Short hours of dreams Sometimes 6 and sometimes 7 The time I can do whatever I want Anything is allowed I become a bird Flying through the sky Without obstacles Everyone who I care for Stands by my side No matter where we live We are all together at that moment When I wake up from the dream, Emptiness winds around So empty That even the disquiet fades away Now I speak to myself What I see while I sleep Is a gift for me To endure another day

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Leah Sager Mirage 2021

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Dana Hall Mengqi (Sophia) Gu

DREAM

Seowon (Emily) Hong Staring at a starry night through a window, I can’t count the stars one to ten, but I can capture their splendor, their reflection in my eyes, soon to shut. But my mind opens, imagines, runs ‘round the pond laughing, I catch my mind, my breath, relax and shake my body gently. I feel my feet on the soft grass, the blanket beneath me. And a white antique door opens, illuminates iridescence, seizes my attention, my imagination. Like Tinker Bell in Peter Pan, I whiz around the pond, embroider the night, brighten and blind it with pixie dust and fireflies. Then it comes to a climax, crashes, the timing clear. An alarm cries like a hungry baby. It all screeches to a halt, vanishes, leaves only regrets and memories, a void, but a desire to once again return.

Mirage 2021

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Dana Hall

Lenzie Mitchell

A NEW DAY

Zoe Sun

Sleep is a void in time. As I lie, I drift into nothingness, No light, no darkness, simply a strange calm A momentary blink with no aim. Sleep is the enemy. As my eyes flutter, I fight to stay awake My mind refuses to pause Thoughts flood my mind. Sleep keeps me awake. As my body gives in, my mind stirs Feelings of confusion arise No words, no meaning. Sleep is amnesia. As I emerge, unchanged My thoughts are lost, nothing remains Yet, relief of a new day.

Molly Han Mirage 2021

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Ilyssa Yan 16

Dana Hall

TWO

Malak Ahmed I have two homes, two faces, two feet Which I use to walk from one zone to another. I tear a line of caution tape, walking through it, Holding my breath, Praying that no one will notice my stutter. I have two homes, two faces, two feet Which I use to walk into a store, Where on aisle seven, I’m invited to buy a frozen ounce of home. “Authentic,” it says, and with a grimace, my father says, “Ignore.” I have two homes, two faces, two feet Enveloped in Adidas superstars, Which were once, a few months ago, coated with Cairo sand, Now used to amble across a floor of privilege, Alongside a brain burdened with a qarar. To be or not to be Egyptian American A choice of Okra stew Or mac ‘n cheese I have two homes, two faces, two feet, At home, six faces to feed. To face what you expect of me. To hone my face and greet The look you give my family While we cross the street. I have two faces, one you don’t see. I have two of each. Two homes, Two faces, Two tears, Two eyes To watch You break our tie, The one we never had. Two parents To confide in But who do they have, By their side? Two homes, Two faces, Two tears. Two months, To forget My fears. Two homes. Two faces. Two feet.

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WAITING

Sicheng (Sissi) Wang Here we go again. I cannot fathom why the lines here are so long. Absolutely despicable. And somehow, after all of my scrutinization, calculation, and contemplation, I still manage to end up in the slowest line. Every. Single. Time. Hear me out. I’m a college student, studying abroad in Paris. Bonjour, ca va? It’s almost Christmas, and my parents insisted that I come home. I guess that’s why there are so many college students surrounding me. It’s been maybe twenty minutes, and I have barely moved an inch closer towards the doorway to freedom. Arrgh! I really can’t justify the fact that I woke up at five o’clock in the morning for this, just to still miss it! It’s ok, I comfort myself. No need to worry. Look at everyone in line, everyone’s waiting patiently. I watch the screen project the time, and I try my best to repress the internal rage picking up momentum as the ticking goes by, minute by minute. 9:43am. 9:44am. 9:45am. As I start zoning out for perhaps the fourth time, a sound suddenly brings me back to reality. The passport of the girl in front of me lies open on the ground. She’s carrying so many items in her hands that she doesn’t even realize. I pick it up and hand it over to her as the line finally scooches forward a few steps. “Mademoiselle,” I politely say as I tap her on the shoulder, “je pense que c’est ton passeport.” She turns around in her puffy winter coat. She looks to be around my age, but just a few inches shorter. “Ah oui, merci beaucoup!” Her smile shines so brightly. Then she turns back around, and I can hear her murmur under her breath, good job at embarrassing yourself again. Wait a second. She speaks English! “Est-ce que tu parles anglais?” I ask her, intrigued. I am honestly so bored I’m willing to strike up any conversation just to entertain myself for a few minutes. “Me? Ah yes I do! You too?” “Yeah, I’m actually from America.” “Oh interesting! I used to live there as well. It’s certainly very different from Paris.” “Yeah, definitely,” I suddenly feel very perplexed about two things. First of all, how can she remain so positive right now when we’ve been stuck here for so long - don’t her legs ache? Also, why does that smile seem so familiar? “Are you also studying in Paris?” She asks me. She must’ve noticed that I stopped paying attention. I snap back from my ludicrous daydreaming thoughts. “Yes, yes, at the Sorbonné Université. I’m actually going back home for the holidays. Where do you come from?” “From London. It’s rainy and foggy all the time, I would take New York City and Paris over London any day.”

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Dana Hall

WAITING | Sicheng (Sissi) Wang (continued) Something seems off. She looks so familiar. I must’ve seen her somewhere. She continues, “It was my dream ever since I was a child to live and study in Paris. I love everything here, except the cold weather. Winter here isn’t that wonderful, you know?” “Yeah, I get that.” No no no. I really don’t get this. Is it really her? It can’t be her. But she did tell me that she wanted to live in Paris before. It must be her. We both fall into silence, while the officers at the front of the line tell people to hurry up. We’re almost there. “Sorry, may I ask what is your name?” she asks. “Oh yeah sorry about that, I’m Arielle. I should’ve told you earlier. What’s yours?” “That’s such a pretty name! I’m Julie.” The officers are organizing the bins on the conveyor belt, and others are scanning people from top to bottom. I can now see everything clearly, but I can’t think clearly anymore. I really thought it was her. I was almost ninety-five percent certain, but her name’s Julie? I guess it’s not her, then. She is checked and walks through the doorway first, waiting for her things to come through. Before she leaves, she waves to me, “Bye, Arielle! It was nice to meet you today. Hope to meet you in Paris one day!” “It was nice seeing you! Have a safe trip!” As it is finally my turn to walk through the doorway, I don’t feel a sense of relief but incomprehension instead. Why’s her name Julie? It must have been her, though. She told me all about her plan of studying in France when we were younger. She’s still that little girl who was always shorter than me, even when we were best friends. It was her smile. Everything tied together. But how come it seemed like she didn’t recognize me? Was she acting? I realize that I’m going to miss my flight if I don’t hurry up, yet as I drag my luggage towards the gate, I can’t stop thinking about it. I have been helplessly waiting for her for years, almost a decade, after she left. I came up with all the ways we would meet each other, but this one was certainly not one that I had imagined. . I desperately want to turn around to see her again. But I force myself not to. I squirm my way in the crowd to arrive at my gate—safe and punctual. So this is my story about almost nothing, really. This is about a reunion that could’ve happened, a friendship that should’ve lasted, a moment that would’ve made all the difference, but never quite happened. This must be the worst unforgettable prank God’ll ever pull on me. But since there are no second chances, I don’t have to worry about that anyways. I return to Paris continuing with my studies, never feeling the need to inquire or look for her. Maybe one day we will bump into each other again, maybe we won’t. C’est la vie.

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Leah Sager

COOLESTSNIPER41

Sunny Shi

Saturday 18:00 CST / Saturday 5:00 EDT Jimmy opened his 8x scope, and his enemy became visible. Ha! Bet you didn’t see this coming! Jimmy leveled his rifle to aim just a little higher above the ignorant enemy. Three, two, one. Left-click. Following a loud pht, “You knocked down coolestsniper41 with M24” appeared on Jimmy’s laptop screen. Two more enemies left. This round would be his victory… Mei opened the door with trembling hands. When she bent down to change into slippers, her neck felt light without the pearl necklace. Her grandson, Jimmy, should be in his room, for he always was at this time, doing homework. She’d told Jimmy dancing practice would end at seven, so she wished Jimmy not to come out and find her in the living room. Yet, there was never any dancing practice—she played poker in the community club. She kept losing money these days, but she could definitely win it back. The pearl necklace was two thousand yuan, and she only needed a thousand more. Luckily, in that envelope of emergency cash, there was way more than a thousand…

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Dana Hall

COOLESTSNIPER41 | Sunny Shi (continued) “Brrrrrrt. Brrrrrrt.” Marissa squinted her eyes to see who she had accidentally called, still dizzy from the alcohol and dancing. The white letters, “home,” dazzled her. Shoot. She had called home, 12,000 meters away in Shanghai. She couldn’t talk to them drunk and excited; if Harvard’s students were up at five, they were studying, not clubbing. She was anyone but a Harvard student; nevertheless, she needed to act like she was. Hang it up! “Who is it?” Jimmy’s voice had reached her through the phone. Quickly, she went over all the things she could say. Then, there it was, a truth. “I’m coming back home next Tuesday! I’ll send you the flight information,” Marissa exclaimed. “Come pick me up with Ma, and we will dine out. I miss you so much. Can’t wait!” Marissa exhaled a long breath, hoping her son and mother-in-law wouldn’t find anything strange in her voice. While on the phone, Jimmy and Mei glanced at each other. The air felt hotter and denser, but the living room was still dreadfully silent. “Beep-” Tuesday 10:00 CST / Monday 21:00 EDT “Be an exceptional student, will you?” was what Mom whispered to Jimmy as she embraced him before going into the security check. Days later, she sent him a list of things to accomplish as an “exceptional” student, including math competitions, piano recitals, and English grammar practice. Her requirements had fallen to the back of his mind until that call. Now, while in a taxi taking him nearer to Mom, Jimmy began to think about what he should tell her. He hated to upset her because only she cared for him after Dad’s death. Everything was falling apart, yet Mom was the last piece he held onto with hope. He couldn’t let her find out. Just like a game, I need to be on the attacking side. I will tell her I did everything she asked me to. Jimmy imagined Mother’s contented smile when she heard that. He would make up for the lie by studying extra hard later. “Please take care of Jimmy, Ma.” Marissa’s words echoed and irritated Mei every second, even now, in the taxi. She still couldn’t figure out why her son married such an irresponsible woman. As for studying alone abroad after his death, Mei would’ve never tolerated it if it hadn’t been Harvard. Going into her seventies, Mei thought she would finally be able to enjoy life. So she never bothered to check on Jimmy, as she yearned to free herself from troubles and embrace poker, her new hobby. The call reminded her that she had pledged much of the jewelry Marissa bought her, but she wouldn’t worry about it that much. Next week, Mei would win back all the money and get those pieces of jewelry back. Her tough life also taught her to use comforting words; in this case, she would say the necklaces were so beautiful that she didn’t dare to wear them often. “An hour until landing,” announced the flight attendant. Marissa opened her phone to check the time, and she saw her lock screen photo—her in a tight dress in a club. No, I can’t let Ma and Jimmy see this. She found a picture of Jimmy, Ma, and her taken in the summer when they visited the U.S. and changed that into the lock screen photo. She stared at their smiles, full of faith that she would pick up the scattered pieces of the family. She wished she could; she equally wished she’d gone to Harvard and published papers, as she told Ma and Jimmy. Still, their smiles were true. Marissa yearned to see them again. It wasn’t impossible to graduate and find a decent job, but that wasn’t her. She could easily tell another beautiful story in exchange for their heartfelt smiles. Tuesday 11:30 CST As the taxi pulled up to the automatic airport door, Jimmy’s heart raced. Beyond the door, somewhere in the crowd, would be Mom. She’d rush to them and pat him on the head. She’d open gift bags and hand him tons of presents because she had known her son would always make her proud. His strategy was flawless. Mei wrapped her arms around Jimmy, not sure if caring grandmas were supposed to do that. This was just another gamble, and like all others, she could win eventually. She’d win trust from Marissa and, more importantly, money. After she got her luggage, Marissa checked her look again. A down jacket, a sweatshirt, jeans, running shoes, and a plain cloth bag with books in it. A perfect student restrained from any partying. She relaxed her shoulders as she proceeded to the last security check. Only one step away now. “Everything is just perfect, and it will only get better,” they all thought as they set themselves for the final attack.

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THE GLASS GIRL

Talia Loevy-Reyes

She told me that she was made of glass. The brittle sort, invisible but for a glimpse of an outline or a slight distortion of light. I laughed when she said it, for she did not look as though she were glass or even porcelain as she rushed down the hill to join me on the sweltering August day. I poked her arm to make sure, but she batted my hand away with a smile as bright as the sun. So I assured her, “Don’t worry, you are not made of glass. Glass cannot talk.” I remember that she laughed but I cannot remember what it sounded like. I imagine it to be warm, an embodiment of the cloudless sky. “Do you want to be my friend?” she asked of me, plopping down to sit in the fresh, dew-stained grass. I followed her, my bare toes curling in the soil, already trying to memorize the lines of her round, beaming face so I could tease it out of my mind later. “Yes.” The word tasted sweet, like cherries. I twined a strand of grass around my forefinger, and she shifted, bringing her knees to her chest and hugging them close. “Even though I am made of glass?” she pressed, her smile faltering. “You are not made of glass,” I reminded her. “Glass cannot move.” The joy on her face returned, and she unfolded herself again, rising to her feet. I stood with her, the gaiety in her eyes infectious. She took my hand, and her fingers were a cool reprieve from the summer’s warmth. We walked to the swing set my grandfather had built for my mother when she was a child. The chains squealed when they moved, but I had never minded. The noise had grown comforting. The girl sat on one of the swings, her feet dragging on the ground, her hands clutching the chains. The breeze blew her hair around her head, forming a halo of frizz. She laughed and vainly tried to flatten it. I passed her my favorite scrunchie, a deep purple with a tie at the top. She pulled back her hair with it, a messy ponytail with strands that poked out at every angle. It suited her strawberry cheeks and full curving mouth. “What’s your name?” I questioned. She frowned, swinging back and forth, the chains creaking and the wind snapping at the tie-dyed cloth of her sundress. “Summer,” she finally decided, pumping her legs and leaning back to let the momentum carry her. “My name is Summer. What is your name?” I understood her pause, wondering what I wanted my name with her to be. I wanted it to be something bright, memorable. A name for me and her alone, nobody else. Like a secret. The name belonging to me suddenly felt inadequate beside her. The name I had was a lonely one. “Moon,” I decided. The glass girl laughed, swinging high into the sky. I followed her, watching her every movement, deciding that we would never forget this day. That years later, we would sit on the swings and laugh about how young we were, on the fateful day that we met. We swung and talked for hours, Summer and I. The glass girl. When my father called me in for lunch, I turned to her, my eyes gleeful and wild and stinging from sweat and sunscreen. “Come,” I told her. “Eat with me.” I could not wait until my father saw her. We would eat and laugh at inside jokes and after, traipse outside with popsicles that would melt across our hands and faces. She leaped from the swing, staggering a few steps as she made contact with the ground. I followed her, loving the second of weightlessness in the air before I landed. “See?” I panted to her. “Glass cannot do that.” She turned her cheek away from me as we walked. I had to find another place setting for her, and I gave her half of my sandwich, cut diagonally into neat triangles. When my father entered the room, I smiled and introduced them. Summer reached out, extending her hand to shake his. But my father didn’t so much as look at her. He looked at me, smiling as though I had done something endearingly wrong. He walked across the room, tugging back the chair Summer sat in.

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THE GLASS GIRL | Talia Loevy-Reyes (continued) My mouth opened to warn him, but my words came far too slow. He sat heavily into the chair, and I shrieked, burying my head in my hands. The girl of glass shattered into a thousand pieces, her shards littering the floor. My father took a bite of her sandwich, and I rose, sprinting from the room, my bare feet slicing over pieces of my best friend. Tears burned down my cheeks, my mind stuck on the moment when she became brittle. Caught on her words and her voice and her laugh that I can’t remember. I sat on the porch of my house, my feet stinging, eyes watering, the summer sun suddenly unbearable. I watched as the wind carried the swings up and down, side by side, almost as though two children were on them. But they were empty. If I stood up to look, I would see my purple scrunchie on the ground right where I had left it. “You are not made of glass,” I whispered, hugging my arms around my knees and rocking side to side. “Glass cannot disappear.”

Dawnya Green Mirage 2021

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THE APOCALYPSE FOR 8, THE APOCALYPSE FOR SILENCE May Gong Remember their names: Soon Chung Park, who was 74 Hyun Jung Grant, who was 51 Suncha Kim, who was 69 Yong Ae Yue, who was 63 Delaina Ashley Yaun, who was 33 Paul Andre Michels, who was 54 Xiaojie Tan, who was 49 Daoyou Feng, who was 44. Their lives — not extraordinary or glorious, but satisfactorily simple and joyous enough — were brought to an abrupt end, by the cruel and reckless bullet that ripped through their heads, hearts and stomachs and tore them with hate. Years ago, most of them came to the United States hopefully and gratefully, in search for a better and brighter life. Earning only a handful of dollars, they either washed the dishes until the skin on their hands cracked, or were hung in midair to wipe the windows of skyscrapers bit by bit until it seemed like there was no glass in between. They could clearly see the inside — the life they didn’t even dare to dream of. So close, but never reachable. Even so — humble and low as they were — they never relaxed a bit, working for the better lives they hoped for, and for the dollars that would buy their children some bread. Being targeted for their race was what they were eventually rewarded with by this land of their love and hope.

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THE APOCALYPSE FOR 8, THE APOCALYPSE FOR SILENCE | May Gong (continued) The small bullet shattered their bodies, along with their sincere and naive hopes; it shattered their families and our hearts. Most of all, it shattered Asian dignity. They think we’re the model minority who’d rather stay silent than start up “troubles,” but now it’s time to tell the world that we play the role no more, and that we will start up trouble for them as a result of them trampling over our dignity. Being humble and tolerant is always our virtue; it is never a sign that says we’re weak.

Imo Gong Mirage 2021

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Yuqi (Victoria) Zhou

SMOKING KILLS Ari Dogani

These small towns suck, Yannis and Nikos are thinking, as they waste the afternoon hours in the dull summer heat of 1977. They feel cooped up inside their new apartment, keeping all windows open and hoping for some breeze. Outside, the cicadas buzz their little hearts out, but these brothers, freshly arrived from Athens in one of these endless moves that are common in army families, feel no excitement. They haven’t made any friends yet, so there isn’t much point in going out to play soccer in the shaded streets, like most boys did back then. The moving company has not yet delivered their bikes, along with most of the family furniture, so the entertainment options remain limited. The precious TV that their father carefully packed in the car for their trip over sits silent, staring at them from a 19-inch dark screen. It will show nothing for another two hours, not that “The Little House on the Prairie” is of any interest to the boys. Both the subject and the annoying Greek-ed dubbed girly voices irritate them. “Lost in Space” would have been way better, even in black and white, but it only plays every other day. Bummer! Nikos is eleven, and his brother, just two years older, is already the master and leader of their games. Blond and green-eyed like their mother, Yannis is handsome and charming, which usually makes him get away with anything. Not so much for Nikos, though, who takes after his father. Brown-haired and brown-eyed, he is far less showy both in style and personality. The two brothers make a good team, and this afternoon they are alone, unsupervised, with some toys, a board game, and their summer reading (yuck!) to entertain themselves. Their parents are out and, at four o’clock, still nowhere in sight. For these mischievous boys, the lonely hours are getting longer. The bathroom bidet—an amazing, never-seen-before fixture—keeps them busy for all of thirty seconds fighting over who can balance the ping pong ball that emerged from Nikos’ pocket on the water fountain shooting from the bottom of the blue porcelain bowl. What an epic failure and a useless bathroom feature! A series

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SMOKING KILLS | Ari Dogani (continued) of competitive Tavli games came next. What starts with enthusiastic rolling of dice, loud counting, and smashing of round red and white pieces on the wooden Tavli board, so popular in Greek cafes and Greek households, soon becomes old. It does not help that Yannis makes a game of cheating his brother on the counting and keeps winning. The fridge and cupboards have already been raided, judging from the crumbs and wrappers left all over the place. The ice-cream in the freezer is long eaten, with the last traces decorating Nikos’ chin and the marble kitchen floor. Sure enough, their mother will have some words with them when she comes back – any moment now – but none of them think of cleaning up just yet. In the oppressive heat of the afternoon, the brothers soon start folding paper airplanes cut out of their father’s newspaper and take them to the balcony. They spend the next ten minutes shooting them three floors down to the sleepy, slow-walking stray dogs on the street, the occasional passerby, or nowhere in particular. Where did their mother keep the wooden clothes pins? For sure they’d have more luck with those… Fingers full of newspaper ink and restless once again, my thirteen-year-old father’s eyes travel back to the cut-up newspaper clippings laying on the kitchen floor. “I have an idea!” he exclaims with a twinkle in his eye like a young Grinch! Impressionable Nikos stares wide-eyed and all ears. “Let’s set them on fire and watch them burn!” my father continues. “But not here! In the bathtub where we can douse them with water.” If Nikos, who is, after all, the sensible one, has any objections, he doesn’t voice them. He reasons that if there’s water, then all will be fine, right? After all, it’s Yannis’ idea, so it’s got to be good! Taking Nikos’ momentary silence for permission, Yannis scoops up the torn-up newspaper with glee. Arms full, he hurries back to the bathroom, pulls back the plastic curtain, and throws it in the old-fashioned, blue porcelain, built-in bathtub. Nikos quickly spots their father’s unfiltered Camels and his plastic BIC lighter resting on the folding table. After a moment of hesitation, he swiftly pockets the lighter and runs after his brother. “Lock the door,” Yannis orders, to make sure they have time to clean up if they hear their parents coming. Their new bathroom looks a dark, moody room, lit up by a single light above the washstand, made only darker by the deep blue tiles that line the walls from floor to ceiling. But how spectacularly it glows from the light of the fire! As Yannis excitedly reaches for the toilet paper to feed the dying flames, he pushes the dingy shower curtain in the way of the fire. Excitement turns to terror as awful smelling smoke fills up the room and wild flames climb up the walls, raining down melted plastic. If you have ever been in a life-threatening situation, you might have noticed how time has a way of standing still in the moments of danger. Fractions of seconds stretch out and give the mind time to play slow motion scenarios of how this might turn out, And that’s exactly what is happening to Nikos. He freezes while his eleven-year-old mind goes to overdrive. His eyes get as round as his mouth! Is there real danger? Anything else to catch fire? Is the smoke gonna kill us? Should I run away? What about Yannis? Can he get us out of this? Nikos wants to make a run for the door, but his legs won’t budge. The weakening in his knees, the coughing, and the pressure on his bladder keep him bolted to the floor. His eyes start to well up, and in the back of his brain something new starts screaming with a different sense of danger: Their parents! Oh my God! We’re so screwed! In the meantime, something different is happening to Yannis. His eyes light up, and his cocky, wise-ass side suddenly disappears. His long legs spring into action. He grabs the shower handle and puts out the curtain and the bathtub flames as fast as he can. The water still sprays everywhere as he pulls the string that activates the vent above their heads. As the smoke starts to clear, Yannis turns and looks for his brother, still shell-shocked and frozen standing on the tiled floor. He pulls a towel around him protectively and tells him that they are safe now. “Pressure makes diamonds,” I have heard people say, and this feels like the moment that my father shows signs of the man he will become. The calm, collected, confident man, caring and quick-witted. The man, who family, friends, and colleagues will come to for advice. The engineer who will fix anything. The devoted son who will nurse his mother and father through debilitating diseases, years later. That same mother now screams in panic behind the locked door: “Are you ok?”; the same father now frantically pushes on the handle yelling furiously: “OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!” Now it’s Yannis’ turn to freeze, as Nikos leaps for the lock, slipping in the yellow puddle at his feet and almost landing headfirst on that weird blue porcelain dog-drinking fountain next to the toilet. Mirage 2021

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POISON BERRIES Mary Cate Clayton Poison berries Hanging their red-orange bellies Growing Ripening Bigger, sweeter, hard as a knot Falling unbidden to the ground One glossy red dot Reaching for the sun Thirsty for the satisfaction of warmth Needing the light as much as Bluebeard’s maidens Although untouched Too much to bear is the thought Walking down row after row Daunting, taunting, pulling, screaming Greed-red flesh hiding so many secrets What would be given to unlock A tasteful sea of poison berries?

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Dana Hall

Angel Fu Mirage 2021

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OCTOBER Ellie Wellington I saw my brother Oliver for the first time in two years at my Uncle Dan’s funeral. It was the middle of fall, brisk and windy. I drove up with my mother and father. Oliver flew in and met us there. He shook my father’s hand when he saw him. Funeral homes feel pretty disconnected from reality already, but this one was almost in another dimension. It was built in the seventies and clearly hadn’t been touched since, decorated in tragic yellows and light pinks and greens. The home’s location being a suburb of Columbus didn’t really help ground it. In a way, it was the perfect place for my family to convene: cold, idle, and out of touch. Oliver had been at college in New York all this time; instead of coming home during the summer, he would mess around with his friends in Miami. When he saw me at the funeral, he simply nodded at me, as if he’d just seen me the night before. My stupid brother. Maybe other siblings have that relationship, where they can go a long time without seeing each other and nothing about their bond will change, but Ollie and I didn’t have a relationship to begin with, so of course we couldn’t communicate lovingly or even give each other a hug at a funeral. My parents and Oliver left me on my own in there. I wandered through the lobby, catching little pieces of my relatives’ conversations. Most of them were mourning Dan, which was funny because I didn’t remember them caring about him so much while he was alive. I hate that dance we do when someone dies. I hate that “respect for the dead” idea; it’s so fake and insincere. If you hated someone when they were alive, say it. Don’t suddenly switch up and say you loved them; it’s cruel to express newfound good feelings for someone who can’t receive them. I knew then that if any of the people in this funeral home died, I wouldn’t cry. I can’t pretend to love someone I never loved. I wondered if Ollie felt the same way. I wondered if that’s why we were never close. I can still see my reflection in the casket if I think hard enough. I had walked up to it before the service to say my final goodbyes or something. I had bright blue hair then; it was short and curly, and completely dried out from all the dye. I had had my friend, Rose, cut a few inches off the day before, and she had actually done a pretty good job. I wanted someone to notice. Deep down, I wanted Ollie to see me and know how much I’d changed, and how much I didn’t need him and how I didn’t miss him at all while he was gone. He didn’t; he barely looked up from the floor. I wanted Rose to come here with me. She wanted to come too, but my father said no, so I got stuck in Ohio with my dead uncle and icy family, alone. I thought to myself that I looked pretty. A strange thought to have at a funeral, but I know Dan would’ve told me the same. He always loved my hair. There was a reception afterwards, with catered food and fancy desserts. By that point everyone had dropped the act, seemingly forgetting that we were here because a man had died. My parents were still nowhere to be found, and Oliver was hanging around me awkwardly. I thought he would be silent the whole time, refusing to acknowledge his little sister. Instead, he brought us both glasses of ice water and said he was sorry. I asked him for what, because a broad apology isn’t an apology at all, and he said nothing, that he was just sorry, staring down at the glass like he might find something magical if he just looked hard enough. I knew what he was apologizing for, of course. I knew somewhere deep inside he must have felt some guilt for abandoning me. I just wanted to hear him admit it. That always pissed me off about Ollie. He always had something to say, but he refused to say it most of the time. I never understood why. He was the clear favorite of our parents; maybe he stayed quiet to seem obedient and please them. I was never like that, which I suppose is why we fought so much. I’ve never been afraid to say what’s on my mind. Oliver drove us home that night. My mom was drunk off champagne, and my dad couldn’t be bothered to get in the front seat and drive us away. We stuck them both in the back and spent the next two hours in complete silence, watching the light from the sunset spread over the streets of Ohio. I told him I hated winter. He asked me why, and I told him straight up: because it’s cold, and everything dies, and the world feels so lifeless and dark. He told me he hated it too. There was something in the way his deep brown eyes were illuminated in the fading daylight just then that made me smile. 30

Dana Hall

Cassady Churchill

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MY SAVIOR Camilla Toledo I think that if it weren’t for you, I too would’ve ended up eaten, by my fears. I too would’ve stayed hidden behind the pile of rocks that hid me from that shadow. The shadow that lurked behind me. In every move, every step, every action. The shadow that I worried would hurt me if I didn’t run away. And your presence became visible. Like the moon that cut through darkness, to luminate the world. You came into my life and let me know that I was going to be okay. You lead the way towards our destination, letting me stand behind you and peek out from behind your back, to be sure there was nothing I needed to fear. And I soon started to realize that when you were beside me, the shadow wouldn’t appear. Occasionally, I would feel what I once felt when it was near. My fingers became liquid, the pain in my head roared louder, as if all the radios in the world became one. But I knew I was not alone as I once was, and I was not afraid, because it was your voice that rescued me, that extended its arms and caught me before I fell into the hands of my darkness. I called you My Savior, the one that protected me even though I was not your own, even though I was considered different from the rest.

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MY SAVIOR | Camilla Toledo (continued)

And all of a sudden, after a long walk, you stopped your tired legs and let them rest. You led me into a new world. One in which there was no need to be afraid. One in which I knew you were there. One in which you told me, “Te amo, mi Camilla.” And it was then, when you slowly moved yourself, so that it was I who was now leading, I slowly started letting myself be like you. I slowly took my first steps by myself towards a new darkness that came in between my new destination and me. And when I was afraid, you lit the way from behind me, and told me to keep on going.

Zoe Yuen Mirage 2021

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KAYAKING THE PANDEMIC Jessica Du I have had the same dream, the same repeated memory, over two weeks. Immediately upon arriving, it is love at first sight. A turquoise-blue stream looms in the distance, winding its merry way towards me. Babbling, the sound from the stream fills up the tranquil scenery; the precipitous valley stands protectively beside the stream and listens together with me. Near the shore, pebbles whisk about in the undercurrent like pieces of glitter. Lush sunlight spears through the clouds and bathes the sand, the water surface, and everything in droplets of gold. The stream glints with little sparkles, like a thousand fairies blinking their eyes and inviting me to join them in the stream. I sink deep into the conversation with the stream, but right on the spot, my father cuts through and takes me away to join the instruction class on kayaking. My father found the kayaking site address while poking through a worn-down New Zealand tourist book in a restaurant one day, and without previous planning, we changed our schedule to try kayaking. In the wooden cabin, the instructor first presents a swift 15-minute rafting class, going through a list of the basic techniques, then he turns on the TV, and in front of my eyes, again, are the unbelievable beauties of the stream. The limpid water is dynamic as an actor, briskly switching from tranquil to angry without a moment of hesitation, splashing in clusters of white bubbles. Living in the city for my whole life, I never imagined seeing such beautiful scenery face-to-face. When the instructor leads us to the stream, my anxiety finally pours back in; I realize that I still don’t have a single clue on how to kayak. The instructor partners me with my father in one boat and pushes us hard into the kayaking party. Then, the problem starts. In the beginning, my father and I row slowly and meticulously; we row along with the rhythms of the stream and relax while the water carries us forward. Suddenly, like a switch of the light bulb off and on, the stream turns against us, and my world flips upside down. The waves collide with each other, jumping up to form high peaks or diving down to create whirlpools. Like sitting on the roller coaster right before it plunges, a piercing cry of fear bursts from my heart. My father panics, and a split-second later, we lose control of the kayak and fall into the tumbling water. This time, I am the pebble tossed around carelessly by the treacherous force hidden beneath the shimmering golden surface of the stream; the two banks are opposite teams, and I am the rope in their tug of war. Water rushes into my nose, and soon my mouth is gaping wide to gulp down gallons of water. Using my last breath, I manage to reach the shore. “Daddy… Dad…? ” I frantically call out, scanning at the stream for signs of my Dad before my tears blur my vision. For the first time in my life, I feel imminent danger to my safety; I can see the outstretched hand of death in front, approaching me with an invitation. I back away and bump into my Dad, who still has the nerve to playfully nudge my face. I immediately throw myself in for a hug as tears start cascading down my face. The bawling sound from my cry startles me back to reality. For the third time this month, I have dreamt about the same kayaking trip. I look across my bed, beside the calendar, at a clock illuminated: 1:00 pm. What a bummer—I’m waking up late again at noon. On the almost torn-down calendar, red crosses already fill up the Christmas holiday dates. They were words put up in August, such as my perfect skiing plans to try my first ever skiing experience in America. I cross them out and replace them with nothing. If you pick up any random month’s paper torn from my calendar in 2020, you will see that I canceled many trips around the world. I missed watching flamenco dance in Spain or riding in a hot air balloon in Turkey, watching the sun watercolor the sky with soft radiating orange. With Covid-19 accompanying us for almost a year now, my life flipped upside down, just like falling off the kayak. First, it started with a dangerous 14-hour flight back to China in hazmat suits, plus the 14 days quarantine in a hotel, then followed by the announcement of closing borders between the two countries and the canceling of flights to return to America. As if these were not enough, my school year began with a schedule of midnight zoom classes and unimaginable waves of loneliness, longing for my friends who all live across the globe.

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KAYAKING THE PANDEMIC | Jessica Du (continued)

I first comforted myself with a stoic notion that normalcy was approaching. Soon, my irritation grew into impatience and helplessness: the same insecurity I felt after I reached for the shore in my dream. In turn, I sheltered myself from new ideas or suggestions from my family, confined my movement to the bed all day, and grieved for everything. Sometimes, the guilt for the loss of control over my life dissolved into tears that trickled down my face. Like sinking into the deep hollowness of the water, I fumbled for a solution, but to no avail. I chew on my still-vivid dream again, trying to find an explanation for its frequent occurrence. The story feels real but incomplete, like a cake missing the cherry for the final look. “Click.” I can almost hear the sound resonating in my head as my brain finally connects the dots for the long-forgotten memory. Flashback to eight years ago, the same kayaking trip. After I calm down, I familiarize myself with the surroundings. The steep valleys, which gave a reliable protectiveness in the morning, now only convey the formidable threat of falling rock. “Let’s go,” my father calls, surging forward to walk on the narrow strait of the valley. “What are we doing? Can’t you ask for help through the emergency walkie-talkie?” I scramble to get up, only to find my legs trembling from the aftershock. Stumbling, I sit back down again. “If I could find the bag with the walkie-talkie through the frenzied water down there.” My father points at the stream and eagerly starts his hiking up the valley. Uncomfortable indecisiveness rings in my head as I frantically try to see if I can come up with a better solution, which I resolve ten seconds later to a blatant no. We soon start our walk along the edge of the valley. This walk gradually changes my regretful attitude for the previous kayaking trip because we encounter numerous unexpected opportunities. Occasionally, we come face-to-face with a sheep or cow who trailed off from the flock for some fresh grass on the slope. I can even make out the wrinkles around their eyes and hear the clashing of their teeth as they munch the grass. We are constantly on the brink of touching the animals as we venture on the narrow, muddy trail; this experience is like discovering an unexpected diamond from a rock. Living in a city crowded with human beings who pay to see animals in the zoo, it is hard to fathom such close contact with animals. We stagger on, and two hours later, we arrive at the cabin drenched in mud and sweat, looking like two fugitive criminals. Even though I am exhausted from the trip, I can only feel genuine happiness in taking on this absurd adventure that ends successfully with our safe return. Today, only gratitude fills my head as I reflect on the ending of the whole event. Besides the once-in-alifetime drowning and sightseeing experience, my kayaking trip taught me to take up challenges fearlessly because there will always exist a way out, and all that is needed is a positive attitude like my father’s. Unconsciously, the trip impacted my later decision to take up new challenges like giving a public speech or participating in high school debate tournaments. These events forced me to overcome my anxieties about speaking in public or making decisions; they also further strengthened my practice by helping me to keep a cheerful attitude even under stressful conditions. In a way, I am thankful that the pandemic erased my calendar and created the space for me to appreciate the matters I took for granted before, like the ability to travel around the world each year. During the extra time with myself, I recollect the lesson that a positive and fearless attitude towards a problem will end the story well, just as it did for my kayaking trip in New Zealand eight years ago. After all, what could be worse than falling off the kayak and venturing back home like escaped criminals?

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HOW TO PULL AN ALL-NIGHTER ON A SCHOOL NIGHT Alexandra Dent 1. Right after dinner, start your homework. Start with history so you will have the most energy for it and you’ll most likely not fall asleep while reading it. 2. Search on Spotify for a ‘white noise’ or ‘studying’ playlist to act like you’re being productive. 3. Text all of your friends and post on your Snapchat story that you are pulling an all-nighter. Pro-tip: take a selfie with an energy drink (because that’s what all the kids in the movies drink when they pull an all-nighter). 4. Start by actually reading, highlighting, and annotating your textbook, but then randomly highlighting things because you can’t comprehend anything you are reading. 5. Go on Wikipedia and search for a summary on the ‘Boston Massacre’ to read before class tomorrow morning instead of reading the rest of the chapter. 6. Take a well-deserved break on Tik Tok. 7. Check the time and see that you have been on Tik Tok for three hours. 8. Say goodnight to your parents cause they’re going to bed. When they say, “Don’t stay up too late,” reply with “I won’t; I’m almost done with my homework anyways.” 9. Continue to scroll through Tik Tok for another hour. 10. Realize it is now 10:30, and you’re losing steam and need a snack. 11. Go downstairs to the kitchen and check between the fridge and the cupboard for snacks until you finally settle on cereal. Honey Nut Cheerios or Frosted Flakes? The answer is always Frosted Flakes. 12. Go back upstairs to your room and attempt to start the math homework. 13. Question everything you have ever learned in your math career: Derivative? Square root? Pythagoras? Since when is the alphabet in math? 14. Watch YouTube videos to understand how to find the derivative of something. 15. Watch a video on how to not procrastinate. 16. Watch a video on how to be a morning person. 17. Watch a video on how to achieve ultimate success and happiness in your life. 18. Watch the “Happy” music video by Pharrel Williams. 19. Continue to fall down a hole of YouTube videos consisting, but not limited to, the topics of music videos, gaming, DIYs, vlogs, and how to play the piano. 20. Go to your basement to try to find your old keyboard from when you played in the 5th grade. 21. Look up how to play “The Office” theme song on the piano. 22. Realize it is now 12 am and you still have done nothing productive. Realize you need to redeem yourself and make the rest of this all-nighter epic. 23. While going back up to your room, you trip over the

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HOW TO PULL AN ALL-NIGHTER ON A SCHOOL NIGHT | Alexandra Dent (continued)

Chloe Lee

keyboard and get a cut. 24. Go back to your room, get a band aid, and guess on the rest of your math homework. 25. Finish your math homework and start on your English writing. 26. Start writing about the symbolism in The Great Gatsby but realize you lost your copy of the book. 27. Go back to your basement to look for another copy, but you trip over the keyboard again instead, so you give up. 28. Go back to your room hoping that your teacher will understand and declare that you are done with English. 29. Decide to give yourself a break and paint your nails while watching Netflix, but when you wave them to dry you accidentally spill nail polish on your pillow. Run to the bathroom to clean it up, then see that it is 2 am and scramble to start your Science project. 30. Read the description of the project and find out it is a research assignment on teenagers’ mental struggles due to time spent on social media. 31. Go on Tik Tok to do research on the matter with your own experience ’cause what is better than research that you wouldn’t have to cite? 32. Get a craving for French fries and decide to go to the 24 hours McDonald’s that’s ten minutes away. 33. Turn on your “night drive” playlist and sing your heart out on the way to McDonald’s. 34. Get a large fry, and remember to be extra nice to the cashier because they’re working at McDonald’s at 3 am on a weekday. 35. Once you are back home, be really careful heading back up to your room so no one knows you left the house. 36. Start actually doing your science project by doing research. 37. Realize you do not have the brain capacity to do research on this at this hour and move onto Spanish homework. 38. Pass out at approximately 5:07 am. 39. Wake up at 6 am because you rolled over and knocked your laptop off your bed. Realize you never plugged in your phone and you got salt stains from your French fries on your homework. 40. Go downstairs and be really confused when your parents go, “Why are you up so early on a Saturday?” 41. Be mad that you stayed up all night to do homework when it wasn’t a school night and that your all-nighter wasn’t nearly as cool as the ones in the movies. 42. Go back into bed to sleep, but still be happy that you tipped that cashier extra at McDonald’s.

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38

Dana Hall

Marissa Esposito

Sydney Jiang Mirage 2021

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CODE SWITCHED/AT BIRTH: A SENIOR SPEECH

Dawnya Green

I told you I was done lying I told you I was done lying I told you I was done lying complacent See....I’ve learned that it’s essential to my being to have boundaries, and priorities. How much of myself will I let go in order of importance To succeed in any given environment my academic integrity shouldn’t correlate to my speech patterns nor my mannerisms my eloquence is only assumed because of my widened vocabulary, spatial awareness neatly stitching my words together, and calm confidence resembling smooth, cooling waters The facts of who I am and what I am to be are multidimensional, in that everything I do is in one way or another inspired by my culture which reaches past boundaries to create new ones. It fosters a sense of belonging — to something that’s bigger than my surroundings. The subtle inflections, drops, and so called “drawl” of my voice mimics the cascading rivers of my youth, of my past. The highs and lows almost sound like a song, one native to my (reclaimed) land, my reclaimed voice and sound. My language is not like yours, it breaks all standards in a unique and lilting (lifting) cadence that enraptures all ears within its greatness. I have to scrounge for scraps and morsels of what might create a mental mirage of an entire ancestry merely to feel content with my place in the evolution of my culture, my black culture. my dear culture is the very lifeblood that is tapped by all that interact with it, leaving its body (those born into the culture) left dry and weakly calling out against yet another injustice. I’d never known an alphabet to write my native/regional dialect until a wave of education (new to me, but not directed at me) shed light on something I’d rather stay in the dark. Pandering, may we call it? Commodification? Thievery? This act goes by many names. My ingrained knowledge hasn’t found the need to put paper to pen. I live orally; why isn’t that allowed to be separate from society’s colonization of language! This goes out to all those that want to steal my language and butcher it in ways I’ve never imagined. The broken ebonics that blurts from uncultured lips falls on my ears in screeches similar to nails on a chalkboard and is a stark contrast to the calm reality of people staying in their cultural place. The paltry attempts at imitating us sound like dissonant keys being smashed by a baby who has yet to learn how to control or position their fingers and arms, to dance between lines of black and white, of flat and sharp, to create a rainbow of sound...

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Dana Hall

CODE SWITCHED/AT BIRTH: A SENIOR SPEECH | Dawnya Green (continued)

I say this in all candidness: if the shoe fits, I implore you to wear it. Don’t walk around barefoot just to avoid putting on the shoe of hard truths. Don’t be shy, put it on! I chose my speech. I chose to speak on what was taught to me and what I’ve taught myself. To close this, speech is so important.... to you to me to my people our voices, though they resound loud as the rolling sea, are often quieted and appropriated until we lose them, croaking from hoarse throats. However, the great thinkers of old have said that language never dies so with this eternal tool of a language, i give you A performance one unintentional one nonetheless impactful I didn’t intend to perform this, seeing as I’ve been sick and tired of being sick and tired of performing versions of myself daily for the last 4 years. For weeks preceding this, I asked myself what version of myself am I bringing to this stage (figurative and possibly literal) today? What attributes and mannerisms am I going to choose, as if I’m cherry-picking off of a tree planted by the emotional labor most unwanted in the world. I wanted to be authentic only to myself in my multifacetedness The thought of switching into code ravaged me and made me think to myself: the idea of laying/going to bed with your demons could be like shaking the hand of your curses every morning. How can you say you’re breaking this generational curse when you’re befriending it every time you enter a certain space? Every waking day has led me to wonder if there’s an end in sight to this (my) speech, to this, my life to this, our fight I don’t think there’s a happy ending here, no present wrapped in an ornate bow, except for me (and all that i represent).

Mirage 2021

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Ella Jang 42

Dana Hall

RECIPE FOR A TUESDAY

Marissa Lehv

Step 1: Tap the doorknob to the kitchen 27 times because you love Uncle Charlie and don’t want him to die. Step 2: Eat oatmeal with 6 raspberries because Uncle Charlie deserves to have a daughter, and 5 or 7 would paralyze your favorite cousin. 3: Wash your hands. 4: Get dressed, and check that the stove is turned off because everyone would blame you for the fire. 5: Wash your hands. 6: Count the number of stop signs on the way to school because the flu can be deadly, and you probably have it already. 7: Wash your hands as soon as you get to school. 8: Wipe down your desk with the Lysol wipes in your backpack. 9: Wipe down the container of Lysol wipes with the Clorox wipes in your backpack. 10: Wash your hands. 11: Try to take notes, but the ‘e’ in ‘Saline Solution’ looks wrong, so rewrite it 14 more times until it feels right. 12: Chew a piece of spearmint gum because you used the number 14. 13: Wash your hands because you chewed a piece of spearmint gum. 14: Spit out the gum after 28 minutes because it is 14 times 2. 15: Wash your hands. 16: Listen to your lab partner tell you that you are the same as him, as he shows you his color-coded notebook and rearranges the pencils on his desk into height order. 17: Mutter “screw you” under your breath to your lab partner. 18: Apologize to your now-confused lab partner while you turn around in circles 8 times because you didn’t mean it. 19: Wipe down his pencils with Lysol and then again with Clorox for good measure, because even though Joey is an idiot, he does not deserve to crash his car. 20: Wash your hands. 21: Check the cap on your water bottle to make sure it won’t spill. 22: Tap the side of your water bottle 14 times because you aren’t totally sure the cap is on tight, even though you asked your lab partner twice. 23: Chew a piece of spearmint gum because you used the number 14. 24: Replace the gum with a grape Jolly Rancher because gum can only be chewed for a total of 34 minutes a day, and you might use 14 again. 25: Wash your hands. 26: Offer your lab partner Purell because he touched his hair three times in a row, and odd-numbered hair touches cause Scarlet Fever. 27: Tap your feet until you calm down because Joey didn’t want the Purell. 28: Take a deep breath because the foot-tapping didn’t work, and your lab partner scratched his ear after checking his phone. 29: Beg your lab partner to retie his shoelaces because he may have Hepatitis B. 30: Wish you were different when Joey asks to work with someone else. 31: Wish you were different when nobody else offers to be your lab partner. 32: Wash your hands. 33: Check your watch, because you are exhausted already. 34: Tear up, because it’s 10:41, and that is not a good time to be alive at during the month of February. 35: Hold your breath and wipe down your watch with Lysol until it is 10:42 and you can exhale. 35: Stare at your beaker and wonder how distilled the water is because Ebola is a serious concern. 36: Ask how distilled the water is while Joey rolls his eyes and asks Sam for the lab values. 37: Reluctantly chew a piece of spearmint gum because Sam said there were 14 grams of salt in the tube. 38: Nervously replace the gum with a blue Jolly Rancher because you might use 14 again, and grape is not a flavor for after 10:30 in the morning. 39: Wash your hands. 40: Wish you were different because everyone is talking about how you cried because of the time on the clock. 41: Wish you were different because there is nothing you can say to defend yourself. 42: Check the cap on your water bottle to make sure it is still closed. 43: Ask to use the bathroom. 44: Go nowhere near the bathroom because it has germs, and you can just hold it. 45: Go to the empty lab room and wash your hands while holding your breath because who knows what chemicals were used in there. 46: Call your mom because you want to check that the stove was really turned all the way off. 47: Go back to class, because it has been 4 minutes, and that is the break time that you can have without giving Uncle Charlie another kidney stone. 48: Try your best to finish the lab, because it is due in a week, and you only have one value. 49: Smile at Joey because he showed you his data table and offered to let you copy it down. 50: Wash your hands. 51: Trudge through the rest of the day 52: Write an extra step, because odd numbers are only allowed if it is the 27 taps on the doorknob.

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THE GONG

Ellie Wellington When my parents got married, they received a golden gong as a gift I have no idea who gave it to them; I think it was one of my dad’s friends He keeps it displayed on our bookshelf My mother hates it. I think it’s funny because it’s so ugly, it’s a big golden cymbal on a wooden stand, it has goblins on the side and it’s such a strange gift; who gives a gong to someone who didn’t ask for a gong, especially for their wedding? My dad likes to ring it when something good happens, or to mess with us. My mother always rolls her eyes, because she hates the gong and the gong is ugly and we really should just throw it away But it’s still on the shelf, Next to my baby pictures and worn-down books. Sometimes, when she’s alone, and she looks at that gong, that bizarre little statue, I catch her smiling because she doesn’t see the gong, she sees my dad.

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Sydney Jiang Mirage 2021

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Mengqi (Sophia) Gu

THREE SUFI POEMS Boat Talk I sat upon the wooden dock. A fishing boat bobbed full of stock: Full of fish and full of talk. I could hear my mother mock. “Own no boat when you can swim, So when you look in the water you will see Him.” -Julia Freedman Leave the Box We live in boxes, Dark, cold, and confined. Your scratches on the cardboard, My murmurs to my heart. Our limitless limit, Your effortless effort. The anger, fear, and arrogance attacked my head, But I ventured on the murmur My beloved invites me towards, Light, warmth, and freedom. I love my beloved not by those, but Only for the gesture that shows my way out, Which your endless end will never find out. -Jessica Du Too Valuable You are only lesser if you give permission. Would you unlock the door for a burglar? Only you hold the keys to your tomorrow. Keep your keys safe. Only grant permission after meticulous thought, For you are too valuable for haste. -Iva Jacoby

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ELIO

Caitlin Kuang [1] Vera was young when I first saw her, not yet in her teenage years. Dressed in a white gossamer dress, she looked like someone who would be portrayed in neoclassical paintings, and I could not help but wonder what thick brushstrokes an artist would lay upon the canvas to trace out the chestnut curls draped across her shoulder. In her arms was a porcelain doll. She had no intention of straightening the unkempt filaments of the doll’s hair and instead silently observed her surroundings with wide eyes. For a moment, our eyes met. Hers, full of childish innocence and curiosity, and mine, already lethargic from what I have seen of the mortal world. Death approached her, and she greeted me with a smile. [2] That day, I took an elderly woman and gazed as her spirit drifted away in the halls of the hospital, evaporating like a dewdrop under the zenith of the midsummer sun. Only when I turned around did I see her by my side, carrying her doll. I inclined my head with the slightest move, my eyes tracing her frail figure from the hem of her dress to her eyes: untainted pools of innocence. She did not flinch. For long, I have wondered what Death’s gaze looked like, what my gaze looked like. Indifferent, callous, devoid of warmth. This pair of eyes, like the suffocating depths of the sea, once brought warriors to their knees and kings to the brink of tears. But they seemed to have had no effect on her. “What? You want to leave with me?” My voice was shards and daggers and fragile ice, not softened by the slightest for her sake. Death has not softened for anyone, ever. Death knows no clemency. She continued staring, not moving an inch, only shaking her head almost imperceptibly as a soundless reply. For a moment, there was only silence. No one wants to leave with Death. I flicked my wrist as an attempt to chase her away, but she unexpectedly spoke. Her voice was soft, timid, reminding me of a fawn that knows only to run wild in the groves, but not to flee from headlights. “Will you stay with me?” A contemptuous laugh escaped from my lips, echoing in the blended realities of the mortal world and what came after. A smile emerged upon my lips, bereft of humor. “I’m always by everyone’s side, dancing with all,” I replied, sparing a glance away from her and instead towards the now-empty hallway. The woman’s soul had dissipated into the realms of afterlife, without a single indication that she once existed. I danced with her as well, some time, some day, until she fell at my feet, as all would.

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ELIO | Caitlin Kuang (continued)

“What’s your name?” She spoke again, tilting her head in inquiry. You know what my name is, girl, I wanted to say, but swallowed the words before they reached my lips. For some reason, they felt wrong, and tasted as bitter as hemlock. So instead I answered: “Death.” It was her turn to be overwhelmed by silence this time. I wondered, was she afraid? She was not trembling, nor weeping, only standing as if deep in thought, gaze drifting off towards the emptiness behind me. After eternity, she shattered the silence. “Can I call you Elio?” Bewilderment flashed across my irises, closely followed by confusion, permeating my gaze like wafting mist. I did not understand. Through the evanescence of time, through the collapse of dynasties, why did so many try to give Death a name? They still resist, still fear, still greet me with tears, do they not? A name does not make Death more welcomed. “Why?” The single syllable forced its way through. Perhaps it was the hostility pervading my words that startled her into recoiling, yet that moment of fear was short-lived, for soon she began explaining, although slightly timorously: “Death sounds so ...... sinister.” To that, I did not respond. Death had been called the Reaper, Thanatos, Anubis ...... But never Elio. [3] Vera was an unfortunate one. She met me, and from then on, her destiny and mine were entangled in a fatal tango. The second time I met her was a few years later. She was thirteen at that time. Her parents were in the office, conversing with a doctor. Vera did not know of the dire news that was being delivered. The young girl was still carrying the blonde doll, sitting on the bench in the detergentscented halls. Nothing had changed: the floor was spotless, walls polished to the point that they were gleaming, doctors rushing between rooms with vibrantly-colored clipboards and constant airs of urgency. Except there was one difference. She was leaning on me. It was an ironically fitting metaphor for the fate arranged for her. Death’s body was cold, like a corpse’s, but she did not seem to mind. She ran her fingers through the golden strands of her doll’s hair absent-mindedly, thoughts roaming in a world beyond this one. “Why Elio?” I asked abruptly, glancing towards her. She looked up, gently set her doll besides her. “Elio’s a character, from a book,” she explained, toying with

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ELIO | Caitlin Kuang (continued)

the delicate locks of her own hair, curling them around her fingertips before letting go, repeating these useless movements tirelessly. “He can fly.” She lifted her gaze, smiling at the thought of a hope that would never be fulfilled: “I want to fly one day.” But you never will, I silently added, squeezing out a weary smile. Tentatively, I reached out, placing my hand on hers, and spoke with a voice so gentle that it did not sound like my own: “I can teach you how to fly, if you come with me.” A shiver ran through her body, as if she had been shocked by electricity. She widened her eyes and stared at me almost helplessly, refuting without much strength in her voice: “But I also want to dance-” “With me, perhaps.” I interrupted nonchalantly, but still she did not move. An unnoticeable breath of frustration escaped me. Her death would come eventually - why not now? Why do mortals try so keenly to escape the inevitable? “And I want to sing, to sing to children just like me!” She continued, her voice strengthening at the mention of children as prone to illnesses as she was. Stars glimmered in her irises, the light of the universe converging within those minuscule yet infinite shimmers. I could not bring myself to tell her that where I came from, there were many just like her. [4] A month later, I met Vera again, a heartbreaking gauntness overcoming the stars in her eyes. Her complexion was pallid, caused by either sorrow or sickness. She knelt beside the trash can, holding a book. Its cover was composed of warm splatters of paint that formed figures dancing through roses, through reality and then transcending it. And on the rose-colored hardback cover, the gilded letters were so conspicuous, burning with the incandescence of the lights in the room. Elio. I recalled a conversation from merely a few months ago that seemed so distant. Vera, she believed in the dragons soaring across the firmament and the miracles in fairytales. She yearned for those miracles, for they were her only hope. Because the cells in her body are gnarled fiends, depriving her of life. Because something had formed within her, and that something had corroded her reality. Because she could die, and she could not find the hope that she desperately needed. “My mother wants me to stop reading this.” She sighed, perhaps hearing my footsteps or feeling the chill. She looked back, her eyes drained of energy and now glistening with only tears, so fragile in a way that bewildered me. Should I tell her that her mother was weeping in the car, her head pressed against the steering wheel,

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ELIO | Caitlin Kuang (continued)

blaming herself for her outburst against her only daughter, who she could lose within weeks? Should I tell her that her father was out looking for books and cures, anything that could help her, just to see the light return to her eyes? Should I give her hope when it could disappear so easily? So I knelt beside her, and clumsily brought her into my embrace. She was shivering like an embattled autumn leaf, and that last line of defense within her soon broke. She collapsed into my arms. “Are you tired?” I murmured, earning a weak nod and a sound like one a wounded beast would make. “I don’t want the medicine, I don’t want the procedures, I don’t want to lose my hair and I ......” Her voice, stifled and powerless, faltered into a choke as her hands gripped my clothes with what little strength she could find within her. But she wasn’t crying, I noticed when she stared up towards me. She was suppressing her tears, trying to hide them, trying to pretend that they didn’t exist. “I want to read and dance in the rain and play outside!” Her words intensified into shouts. The passing patients and doctors paid her no attention. Perhaps they have grown accustomed to the screams, to a point that they were numb. They knew that hysteria was a side effect of dying. “Leave with me.” I pleaded, “Leave with me, and you’re free.” I can take you flying, or dancing, or do all the things that you’ll never be able to do. Death can give you what life cannot. But she shook her head. Obstinate, determined, and still hopeful, despite everything. [5] The next year, I did not see Vera, but knew that she survived. She persisted, and fought, and survived. Knowing this, I smiled. It was a forced but content smile. But Death returned to her side when she was fifteen. I brushed past her shoulder, and took someone from her support group. A boy, only thirteen, and one of Vera’s best friends. The news struck her hard. I came to her in silence, and sat in the seat next to her, a seat that once belonged to the boy I took. I did not know what to do, and could only hold her shoulder, stating: “He’s gone.” Hemlock and nightshade and all the poisons of the world filled all my insides with searing toxins when I uttered those words. For the first time, I felt what it’s like to die, from the inside. Vera nodded, staring at me with a forlorn gaze. There was no regret, no anger, just a numbness. Somehow, that was worse. Her gaze, empty as it was, was like a dagger that someone stabbed into my chest, tearing apart the still heart and twisting in the cold flesh. Mirage 2021

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ELIO | Caitlin Kuang (continued)

I shouldn’t feel pain, but I did. “He was a friend?” “Yes.” Her voice was coarse and raw with tears, as if she was dying, even when she wasn’t. As I spared another glance towards her, I realized that she was dressed for mourning. Black, like night, like death. She had always wanted to wear these exquisite products of silk and lace. She believed that she would be beautiful. And she was, heartbreakingly and miserably beautiful, adorned by grief and melancholy. A marred smile was etched upon her face, the opposite of what I had seen years ago. Her hands shook; she made no attempt to suppress the quivering. The steaming coffee in the paper cup she held spilled upon the new dress. And I felt as if I was burned. I did not want to see her like this, but what could I do? It was my duty to take his life, as it would be my duty to take hers one day. “Do you want to go with him?” Our eyes met, and in her gaze, I saw the innocent twelve-year-old her, the fearful thirteen-year-old her, and finally the fifteen-year-old her. The fifteen-year-old who was forced to grow up too fast, who had her last innocence stolen by me. She parted her lips only to choke upon her voice. On her second attempt, she was able to utter the unbelievably calm words. “I will live, and do for him what he wasn’t able to do.” [6] “Vera!” Someone was screaming her name. An ominous presentiment enclosed me as soon as I heard the name. Worry clogged my throat, suffocating me. Time slowed down as I appeared by her side, catching one last glimpse of her blue eyes before they closed. Like a marionette with broken strings, she fell to the ground and did not rise again. I called her name, knelt by her side, stroked her pale face, but received no response. “Vera, Vera.” I spoke, pleaded, again and again. She was like the porcelain doll that she once had, limp in my arms, her body frail and her complexion pallid. Is it time? Never could I have imagined the dread brought forward by the thought of taking her. [7] Vera woke up to familiar fluorescent lights and polished walls. She hid beneath the sheets and squeezed her eyes shut, as if this was all a nightmare that would go away soon. Her heavy breaths were the only sounds in the room as she shook with a fear that she desperately tried to suppress.

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ELIO | Caitlin Kuang (continued)

I was the one to lay a hand on her back and give her the crushing news. “It came back, Vera, worse.” A sharp intake of breath followed by a sob was the response I received. She pulled back the sheets and peered towards me with begging eyes, as if hoping that I would tell her this was all a terrible joke. I could only shake my head with regret and evade her eyes. That was her death sentence. “If you leave now, there will be less pain.” I whispered, sitting down on her bed. She hesitated for a moment, before using all her strength to hold herself up. I caught her right as another wave of fear swept past and that strength abandoned her. Just like that, Vera leaned onto me, uncontrollably rocking with tears. She looked so helpless, so lost, so heartbreaking; so feeble, so anguished, so miserable. I saw in her the shadow of the girl who used to be, only without the hope that she once had. She’d been through too much. “I...I want to live...” She confessed with a quavering voice, only to be interrupted by another sob, “I want to live, to dance and ride horses and do so many things. I want to live, Elio, I really do!” I was silent, holding her tightly. I didn’t want to and could not lie to her. I did not say to her “You will live,” nor did I make any attempt at dissembling. “I really want to live ......” She repeated, every syllable impaling me with feelings I have never felt before. Sadness, regret, pity, and pain, too much pain. In the end, I could only answer: “I know.” A single tear slid down from the corner of my eye. [8] Days after Vera’s seventeenth birthday, I saw her again, for the last time. She was in her sickbed, or maybe deathbed, tears staining her cheeks, clothes permanently tainted by hints of vomit. Her breaths were accompanied by rattling noises, as if someone was dragging a dagger through her throat. She stared at the ceiling and swallowed hard, eyelids twitching as she fought to stay awake, flipping the nonexistent storybook in her hands. “You came, Elio.” The tears hit when she said my name. “Yes.” I confirmed and approached her bedside, my steps difficult in ways I wouldn’t have understood years ago. I held her hand once again and spoke softly: “Come.” She was silent for so long, I almost thought that she intended on resisting again. If she did, I didn’t know if I would be able to force her to come, even though her time was up. After the everlasting silence, she finally turned her head, struggling while doing so. Her eyes welled with tears as she murmured: “You’ll be with me?”

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ELIO | Caitlin Kuang (continued)

I nodded, holding her up with careful movements, and picked her up from the bed. She was light, like a feather, emaciated and wan. “I promise.” Vera nodded subtly in relief, laying her head upon my chest trustingly. Perhaps she could hear the revived heart palpitating within my ribcage, or maybe all my pain was merely a phantom wisp of humanity, and I remain as dead as ever. “Elio, I ......” Her voice faltered as her light blue eyes met mine one last time. A weak smile pulled at her lips. I know. I replied with a wistful, melancholic smile, silent for a moment, before I spoke again: “Sleep, Vera.” Like a docile doe, she closed her eyes. Her chest ceased rising and falling in steady rhythms, like an ocean finally calmed. Her breaths softened until they stopped, and I knew that, like all others I took before her, she was gone. I laid her body upon her bed, tucked the sheets in, and smiled. A translucent figure peeled off her body, like a thin veil of mist. A young soul appeared at my side, dressed in the white gossamer dress she wore when we first met, her steps light and livelier than ever before. Her skin was pristine, without tears, emanating radiance. Stars that would never burn out spiraled within her clear irises, which contained a universe of whim and fantasy unlike anyone had ever seen before. Our fingertips touched, blazing evanescence bursting from where they met, emotions blossoming in our hearts. In that supernovae moment, I held her hand and allowed black wings to slowly unfurl behind me, starlight strewn between the gleaming obsidian feathers. Together, we flew towards the heavens above, towards the light blooming in the distance.

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Jenna Lewis Mirage 2021

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Cassady Churchill

Yuqi (Victoria) Zhou

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Claire Kenny

XLV

Ella Schweizer To my brothers and sisters now scattered across the country, I love you. I love you like the sunrise loves to watch us run towards mountains we once thought impossible to reach, the very same ones we stood atop of with windswept hair and cheeks red with the effort of the climb and the cold. I’ve loved you longer than I’ve known you, a part of me felt full when you came, a part that had too long been empty. I see your face in those morning moments, the ones where your mind is in a dream and your body is back in reality. For that one moment, for that one shooting star, we are together again. I cry into your shoulder on the floor of a laundry room, and we laugh at the confused faces of our family peering through the window. You cry into mine on a December night that should’ve been cold, but your body shook, not to keep out the icy air, rather to let out the sobs of seeing heaven and being told to go back down to earth. I lay by the fire, and wished my head was in your lap and your hands were in my hair. We whispered on nights like those, because while our sisters slept we knew this was the only dream worth having. I love your eyes; they are a sky lined by pine trees, green and brown and blue and magical. I love your voice, how it gets high when you’re embarrassed, how it scratches at the end of the day, how you use it to bring happiness to everyone around you. I love you. I love you though we’re broken in all the wrong ways. Our shattered pieces shouldn’t fit together, and I love you because they do. You always seem to find me, no matter how lost I get, no matter how many times I leave. Maybe you’ll come back if I can tell you just how much I love you, I love you, I love you.

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Sophia Sahni

O WINGED BIRD OF WINTER NIGHT

from “Dissonance of the Drowned” Flora Gu

O winged bird of winter night, How lovely art thou with thy feathers white! Into air thou soar’st and out of clouds thou fliest; O’er snow-clad mountains shineth thy might! O winged bird of winter night, How pure art thou with thy silver eyes! Out of fog thou soar’st and into mist thou fliest; O’er snow-clad meadow withereth thy might! O winged bird of winter night, How fair art thou with thy choked rime! Into snow thou fad’st and out of sight thou liest; O’er snow-clad clifftop haunteth thy might! Why, then, dost thou will thy kingdom wide? Out of cage thou brak’st and into void thou fight’st; Shatter thy feathers and falleth thy might, O winged bird of winter night!

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NOUGAT CANDY

Aimee Yu

February: Major shutdown of over 48 cities in China. The bell rang. “Merci les filles!” My French teacher ended her class as always. Calling me aside, she reached into a metal box and placed a small cube in my hands, “This is only for my Chinese students.” She winked at me. I stared at my palm—nougat candy with almonds—my favorite. Pray for your family. June: Death toll passed 100,000 in the US. Mother and I had been quarantining with my jiujiu (uncle) and jiuma (aunt) in their house in North Carolina. I’d just facetimed with my grandma, who was still reeling from a break up with her college friend over a petty political difference. Of course, now it seems to go without saying, we cannot be friends with even one disagreement. Grandma told me the news in China: the exact location of each infected person was released to the public in order to keep track of positive cases, down to which car of the subway they were on. The deeper I thought, the scarier it became, knowing that my grandma’s phone had been with her all day. A policy made for the sake of security was creating paranoia among the people it was trying to protect; a social dilemma, with no absolute right or wrong, was forcing us to isolate and have polarized opinions. So it was with my family and everyone else. I heard the adults talking downstairs. My uncle’s words like “essential” and “protection” overwhelmed my mother’s “privacy” and “rights” while I wondered whether their argument was even necessary at all. Uncle’s voice sounded like a stranger to me, more pompous than patient, more combative than comforting. In my memory, he was tall enough for me to swing on his arm and had smile lines clearly visible on his face. I remembered the temperature of his hands over mine when he held my fishing rod with a spotted bass hanging by the hook, and sunshine bouncing up and down on the surface of the Atlantic Ocean. Hold on to your loved ones. October: Last month of quarantine before I return home. Mother asked me a question after we booked our flight back to Beijing: “Which is more valuable, security or freedom?” I did not think anyone was sure, yet they all acted like they did. When I was packing, I searched for the nougat candy in my bag. Families and friends could sometimes fall into conflict when the world was already in chaos, but a piece of candy offered by a kind-hearted soul, a special sweetness lingering in my mouth, would be enough to hold me together. Find your way back home.

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Alexandra Dent

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Chloe Lee 64

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WHO WILL WIN?

Indy Goldberg

The river is home. Though larger than a rapid, it is a slice of sunshine, the sheen of a knife carving a ray from the molten bulb. The smooth slabs on the sidewalk. The peppered flowers on an ivy branch. Everyone says the rapids break up the river, but the river seems to break up the rapids. River breath steams up from below the foggy water, hiding the society that lives beneath. River carries the boat through her blood, falsely leading them on. River heart is like the forbidden forest, too good not to step foot onto that soggy, green moss, but too bad to know you are not supposed to. The blood seems to heat up as they move closer, only until they have realized it is too late. The rapid is challenge. It is the cracks in the sidewalk that break your mother’s back. Rapid is river heart, except it is not the beating muscle of flesh from far away. No, rapid is pounding walls that suffocate and crush every nerve in your body, the feel of wet muscle tying around your neck, only to retreat, a perpetual nightmare of gratitude and fear. Rapid swallows the most precious belongings deep into her churning holes, feeding that bloody mess that lies beneath. Society is in ruins below her, with hope-filled fish thinking they will finally secure their destiny, only to be stunned by the frothing monster that kicks them from the podium. Rapid roars the minute she is seen; whether she was boiling with her molten blood before or only after people arrived is inconsequential. She sees them now, her thousands of beady little rock eyes, staring them down, sizing them up and coldly calculating the best way to drown them. In the summer of 2019, a boy broke his ankle, another stood on a five-foot rock in the middle of churning madness, another patched his best friend up while being beat up by Rapid’s terrifying, cold, frothy punches. And a girl called out to all of them that she needed help. Rapid would have checked this day off as another successful Monday, a red X on a calendar. But this day these kids refused to be eaten by the raw heart of the monster around them, as they saw the smooth slabs of the sidewalk only a mile away.

Emma Shaich Mirage 2021

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Flora Gu

TO KISS REBELLION

Nik Mobed

To kiss Rebellion is to swallow the feeling of letting yourself Fall off a cliff 1000 meters high and land on a bed of the softest flowers To hold Their hand is to breathe in and know what it is like to Change the world it is a Drug to take to see how happiness is nothing compared to love to Watch the stars with Them is to scream at the top of your lungs into The Abyss to get a response consisting of safety and knowing and togetherness and Hope and Hope will be our savior if only we save Hope

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Lily Segal Mirage 2021

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Gaby Cao 68

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Sophia Langlois

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Lenzie Mitchell

STAFF PAGE Editors-in-Chief: Art Editors: Literary Editors: Staff:

Faculty Advisors:

Anca ( Jingyi) Fu ‘21 Yuqi (Victoria) Zhou ‘21 Molly Han ‘21 Lenzie Mitchell ‘21 Skye Huang ‘21 Leah Sager ‘21 Ines Bayigamba ‘22 Lily Brinkman ‘22 Jessica Du ‘23 Flora Gu ‘23 Mengqi (Sophia) Gu ‘24 Seowon (Emily) Hong ‘23 Ella Jang ‘23 Sydney Jiang ‘23 Caitlin Kuang ‘24 Anjali Lal ‘23 Sarah Li ‘24 Aina Seja ‘24 Sunny Shi ‘23 Nina Wang ‘24 Ilyssa Yan ‘23 Aimee Yu ‘23 Julia Bucci Mary Ann McQuillan

Ava Morvillo Mirage 2021

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MIRAGE 2021