Cherlyn ( Jieun) Lee
Dana Hall School
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedicated to Sally Reid
Self-Portrait Abigail Kelly ’15 Cover Fractality in a Cereal Box Cherlyn ( Jieun) Lee ’15 1 Portrait of Ms. Reid Lauren Nashawaty ’16 2 Portrait of Ms. Reid Michael Frassinelli, faculty 2 The Book Takes Flight Allegra Florimbi ’16 2 4 The Eggplant Candy Affair Nancy Rich, faculty Pasos Stephanie Donohue, faculty 5
“Once I leave school, and I’m walking home, my mind is racing. I’m thinking about what I really want to do, and what I really want to do is to make something.” - Sally Reid
Allegra Florimbi
It is with admiration and fondness that the Mirage staff dedicates this year’s magazine to Sally Reid, who has taught math with humor, expertise, and sensitivity at Dana Hall since 2008. An avid enthusiast of arts and literature, Ms. Reid is Dana Hall’s very own “maker”; a jeweler, a quilter, a seamstress, she is a veritable virtuoso of all things crafty. Although we will miss learning from her and laughing with her, we wish her well as she returns home to do “what [she] really wants to do, to make something.” We have no doubt that something will be great.
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Dana Hall
Shorewood Elsie Coen ’16 5 Rise Helen (Wenling) Jiang ’17 6 The Ice Cream Man Abigail Kelly ’15 7 Unmask Janice Frazier ’15 8 Betrayal Amera Youssef ’17 9 Home Tiffany Lau ’15 10 Spiral Gallery Nicole (Lok Lam) Chan ’15 10 Spiral Gallery Alexandra Naddaff ’16 10 Spiral Circle Julia Donovan ’14 11 Overgrown Stacey Rodriguez ’16 12 Three Feet Away Natalie Ciardi ’16 13 Rosie Kaya Reingold ’16 13 Void Jacqueline Hayre-Perez ’17 14 Dream House Sinclair Imondo ’16 14 Portrait of a Woman Michelle (Manxue) Ma ’18 15 Serpentine Anna Reinherz ’15 16 SNL Monologue Shayna Sheehan ’15 17 Birthday Parties, Bad Coffee, and Bikers Fiona Unsworth ’15 18 Time Travel Jenna Howard ’16 19 Lucy Sophie Binder ’16 20 Unnoticed Shayna Sheehan ’15 21 Why He Spent 15,052 Dollars Sofia Barros ’18 22 Wadi Rum Lucy (Lu) Yan ’15 23 Jellyfish Sophie Binder ’16 24 Light Fixture Lucy (Lu) Yan ’15 24 Sculpture Cherlyn ( Jieun) Lee ’15 25 Dreamy Erin (Chaeyeon) Kim ’16 26 The Vanishing Blue Angel (Anqi) Yang ’16 26 Lucia Lily Garber ’16 27 Quarters Haley Present ’15 28 Fall Parade Ye Ri Lee ’17 29 Growing Season Soomin Mah ’17 30 Concealed Struggle Stephanie (Nanxi) Zhao ’18 31 Wander Effie (Yanfei) Li ’17 32 Sonnet Meaghan Robichaud ’17 33 Decisions, Decisions Nora Panahi ’15 34 Who am I? Sasha Megie ’17 35 Theme for Lit Comp 3 Tanirah Morgan ’16 36 Self-Portrait Janice Frazier ’15 37 Frames Emily Spencer ’16 38 Down It Goes Melissa Klein ’18 38 Nature’s Call Abigail Kaplan ’16 39 This Must Be Home Tiffany Lau ’15 40 No One’s Home Jacqueline Hayre-Pérez ’17 41 School of Fish Effie (Yanfei) Li ’17 42 A Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs A Bicycle Lauren Nashawaty ’16 43 Variations on the Circles Caroline Dawson ’18 44 Julia Stento ’17 44 Ana Natalia Epstein ’18 44 Julia Forman ’18 44 African Fabric Jinjae Kim ’16 45 Mudang Offering Karl Neumann, faculty 46 That’s Handy Abigail Kelly ’15 47 Red In the Sea Sierra Root ’16 48 The Daily Journey Fiona Unsworth ’15 Back Covers
THE EGGPLANT CANDY AFFAIR
from a collection of stories honoring Carrie M. Coney, Mom’s best friend, my second mom Nancy Rich
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badly wrinkled leathery skin with deep crevices that crisscross the surface. To morph from vegetable to candy, the eggplant is boiled whole and then dipped into a vat of bubbling liquid sugar. The transformation is complete when the eggplant dries and resembles a shiny shrunken head from some remote Pacific island. In order to protect her young daughter from an insatiable sweet tooth, my mother hid the candied eggplants in the top drawer of a 5½‐ foot tall double dresser. Before long, I had zeroed in on the precise latitude and longitude of the hidden treasure. As a half‐pint Indiana Jones, my plan was to pirate the candied eggplants for myself. I quietly closed the door to the bedroom, surveyed the daunting tower before me, and proceeded to pull out the dresser drawers one at a time using each as a steppingstone leading me to the loot. Once I reached the summit, I pried a sticky eggplant from its fancy box and began eating it. Eureka! My efforts had been rewarded. What happened next was unfortunate, if not inconvenient. My savory enjoyment of the eggplant was rudely interrupted when the dresser teetered off balance, lunged forward, and crashed to the floor on top of me. Hearing the explosion, my mother and Carrie rushed to the bedroom, horrified to know that my small body was pinned under such a massive weight. I was completely hidden under the skeleton of the dresser, its partially opened drawers, and the contents of mangled sweaters and shirts spilling in all directions.
Dana Hall
Within a matter of seconds, however, horror turned to anger when Carrie and my mother got their first look at me under the pile. I was contentedly eating the sweet eggplant, pieces of dark purple stuck to my chin. I was unscathed, smiling, and quite pleased with myself. It took both Carrie and my mother significant effort, worry, and care to lift the double dresser off me without any of the six unwieldy drawers causing me harm on their way in and up. I was obnoxiously unfazed by the predicament I had put my caretakers in and a bit perturbed to have been found out and literally stopped in my tracks. Long story short, I was freed from the dresser. Carrie and my mother were visibly relieved that they had protected their little girl from harm, and my sweet tooth was satisfied…but only temporarily. Wouldn’t you know that once everything was put back in order and everyone calmed down, I snuck back into that bedroom, closed the door, and repeated the entire episode in exactly the same sequence – up the drawer “steps,” eggplant captured between my pudgy fingers, dresser from vertical to horizontal, panicked adults, careful maneuvering to get the dresser erect, and no harm done…except that the candies were then hidden in a place I never found again and my two biggest fans were quite furious with me.
Stephanie Donahue
My first memory of Carrie is from the summer of 1956 when I was three years old. I remember attending day camp, packing off each morning for the bus stop and a long day of activities designed for the toddler set. Earlier that spring, the camp’s mascot, an ornery calico cat, had delivered four kittens, and the director offered one to any child who could present a parent’s note giving their permission. Carrie, being the good soul that she was, kindly wrote that note for me, ostensibly on my parents’ behalf. Not surprisingly, my parents gave the kitten a one-way bus ticket back to camp the very next morning. Beginning with that note, however, and throughout the many years that Carrie came to our house, I always felt that I had an ally in her. To be honest, that was the last time, lo these 60 plus years, that I was able to pull the wool over Carrie’s eyes. The following summer, I discovered that I shared my mother’s fondness for candied eggplants, an exotic Moroccan dessert. My mother’s sister was visiting us from Rabat and she brought with her a gift of these delicacies as a special treat. I was intrigued. Gold foil lined the bottom and sides of the box, and cellophane and a gold ribbon were stretched across the top. Looking past the fancy wrapping, most people would say that these candies are not appealing in the least…not to the eyes, nose, or the imagination, and one would think that they would be particularly unappealing to a child. A candied eggplant is blackish purple, smaller than the common eggplant, and similar in size and shape to a plump pear. Its damning feature is a
SHOREWOOD Elsie Coen On a quiet October night, I find myself sitting peacefully, cross-legged on the old wooden floors of my attic bedroom. Directly in front of me, lying atop the weathered floorboards, is my record player. We sit in the dim light, ignoring the notifications popping up on my cell phone’s screen just a few feet behind my back. The hypnotic record, tearing through the stillness, injecting energy into the cramped yet open atmosphere, spins around and around. Its pace is constant, despite the contrastingly heavy drum fills and sweet acoustic verses. I’m mesmerized, in a focused fog, alert and in tune to the sharp notes, knowing each one all too well. The sound diffuses and slowly comes to a stop while the record continues to spin and the needle quietly scuffs the empty track. The silence is filled with presence, as if a friend were quietly looming at the door, awaiting recognition, with an unassuming
smile and warm eyes focused on the scratchy floor beneath her feet. The floor creaks as I shift my weight, gently lift up the just-finished record and softly flip it over. When the first chord blares from the speakers along the outer edge of the leathery sky-blue Crosley briefcase, my brain kicks into gear. The gears turn and shift in compliance with each lyric and chord progression. I’m brought back to the intersection between Shorewood Avenue and Route 28, where the ocean breeze is anything but distant. Windows down, blonde hair whirring and tangling in wind. The moment when the song came on and something inside me clicked for the first time. Little did I know, three months later, bundled up in my brother’s sweatshirt, with cold toes and a messy bun, I would be transported back to that very moment from my bedroom floor.
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THE ICE CREAM MAN Abigail Kelly I was sixteen and finally able to understand. My grandfather and I sat on his cherry-red porch in wooden rockers that are no longer so big. My grandfather told me of his journey home that lasted fifteen days. He told me of when he cruised underneath the Golden Gate Bridge. He told me of the sun rising and of the red metal and the orange sea that shimmered. He told me how he felt American. He told me how he felt like a hero because he returned to his family who had been hiding from war. How his name lieutenant, the sound of it, was filled with medals and stars and how, from far away, stars can look quite beautiful. There was a saying among the men that you couldn’t get the smell of Incheon off you for ten years. The rats, the waste, the warehouse it dug under your skin and became a scent that was familiar yet impossible to get used to. My grandfather carried the war for much longer. War burrowed deep into him, creating wrinkles on his hands and veins on his forehead. War still sent “Bedcheck Charlies” to kiss him goodnight. War made his hands shake. War took away the ice cream man and replaced him with a man working in a warehouse. A man with an old gaze and no hat. With a sudden shot of reality, war replaced the ice cream man with a hero.
Helen (Wenling) Jiang
When I was five, my grandfather was the ice cream man of the Korean War. At least this is what I thought when I was young and we sat in big wooden rockers on his cherry red porch. My grandfather would tell me of war. I did not know what communism was although my grandfather kept saying it. He said that he was a lieutenant, and the very word sounded like metals and stars. He said that he was in charge of food distribution. He said they would load freezers full of ice cream sandwiches. I would picture him in a white pointy hat, suspenders, a bow tie. I would picture him with a young smile that I had never seen before and in these stories he was no longer my grandpa. He drove a pink-striped truck and whistled. He was the ice cream man. I grew older and started to really listen. I was ten. My grandfather did not own a pink-striped truck. He scooped his ice cream from a warehouse. From ripped boxes and rats. The name lieutenant still sounded like metals and stars but he no longer wore a pointy white hat and a bowtie. He had to deliver canned meat and dry bread. Ice cream was only a rare treat and he no longer whistled. He was tucked in every night beside a stonewall by what they called “Bedcheck Charlies.” These grenades fell from the sky like falling stars to gently kiss the earth and wish my grandfather goodnight. My grandfather always reminded me that it could have been worse. On the nights when he slept in his bunk he would wake up with rats crawling across his chest where his ice cream man suspenders were supposed to be. He again reminded me that it could have been worse. In my mind, my grandfather no longer whistled.
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UNMASK Janice Frazier There he was again, gazing at me from the other side of the room with a stare that made my heart rise and fall like waves in the ocean. My aunt’s oak dining room table separated us, along with an array of homemade dishes from friends and family. Yet with all the loved ones moving around, he continued to search for my gaze. I could tell he was mocking me; he liked to smirk and see my blood-flushed cheeks and watch me twist my hands nervously, yet I still wanted to be the focus of his cryptic eyes. I wanted to know what he was hiding. I wanted to know why he was content with making me uncomfortable with his simple smile. I wanted to know why I’d never seen him before, but I wanted to know who he was more than anything. My wandering thoughts were interrupted by his movement. I watched as his muscles flexed and noticed how his lips were slightly parted. I could see the outline of his strong jaw tense and admired his chiseled chin. His dark eyes were locked with mine as he made his way through the crowd and into my personal space, and without a thought he moved so close to my face I was staring at him cross-eyed. He leaned over to my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “You’re beautiful.” I inhaled sharply as my insecurities caught up with me, forcing me to cast down my eyes and try to move away from him as fast as I could, nearly knocking over the little, porcelain Cupid resting on a small table nearby. He grabbed the Cupid before it could ever reach the floor and placed it gingerly back on the table, and I let out a sheepish “thank you.” “For calling you beautiful?” “Yes... no NO! I meant for saving the Cupid.”
He began mocking me with that smirk that made me want to run away from him further, yet it intrigued me even more. “Ahh, yes that too, but if you really want to thank me, take my hand.” Out of curiosity I placed my small palm hesitantly into his and felt his grip tighten with tenderness as he pulled me out of the living room. We ended up in a small room down the corridor filled with winter jackets. Once again my awareness was disrupted with his movement. His hand had moved from mine and onto my waist so that we were pressed together, feeling each other’s heartbeat. His lips moved to mine with passion, yet I did not understand why I returned it. It inflamed me knowing that a complete stranger had just kissed me, and I demanded to know his name as I broke from his soft lips. “What is your name?” He kissed me again and responded with “Eric... Eric Calligan.” His lips met mine with the same passion, but this time the passion was not returned. “What’s yours?” He smashed his face in with mine once more. “Alice,” my kiss became lifeless as I muttered my last name. “Calligan.”
Amera Youssef
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Dana Hall
HOME Tiffany Lau A rectangle of sunlight on the floor where my yoga mat used to be beckoned to me. I had always enjoyed lying on the floor of my room and letting the sun’s warmth help loosen my muscles. Sitting down, I stretched my legs and surveyed the room. The still air amplified the room’s silence in contrast with the street below. The sounds of cars accelerating up the hill outside, elderly people going about their afternoon radio exercise programs in the nearby park, and a mother berating her undistinguished son in the adjacent building entered in muffled bits and pieces through the closed windows, dallying languidly on the motes of dust before expiring. The sounds hadn’t changed since… The sound of the door squeaking jolted me from my reverie, and I started as Emily came into the room. I could never hear her footsteps. Seeing the shades undrawn, she bustled towards the windows. We made trivial conversation, and I tried to pretend the gun tucked into her belt wasn’t in plain sight every time she reached up to pull down a shade. Having covered all the windows, she turned on the light and reminded me we had to go in five minutes. I packed quickly. I hadn’t really needed anything—except an excuse to visit the apartment. Home. I grabbed my bags and met Emily and the others at the front door. Shutting the heavy, metal door, we walked into the lift and took up our usual positions: I wedged myself into a corner as they stood in three-quarters of a circle around me, facing outwards. The car was waiting downstairs, windows securely tinted and covered. Sitting in the back of the car as they drove me away, I wondered if I would ever come home again.
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Dana Hall
Julia Donovan
Nicole (Lok Lam) Chan and Alexandra Naddaff
It was a small room on the fifth floor of an old apartment building—the kind the British built when they colonized Hong Kong—in a residential and school district. The room was sultry in the midsummer heat, and the rays slanting in through the windows outlined dust motes careening about, disturbed by the foreign air wafting in through the gap between the door and the frame. Afternoon sunlight flooded in through the windows and onto the bare mattress atop the bed frame that took up almost half of the room. The metallic web of window bars cast a pattern of dark streaks across the room, forming geometric shapes of light across the mattress, floor, and bookshelf. Instead of books, the shelf held a collection of unicorn stuffed toys. Standing or sitting regally in perfect rows and aligned so that their horns all faced the windows, the unicorns stared with glassy eyes as light and shade flickered across their faces. Standing inside the door, I pulled out my phone to look for the list of things I needed to pack. It had been almost a year since I’d lived here, and the furniture had been rearranged in my absence. My dad’s letters and newspapers lay strewn across my desk that was skillfully wedged into a corner so as not to be exposed to the sunlight. A smattering of unicorn figurines from my collection and molding stationary dotted the sea of newspapers, and the power strip I had tactfully taped to the side of the desk had come loose. There was nothing plugged in, but its red switch winked continuously, unaware that it served no purpose.
THREE FEET AWAY Natalie Ciardi Two hundred and fifty million years ago, or so we believe, the world brought forth on these continents a terrifying tyrannical dynasty of organisms destined to choke fear into the hearts of humans forever in their eternal reign. Unfortunately, some soulless individuals have built up a wary acceptance of the wriggling, speedy, unpredictable (and occasionally hairy) menaces. On a daily basis, I am forced to hear out many preposterous and sickening claims defending the vile creatures, such as, “What are you, stupid!? They keep nature in balance by eating all the ACTUAL nasty bugs like flies and mosquitoes!” or “You need to stop hating on them, you pessimist. Give them a fighting chance, for God’s sake!” This meaningless rabble does a notably crappy job of persuading me; my utter resentment to and loathe for arachnids does not, and will never, ebb. Sometimes I ask myself why spiders need to exist. Why is it necessary that I live in a world where scurrying eight-legged creatures hang like sullied dream catchers from dirty windows and musty basements? A statistic that I read one time, which is one hundred percent the truth, gave me the horrifying knowledge that in my time on earth, no matter where I run and hide, I will always be, at most, three feet away from a lurking spider. With this key information, my subconscious illegally grants itself a creative license and provides me with vivid imagery of spiders descending, crawling, sneaking, and tearing into my flesh as my heartbeat begins an uncomfortable crescendo. Spiders have the uncanny ability to 180 any situation. Feeling confident while taking your math test? A spider scurrying over your lead-caked pencil shavings could very well change your mind in a matter of seconds. Enjoying breakfast? Well, you won’t be when a spider decides to spin down from the rafters and hover over your cereal bowl! Decked out with multiple appendages, gooey webs, and a hint of danger, a spider always retains its ferocious demeanor wherever it may be. In a paradoxical way, it is almost admirable.
ROSIE
Stacey Rodriguez
Kaya Reingold It was at the Museum of Science that I encountered my worst nightmare. Walking down the Aisle of Animals, I found cats and dogs to my right, iguanas, snakes and pigs to my left. Then, right in front of me, just waiting, was the dreaded, night-terror inducing tarantula in its cage. I had been subjected to this nightmare before, hordes of gargantuan arachnids crawling over my paralyzed body, one after the other wrapping their vile webs around my face in an effort to cut off my oxygen supply. I have had this dream no less than two dozen times, so you might be confused as to why I would volunteer for such an abhorrent experience. Even though I backed away in fright, it was as if this awful creature was luring me in, like the way it draws in its prey for an afternoon snack. Let me tell you, I hate spiders, I really do, but in that moment I couldn’t help myself; I found myself stupidly volunteering to hold the disgusting creature. With its creeping razor sharp legs, protruding spherical shaped bottom, and sinister beady eyes, the hairy tarantula sat still in my trembling palm. Then, I caught a glimmer of its perfect and gentle stillness, a quality that transcended apprehension. I found myself admiring the alignment of its symmetrical body. The eyes like deep, deep pools of water. I relaxed a small bit as I gazed at this creature, Rosie, almost with empathy.
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VOID Jacqueline Hayre-Perez I am a tapestry of imperfection. The very hands that made me, flawed by scars of mortar shells, frail hands, slow, graceless. Unable to make the knots a perfect array of confinement. Knotting itself gives no release, but fingers worn raw, Keep up, keep up Never enough. Enough. Disappointment remains fixed in place forever. The knotting’s too tight to let our story breathe. I am a tapestry, an impression of imperfection rendered unchangeable A dream of flight bound by hands long past on the brink of bounding free.
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Dana Hall
Michelle (Manxue) Ma
Sinclair Imondo
Disappointment gave me life.
SNL MONOLOGUE
Anna Reinherz
Shayna Sheehan Hello, New York! My name is Shayna Sheehan, and I’m so excited to be here with you all for tonight! I know I am not the conventional SNL host—I haven’t been in any blockbusters, I haven’t been on Billboard’s Top 100—but I was featured last week on NECN’s exposé on girls’ schools’ self defense classes last Tuesday, so if you’d like an autograph, please form a line to the left here. Maybe even more recognizable was my role in Central Middle School’s “The Wicked Wiz of Oz.” I might have cried on stage, but who is to say “Lollipop Guild #3” doesn’t have an emotional backstory? Sometimes celebrities come on here and flaunt their relationship with their “young rich talents,” but the closest romance I have right now is an “80-year old rich regular coffee patron” named Leo. My love life has been on a gradual decline since kindergarten. There, Michael Lee proposed to me with a $18 faux-diamond ring on the bus in front of all of my friends and other beady-eyed seven year olds. I turned him down with an, “I already have plans after school, and besides, my mom says I’m not allowed to date until I’m sixteen anyway,” certain that I would have plenty more suitors lined up in the future. There weren’t. The prime of my love life was inarguably kindergarten until fourth grade where I paraded around the school with my long blond hair and impressive kickball skills. I didn’t have many girl friends but hey, love is war, right? In fifth grade I decided to chop all my hair off and donate it to charity, but apparently, with my hair was my lust, and thus I lost all of my love interests.
In my three years of middle school, the closest I got to a romantic relationship was the BC High dance in seventh grade. I rolled up with my crew promptly five minutes late— because five minutes showed clearly four seventh graders had better places to be on a Friday night—swearing a three-quarter length Polo shirt and my tightest skinny jeans. I was greeted at the door with girls in tank tops and shorts, and I was horrified, but still thought my tan and white striped Abercrombie polo topped all. Then, in the middle of the dance, it happened. An Ellen DeGeneres look alike approached me. He asked if I would dance. I said yes. The song was “Don’t Stop Believing.” It was all really Nicholas Sparks worthy. An hour later the dance ended and the nervous Catholic schoolboy asked for my phone number, and I responded in a way that any thirteen year old would: “Well, I do have a phone, but I’m really scared about internet safety these days, so how about you give me your email instead?” I emailed him the next day and never received a response, and thus chrishansen31@verizon.net will forever be known as The One That Got Away. Now you’re all probably hoping I grew into a slightly less awkward version of myself, and in some ways that could be true, but I’ll let you decide after I tell you about my most recent relationship: his name was Nicholas Religa, he had lived in Singapore, China, El Salvador, America, Australia, but went to boarding school in England, and perhaps most importantly, Nicholas Religa embodied Legally Blonde’s hit song “Gay or European.” For a week I couldn’t decide if Nicholas was gay or
if he was just overly comfortable with close contact with other boys because of his prestigious all-boy boarding school. He actually admitted to falling in love with a boy the year before, but naturally I ignored this as long as he let me listen to his surprisingly impressive collection of music, because in some ways I was relieved to not be around boys who announced “No Homo!!!” any time they accidentally came in contact with other boys. We were coined “Shaynick,” which lacks about as much creativity as our relationship lacked logic. We actually lasted four months even as I was in Boston and he was in Melbourne, but eventually we lost interest. When Nick changed his name on Facebook from “Nicholas Religa” to “Nicky Coco” that was pretty much the tipping point for the “Gay or European” scale and I--Wait, what are you all chanting? I know I’m not the typical SNL Host, but listen—what? You want Amy Poeler? HAH, well don’t we all, angsty audience? I’ll just let myself out. Have a great night, New York!
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BIRTHDAY PARTIES, BAD COFFEE, AND BIKERS Fiona Unsworth
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“That is your birthday card, not mine!” she yells. “Oh yea, then why is your picture on it?!” I challenge, showing her the picture. “My picture is on it...uhhh.. well...because you love me!” she says, as if it were as simple as the sky being blue. “I am going out to get a coffee,” I mumble. “Don’t leave there without your free donut! And don’t eat it either. We can share it for dessert! Oh, and a small coffee is half price if you get it with cream, but no sugar, Bob—you’re beginning to look quite puffy!” I finally make it out of that damn apartment and walk out of the building’s front door. I make my way through the maze of Peter Cooper Village and come out on First Street. The Dunkin’ Donuts is just across the busy road. I get to the crosswalk and look both ways, making sure no one is coming before I begin to cross. Halfway across the intersection I see a biker coming towards me out of the corner of my eye. I hate those damn bikers. They think they own the road. They swerve in front of cars, go through red lights, I swear they would run over a baby and claim that they are not accountable for murder simply because they are a biker. This is when my journey to Dunkin’ gets interesting. I speed up walking a bit so that I can time my interception right. Now, you can’t go too fast or else you will seem suspicious and then the biker will really have his reason to run you over. The biker, some skinny white guy wearing a yellow spandex jump suit, pays no attention to me—little does he know what’s coming to him. He is about ten feet from me when I begin my hollering. I figure if this guy is different from other bikers, you know, if he has a brain under that neon helmet, then he will just swerve out of the way and avoid my express delivery of karma. “Oh no! Please don’t hit me!” I yell, biting back laughter. I pretend to stumble forward and stick my cane out to “catch me”—shall we say—just in time to stick the cane between the spokes of the front wheel. Then I just let Newton’s first law of motion take its course an object in motion tends to stay in motion. The bike comes to a stop but the biker does not. Sometimes the guy will just land in front of the bike. Sometimes they face plant into the handlebars, but on the best days they will be launched off their seat and end up flipping through the air like a circus freak and land on their bony ass.
Dana Hall
My act isn’t over until I yell to the guy I am so sorry. I explain that I was trying to get out of the way but I am very old. In fact, I am a veteran of two wars so my knees are a little creaky and don’t always work the way I want them to. The man usually nods and fakes a smile, and I walk away beginning my apology to God; I am after all a devout Catholic. Dear Lord,
please forgive me for exploiting physics. I was simply trying to help you out and deliver karma to the bastard. I will accept my punishment as having my coffee with no sugar as my lovely wife wishes. Little does God know that I prefer my coffee without sugar anyways.
Jenna Howard
“Bob? Bob? Where are you, Bob?” my wife yells to me. Her voice is like a bad imitation of Julia Child. She grew up in London but left the country when she was thirteen, yet she still has that damn British accent. She comes storming into the living room with one of those plastic coffee things in her hand. “How many times have I told you that we can use these coffee pods more than once? In fact, we really only need to use one a day.” “Hmhp,” I sigh as I nod my head, not taking my eyes off my Kindle’s blank screen. It has been two years since I got the damn machine and I still can’t figure out how to turn it on, but you will never hear me admit that out loud or at least not in front of my wife. The last thing that woman needs is another excuse to claim I waste our money. I can hear her jabbering on about how the coffee pods are expensive. They cost a whole four dollars for twenty of them and that one pack should last us at least twenty days. I let her go on until she gets to the part when she tells me I am wasteful and I am too old and senile to understand that we are going to run out of money. That’s when I begin my rebuttal. “The first cup of coffee from those stupid coffee pods is a good cup of coffee, but you always claim the first cup as your own—ladies first and all that. The second cup is watery but I can manage. The third cup looks like my piss when I haven’t had enough water because you say our water bill was too high the previous month - even though we pay a flat rate no matter how much water we use. Oh and then the fourth cup which you so kindly offer to brew me mid morning is merely the idea of coffee, and well by the fifth cup all you have is hot water with a few coffee grinds floating in it like little dead bugs. Oh, and I am not old and senile, Peg! I am two years younger than you. I am seventy two; you are seventy four, my dear.” “No I am seventy two and you are seventy four!” she yells, stomping her feet. I pick up my cane that had been leaning against the coffee table next to me and force my tired legs to lift me into a standing position. I walk over to her desk and open the drawer. “That is my desk. My desk, Bob, my desk!” she says, her voice rising an octave with each word. “Oh shut up!” I dig through the papers and magazines until I reach her birthday party invitation from this past August. I read it to her. “Please join us for Mrs. Margaret Willson’s seventy fourth birthday party at the Gansevoort Hotel on August 9th at 11 am.”
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UNNOTICED
Sophie Binder
Shayna Sheehan Aliza spends her life noticing the unnoticed. She finds a quiet beauty in the consistency of a dictionary, the familiar tone of a Mozart ballet, the reliability of a trig problem. She appreciates stairs because stairs never break down on the 42nd floor, and she likes the girl in her homeroom who always wears a single braid and a face full of freckles. Here, her favorite thing is the smell: sterile, like rubbing alcohol and dead germs, and nothing at all like the smell of her own home: the smell of knockoff Moroccan food and incense. Aliza walks down hall G. She knows how many steps but counts anyways. 45 steps. Left turn. 16 steps. She tightens her grip on her backpack and walks into room 14. She sees her mother, sprawled across her father like some kind of love-struck teenager, her single dread wrapped across her upper lip. Aliza feels an urge to throw water on the overly tattooed, overgrown teenagers and tell her father to burn the leather jacket and buy a goddamn suit like a normal father, but she won’t because Clara is sleeping too. Like everything else she does, Clara sleeps like an angel. Her perfect blond ringlets frame her face far too well for someone with a tube coming out of her mouth and she wonders how it was possible that her twelve-year-old sister was more beautiful than she. She wonders how it is possible for anyone to look beautiful in such a vegetative state. She wondered how she could have possibly gotten every trait that Aliza lacked: her musicality, her slender limbs, her voice. Aliza’s mother mumbles. “Hey,” Aliza says softy, tapping her mother’s foot, “hey Picasso, Françoise, wake up.”
Aliza’s mother groans in a way Aliza did not think possible for a non-teenager. “Aliza, call me Elise or call me Mom, do not call me Picasso’s mistress,” she says through tired breaths. “How is she?” Aliza asks, ignoring her mother’s comment. Her mother looks up, and her face falls when she realizes she is still in the hospital. She shakes her head and traces the outline of her husband’s tattoo. “Still nothing,” she whispers, her voice swelling more with each syllable. All Aliza can see are the Skittles. Stupid, stupid Skittles flying everywhere. She sees Clara’s pigtails, bouncing as she walks happily with a hand full of Skittles. Each time she eats one, she sticks her tongue out and asks Aliza what color it is. Aliza isn’t even watching. She’s scanning the streets, seeing if the two could run across without having to wait for the pedestrian sign. She tugs on Clara’s arm, telling her to pay attention for once, and dragging her across the street. The Skittles fly. Clara releases herself from Aliza, and bends down in the middle of the street. A car horn. Aliza hears her own scream. And then, nothing. Aliza slaps her hair tie against her wrist again and again to forget the bright lights. It wasn’t her fault; if Clara had any common sense and just kept walking, if her dad didn’t insist on having a car fueled by cooking oil, if the driver had been competent enough to see two girls in the road, none of this would have happened. Clara wouldn’t have IVs stuck in her twig arm, Aliza wouldn’t
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have to come to the hospital every day after school before her shift at the library, and her dad wouldn’t have stopped looking her in the eye. In the beginning, they were just happy Aliza was okay. Just happy that at least one of their offspring survived the crash, even if it was the unartistic, uninteresting one. But now as days have turned to weeks, and the weeks to months, everyone is less convinced that this wasn’t Aliza’s fault. Her parents spend more nights here now than they do at home, and Aliza’s relevance at school is measured by the weekly updates on how her beloved sister is doing. But Clara is different; she always has been special. Clara walks and leaves traces of sunlight. She sings on public buses and gets applauded, she helps her mom repaint the living room every two weeks, she volunteers in class without getting sweaty palms. Clara matters. Clara is noticed. And yet, by some cruel twist of fate, it is Clara with the heart monitor. And even as she lies, voiceless, and without the normal twinkle of her eyes, it is Clara that is noticed, not Aliza.
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WHY HE SPENT 15,052 DOLLARS
Inspired by June Jordan, “What Great Grief Has Made the Empress Mute?” Sofia Barros Because he got a time-consuming assignment from work Because he drank coffee Because his car was in the shop Because his mother needed him to get milk for her Because he had to go across town Because he picked up a phone in the street Because he looked inside of the small jewelry shop Because he missed the bus Because the coffee shop had great reception Because he stayed up late Because he hated peanut butter Because he liked the color red Because she needed a friend Because the barista was her person Because he needed to feel awake Because the coffee shop was open Because the barista’s uniform was red Because he bought the barista a coffee Because he forgot about work Because the barista lost her phone Because she called her friend Because he picked up the phone Because they were introduced Because she had a bad week Because she hated peanut butter Because time goes by fast Because the milk cost 4 Because his coffee cost 3 Because the tax was 312 Because he knew the perfect place Because she said yes, he spent 5,319 dollars.
Lucy (Lu) Yan
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Dana Hall
Sophie Binder
Lucy (Lu) Yan
Cherlyn ( Jieun) Lee
Erin (Chaeyeon Kim)
THE VANISHING BLUE
after Robert Frost Angel Yang
The sky is in dark blue Walking under the shining moon, Hoping for the tender light to bring the best wish, But finding the moon the most lone. Lily Garber
The river is still in blue. Where will the water go? With all the fate and banished memories, The water would never be as it used to. She is dressed in blue, Like a smaller piece in a larger hue. Fading away though her blue would never vanish, It imprints his heart like a tattoo.
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Dana Hall
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QUARTERS Haley Present
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Dana Hall
YeRi Lee
The steeples and tower loomed over my small frame, the bells were clanging and chiming in the fall breeze, and laughter and mindless chatter filled the air. I did not care about any of this. All I wanted were my quarters. My hands were clenched in the white silk of my flower girl dress and my dainty shoes were already scuffed from when I tried to run inside to see the decorations. Time was ticking and I was getting anxious. I made a promise to the minister that I would be on my best behavior and stay in place during the wedding. That was the price to pay, but I wanted nothing more that to rub the shiny coins in my hands once more. Finally we were escorted inside and the band began its slow march. I was paired with my cousin Lauren who also shared the same bubbly excitement as I to get our prize. Walking down the aisle was a disaster. My limbs were stiff with forced restraint and I ran out of flowers halfway down the aisle, but as the metal glinted on the steps, my worries were washed away. I sighed in relief as I made my way over to the steps and took my place. I positioned my feet so that they were around the quarters, protecting them from harm and in a way that I could periodically check to make sure that they were still there. As the wedding progressed, I allowed my thoughts to wander. It was torture to stand for what felt like days to my little body, but I made a promise that I was not going to move. I shifted my weight to get into a more comfortable stance when I saw people in the pews pointing my way. “Oh no,” I thought, “they saw me move.” I was ready to take my quarters and hightail it out of the church, but then I felt a fluttering at my feet. I looked down and saw my baby brother, Hunter, reach around my protective barrier and snatch my quarters! My heart sank. It took me a few seconds to process the unlawful act my brother had just committed. I looked around and saw that he had stolen my sister’s and cousin’s quarters as well. I was dumbfounded. Hunter was going to get in so much trouble. After Hunter was done taking the quarters from the other children, he proceeded to walk around the front of the steps, clinking and shaking all of the ill-gotten money in his pockets. The audience was in hysterics, but I did not find it funny at all. He was a thief and now standing in front of everyone performing tricks like he was a circus monkey. Next thing I know Hunter was shaking his head around, holding two quarters up to his eyes like a pair of silver glasses. This is when the crowd started to egg him on. It was almost too much to handle. I bowed my head, my hair hanging limply in my face, as I tried to hold back the hot tears burning my eyes. Even after the treachery and the loss of my quarters, I was still determined to stand in my spot and not ruin the wedding. Looking down, I now saw a gaping hole in between my feet where all of my dreams and hopes once were. I was devastated. After the incident the ceremony seemed to drag on forever. My parents swooped in and carted my brother out of the hall with my quarters still in his pocket. As we proceeded down the aisle, I grabbed Lauren’s hand and we marched outside to hunt down Hunter. I was going to get my money back no matter what. He was in the courtyard throwing my quarter in the air, his eyes twinkling with joy. I was furious. I dropped Lauren’s hand and stomped over to where he stood. His eyes lost their sparkle as he saw me approach. He gulped and stepped back as I glared at him. I then bent down, plucked two quarters from the grass, spun on my heels, and with a huff walked away. As I walked away from Hunter, the minister caught my eye. He gave me a nod and a little wink before he swept back into the church, his robes billowing behind him and disappeared into the shadows. I looked down and opened my fist staring triumphantly at the two pieces of metal shining in the dying sun. I kept my promise and got my prize. I safely deposited the quarters into my pocket and went to go find my parents. As I walked over, I smiled to myself because I remembered that this was all recorded.
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CONCEALED STRUGGLE Stephanie Zhao Who should I stand by? The brilliant goddess with bright eyes, my daughter, who wishes to see this great king who suffers from not seeing his loved ones, his mind tormented by the anguish of being away from his native land? He the cunning tactician, the courageous war hero, the great leader of a kingdom. Or should I stand by the sea god Poseidon, whose power shakes the earth, my dearest brother? The great man whom my daughter refers to stabbed the eye of the son of my brother. That poor monster, coming home and discovering a crew of red-eyed people stealing his things but on the other hand waiting for more gifts to be given. Natural instincts told him to attack without any hesitation. Odysseus, one of the greatest men among all mortals? Or the despicable thief, the greedy traveler, the ruthless schemer.
Soomin Mah
I do not wish to see this one decision I make disappoint my daughter, who cherishes all the great souls among the mortals. Nor my heart-broken brother, Infuriated by Odysseus’s ruthless moves, whose beloved son is made blind. Who should I stand by? Do I avenge my dearest brother by destroying this despicable thief, this greedy traveler, this ruthless schemer? Or do I help my brilliant daughter by bringing this cunning tactician, this courageous war hero, this great leader of a kingdom, back to his native land?
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SONNET Meaghan Robichaud Hearing your thoughts I often think you ill, And when you speak, my ears they wish for not To hear the bitter bite of your sweet trill, For songs of fear sound better in your thought. Let me not bear to say what I think of looks And let not looks bear to think my words crude. Your looks are not the gem of what they crook, The crown of jewel is far a thing more rude. The jewel is scratched and so bad mis-mannered It’s jagged and hammers through rock like air; Swift a cut to never be meandered, So I will sit and bleed while you be fair.
Effie (Yanfei) Li
Your very presence makes my stomach sour, Yet your love makes me wish more like a flower.
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DECISIONS, DECISIONS Nora Panahi
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Dana Hall
Sasha Megie
Most people wear their hearts on their sleeves. I wear mine in my hair. My school photographs depict a journey through time, my spiritual path, you might say. One can tell exactly what was going through my mind when a picture was snapped based on whatever unfortunate decision was adorning my head. What started out as an April Fool’s Day prank gone awry, my love of getting my hair done has quite literally messed with my head. I’ve had long hair. I’ve had short hair. I’ve had a bob. I’ve had half my head dyed red. I’ve had brown with tints of purple. I’ve had colored clip-in extensions, highlights, bangs, red and brown and black henna dye; I’ve had nearly everything a father could have nightmares about. All of these were representative of whatever phase I was going through at the time, whatever state of mind I was in, but I won’t bore you with the details. (Although, there was a moment in my Neon Extension Period when my dad sat me down at the kitchen table and told me calmly that it was okay to be like everybody else. I was reluctant to forgive him and responded by purchasing blue and pink-striped strands of fake hair.) No. I’d like to tell you about the hair that came into fruition in the early summer of 2012. My mom and I had a long talk in the car about this new decision. I had been feeling “down,” I told her, and I was in need of a change, for the months-old auburn color just wasn’t doing anything for me anymore. Something new had to be done--something exciting. I had spent weeks searching for the right look, showing pictures to my friends and joking that I couldn’t pull it off to see if they would correct me and assure me I would look great. After much deliberation, I settled for the edgiest, I’m-in-high-school-now, I-want-to-piss-off-my-dad-because-no-it’s-not-okay-to-belike-everybody-else haircut. I was going to shave half my head. I was convinced this was a brilliant idea and went around telling anybody who would listen that I was going to do it. I was going to pull off the undercut. My mother, as you can probably imagine, was firmly against this idea, but she never actually told me this. She would say things like: “I don’t think that’s a great idea,” and “Nora, you’re making a mistake,” and “Please do not shave half of your head,” but obviously I didn’t catch on to these cryptic messages and decided to do it anyway. “Mom,” I would reply, “I have to express myself. This is who I am.” So, it was with great pride that I sat in a salon chair with the stereotypical hairdresser duo of a flamboyant gay man and his stumpy, purple-haired sidekick dancing around me and told them that I wanted to shave the left side of my head. They looked at each other, shrugged, and went to work. I sat there as they babbled and lisped about how great it was going to look and how they’d never seen anyone actually do this before, and I thought about how much respect I was going to gain at school for making such a bold decision about my looks and not caring about what other people thought. This new style could change my reputation. I would be able to wear cooler clothes, amp up my sarcasm and embrace my edginess. This was the beginning of a new era. The Golden Age, I thought to myself. But then they turned the chair around. And I looked. And I looked. And I thought that maybe if I kept looking the mullet would go away.
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THEME FOR LIT COMP 3
Inspired by Langston Hughes, “Theme for English B” Tanirah Morgan The instructor said, Go home and write a page tonight And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. What am I? Who am I supposed to be or is it who I want to be? How am I supposed to write to you about who I am; I’m a girl, seventeen, brown eyes, curly hair, black. I was born in the Bronx and lived there for my first 9 years but Manhattan, 938 St. Nicholas Avenue has been home since 2007. I have two brothers: Donnell & Jason; a mom, a dad, and 2 half sisters.
Sadly, I still cannot fully tell you who I am— the page would simply be too long. I can tell you that I do not just identify as black, but also as American. And I really don’t feel differently than you, Ms.Falcone. We are both human and we live in a mixture of cultures. So maybe you and I both cannot identify as one. But that’s just America, trying to define people by what they see. This is my page for Lit Comp 3.
People sometimes ask me: “What are you?” But the task isn’t that easy. You see, I am black as you simply see me but I am also Caribbean and Portuguese. I must be mixed because my hair is neither nappy nor straight and both my nose and lips are just the right shape. For starters, I am a New Yorker: direct, ambitious, young, and proud living in The City. I don’t know whether it’s good or bad if I sometimes forget my skin color. Maybe that shows we are one step closer to equality. However, people around me tend to remind me of my race but never forget to reassure me that it’s okay because I never act like the stereotypical black. I do not listen to only rap music nor do I always wear baggy clothes. But I do enjoy the universal things in life: sleep, school, sports, food, and friends. I go to school in Massachusetts in a suburban, quiet and small town. I am a boarder in Wellesley, Dana Hall bound.
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Dana Hall
Janice Frazier
None of what I’ve mentioned clearly defines me. I am a rose I have thorns, but must be dealt with carefully I have multiple layers, different shapes, and colors. Don’t you see? I know this may all seem deceiving, but who I am is not just my race, school, home, family, or friends. Though all of those things are a part of what makes me me. Who I am is also determined by the internal me— sassy, ambitious, cheerful, smart, and friendly. It is a never-ending list where multiple things coexist.
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Emily Spencer
DOWN IT GOES
after Walt Whitman Melissa Klein The woman was taking pictures She was laughing and texting her friends Her smile was clear as day Little did she know how oblivious she was
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Dana Hall
Abigail Kaplan
The trees were falling, one by one in front of her Each tree could have been older than 100 years Each tree was a living thing Harmless And the trees came down And she laughed And those trees were there before she was And in place of those trees will be a house But there won’t be those trees
THIS MUST BE HOME Tiffany Lau
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Dana Hall
Jacqueline Hayre-Perez
I shove open my door with the huge “Emergency Exit” push-bar. It looks strange in juxtaposition with the cheery cards welcoming me home to Grey Lodge and the whiteboard on which my dorm mates had pronounced their love for me, their proctor. The words “Emergency Exit” are newly covered with a strip of masking tape bearing the words, “Tiffany Lau ~ such a cutie.” That must be Annie’s way of telling me to ignore her blasting Korean soap operas during study hall. I wish they would come up with more palatable ways to bribe me. Entering my room, I kick my purple therapy ball onto a pile of miscellaneous gym equipment and plop onto my yoga mat with my laptop and coffee. I must finish my homework, but I can’t focus. Annie’s soap opera is giving me a headache; the floor squeaks every time I shift my weight; there is a spider on the wall… I jump up, grabbing a book off my desk and slamming it into the spider. Bugs are like decorative fixtures around here. I wipe off my abused textbook and sit down to open a text from my dad: it’s a picture of the sea sprawling across the horizon, dotted by islands and cargo ships. The accompanying text says, “View from home.” “Home” is our new apartment in which I’ve lived less than two weeks. I look out the window of my dorm room, the coveted single with its two extra wall sockets for the proctor-only mini-fridge. My view looks nothing like that picture. The fire escape extending from my third-floor window obstructs my view of the nondescript yard. Through the bars of the stairwell, I see the row of trees marking the edge of campus and the yards of the houses beyond. It isn’t much of a view, except when Diane hosts garden cookouts and invites the teachers. They’d be surprised how much of their conversation gets through my closed windows. I turn away, trying to focus. I pull at the shade, and it squeaks annoyingly on the way down. Everything about my room is squeaky. The floors squeak whenever I move and sometimes even when I don’t move; my chair squeaks every time I lean back; the doors can’t swing without squeaking. Pushing back my squeaky chair, I slump back onto my yoga mat and stare at my fridge sitting on the chest of drawers against the opposite wall. There are two magnets on it. One of them defines “relationship” as “an agreement between two people who hope to find someone better soon.” The other is one of my favorite quotes: “Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.” They usually offer quality advice, but they just aren’t doing their job today. I look around my room, at the ceiling that slopes down to the windows; at the furniture I jammed against the walls to make space for dancing; at the bedazzled, red beanies I suspended from the ceiling. I have steeped this room in coffee and books, and I have done so much to make it my own, squeaking and all. I delete my dad’s picture. There can only be one view from home.
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A WOMAN NEEDS A MAN LIKE A FISH NEEDS A BICYCLE
Effie (Yanfei) Li
Lauren Nashawaty
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Dana Hall
Out for a daily morning walk when I was five, linked hand in hand with my mother on a crisp winter morning, I looked up and saw an airplane leaving a powdery white trail in the sky. “Mommy, look at all the daddies in the airplane on their way to work,” I said. I sensed the hesitation in my mom’s voice when she replied a few long seconds later with, “There’s probably some mommies up there too.” Even at that young age, I felt like I had said something wrong, but I wasn’t quite sure what. Years later, my mother still refers to that walk and explains to me that this was the day she realized that in order to be the role model she wished to be for her girls, she needed to go back to work. Growing up, many of my friends had moms who didn’t work or didn’t have to due to financial circumstances. At first, I was jealous of them because their moms picked them up from school or at least got to see them right when they got home. While I was proud of my mom, I was sometimes sad about the sacrifices her job meant, like her being unable to chaperone a school event or attend a “mom’s morning coffee meeting.” However, my mother made sure to always explain to me what she enjoyed about her job and talk to me about what I may want to do to be able to provide for my family in the future. What is unique about my mom and the lessons I learn from her is that I don’t believe at heart she is a “career woman.” She loves being a mom and what I didn’t realize until I was a teenager is that many of her lessons about how important it was for a girl to have a career came from the fact that her marriage was crumbling. From a very young age, I remember lying in bed for my nightly bedtime stories and wishing sometimes that my mother could just read the fairytale without arguing the plot line or criticizing the beautiful princesses. Each tale ended with a lecture on how Cinderella as well as all the other Disney princesses could have changed their lives and escaped their miserable circumstances without the assistance of some prince on horseback. This lecture would follow with my mother explaining how the princesses should have been more focused on their internal development than their external beauty. She has always taught me that beauty is short lived and that I need to develop my sense of confidence from within myself. Years later when my mother made the difficult decision to take us and leave my father, I had a strange sense of calm and confidence that we would be okay without him. We had always joked that a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle, and while painting my new bedroom with my mom and sister, it surely seemed like that was true.
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Jinjae Kim
44 Dana Hall
Caroline Dawson
Julia Stento
Julia Forman
Ana Natalia
Staff Page Editor: Art Editors: Literary Editors: Design Editor: Staff:
Faculty Advisors:
Allegra Florimbi Sophie Binder Cherlyn ( Jieun) Lee Abigail Kelly Lauren Nashawaty Erin (Chaeyeon) Kim Julia Albert Nicole Barros Ana Billings Alexandra Carroll Caroline Cohen Jacqueline Hayre-PĂŠrez Tiffany Lau Effie (Yanfei) Li Soomin Mah Michelle (Manxue) Ma Madison Rivers Gloria Revanche Macy Sullivan Elizabeth Venditti Julia Bucci Mary Ann McQuillan
Abigail Kelly
Karl Neumann
Printed by Watson Printing, Wellesley, Massachusetts
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Sierra Root 48
Dana Hall