24-25 Literary Magazine Digital Upload

n v a s R e v i e w

ABOUT THE COVER: “MREMBO”

BY NAYA KENNEDY, GRADE 12

For the subject, I thought it’d be nice to draw a Black figure. I don’t often draw people of color, and I think there’s a lot of merit in trying to draw unique facial features

Throughout high school, I’ve had many more conversations about race, and it made me more aware of racism and my place in the world It made me think more about my blackness and how to outline my identity This made it even more important to see myself in my art, where people like me were often drawn without dignity I think that showing more races in art is incredibly important This piece is a way to show that with blackness comes poise, dignity, and ineffable tenacity

The title, “mrembo” is a word in Swahili that means “beautiful.” I chose this title because my family speaks it at home, and “mrembo” was often a compliment used for me. I felt this compliment in regard to my African background and it instilled in me a love for my dark skin and hair. I want more people to see us drawn like this. And I don’t want it to end with just blackness. I want to see all kinds of shades and cultures displayed in all their splendor, and that starts with the small actions of individuals. I hope my drawing will play a part in showing that black people are full hearts and dazzling souls, who blanket the Earth with our culture and laughter.

The Editors of the 2024-25 Literary Magazine kindly ask you to keep two things in mind as you read their note to you:

1.

The First Law of Thermodynamics states that energy cannot be created nor destroyed, only transformed or transferred.

Newton’s First Law of Motion states that an object in motion tends to stay in motion unless acted upon by an external force. 2.

Two years ago, it seemed as if the cogs and gears of EHS’s Literary Magazine were slowing down. All but one of our (already small) editorial staff were graduating, and the publication of the 2023 magazine, while joyous, was full of doubt for the club’s future. How could one editor possibly produce an entire magazine? And if there was no magazine, what would happen to the club?

Well, last year we still published a brilliant magazine, and you ’ re currently reading the editor’s note for this year ’ s magazine, so clearly, something changed

In a moment of sheer serendipity, last year our club gained 4 new editors (that’s a 400% increase!) bringing with them a passion for collaboration, an excitement for editing, and most importantly, energy One person can’t put out a magazine, but 5 definitely can, and that’s exactly what we did The 202324 Literary Magazine saw a new burst of creativity and excitement from the Eaglecrest community, serving as the most perfect bookend for an amazing schoolyear.

But, in a twisted turn of fate, our editorial staff stared down the same problem from earlier, with all but one editor set to graduate in the Spring of 2025. Would the club really be able to continue on past their graduation?

Thankfully for us, the momentum we generated in creating the 23-24 magazine could not be deterred from its course (thank you, laws of motion). In fact, the editorial staff this year ballooned completely, and our club gained a wonderful, refreshing team of highly motivated underclassmen, as well as another sponsor to help expedite production processes And, with their help, the 24-25 Quill and Canvas review has been running better than ever, swiftly turning into a well oiled (and highly cared for) machine

Even better, in contrast to years past, there is no concern accompanying this publication Rather, this year ’ s magazine is a promise: the editorial staff has every intent of keeping its energy and putting it into more magazines for the Eaglecrest Community, giving students a chance to see their works in these clean, matte pages.

Still, producing a magazine isn’t easy work, no matter how many editors you have. There are always more commas to be placed, fonts to choose, and text boxes to be aligned. Oftentimes, production is thrown off course by an internet failure, a software quirk, or a facet of our budget. Even with our robust team, we ’ re constantly navigating new obstacles. But! if there’s one thing we ’ ve learned as an editorial staff, it’s how to go with the flow. No matter what we encounter, we always seem to find our energy again, and we throw ourselves into each challenge with the full force of our caffeine-fueled staff.

So now, for a brief moment, allow us to turn that attention on you, dear reader: generally speaking, life is accompanied by a varied selection of potholes, bumps, and divets. It cannot always be guaranteed that your course will continue in the same direction that you had originally planned (as us editors can account for first hand). However, our physics classes do guarantee that your energy has not been lost (thank you, Mrs. Kesler).

So today, our Editorial Staff has just two requests: first, that you ooooh and ahhhh over the works in this magazine just as much as we have, and second, that if you feel as if you have been thrown off your course, you remember the First Law of Thermodynamics, and find your energy

It’s always in you, if you know where to look

Sincerely,

The Quill and Canvas Editorial Staff

O E T R Y

Isabella Carrera

Because you are not the glistening hardwood, because you are not the warm carpet, because you are not the sparkling, anticipated, or fundamental process of homeowning. You are stepped on just the same, but the importance of your being is disregarded because of your surroundings

Because, in my childhood years, you witnessed the laughter as I helped my mother cook You harnessed the memories and whispered them back to me You became a dance floor for all things broken and freed When your tile froze with the chill of winter, you warmed us with the thrill of what had been and what will come. Even when you were damaged and hurt, chipped and dented, you kept on anyway. You heard the sound of cooking, the rain splatter against the window, and you made nature your rhythm. Igniting the life in our souls, you made us dance to your beat of freedom.

Because you may be cold, hard, and boring tile, always forcing people to cower from your bitter during unforgiven weather, but you live unbothered, never shying away from a wandering soul because you are not just a floor

Your aura is like a jukebox - relevant but forgotten, nostalgic yet still here When the days come cold, and the music begins to fade, find your rhythm, ignite souls, and play your beat, kitchen floor.

O L D S O N G

Alanna Mallya

There it sits, just waiting for me, alone. Waiting, dusty, and forgotten to my ear. The pedals still- the keys silently groan. Scribbles dance within the book’s pages, bending. The levels I once passed and the terms I used to know feel lost in time, complete with an ending. I sit down, and the bench creaks I open a book The symbols stare at me, daunting and bold My eyes dance all over, unsure where to land My feet awkwardly rest on the pedals I don’t know how to start; it's been so long I’ve never been amazing- I have no medals, but after a moment, my fingers find their place. Hesitantly, they push down the keys. A mellow voice speaks peace to my mind. I begin to experiment a bit more. My fingers jump, and the sound turns bright. With more confidence, I gladly emit Sounds that are both soft yet strong, free yet calm. It’s not much, and I have room to grow, but for me, it's like a dear psalm. The doubt leaves me, making way for renewed passion that will never leave me again, uncertain or chasing

Delilah Mercer

It’s January, and the cold is refreshing. The snow looks crisp, and I can't stop thinking about how it’ll go differently this time. The vast expanse of the snow is inspiring. It’s January, and the possibilities seem beyond limits.

It’s February, and the reality of the year has hit The impending doom of every snowflake that falls from the big, gray cloud that hangs menacingly argues favorably for self-destruction

It’s February, and I'm already feeling forsaken

It’s March, and the snow weighs heavier than ever And time seems to pass slower than before, yet the clean snow of the new year already seems to be polluted by the dense burden of March.

It’s April, and new life should be blooming in every corner, but it only shows in the small buds on the ends of tree branches, not to sprout leaves for another century. The anticipation of April kills me

It’s May, and the forecast is dreary

It's not quite warm enough for me and yet the welcoming warmth of the sun through my window does not reach the shady corners of my room

It’s May and I feel the beginning of the end already

It’s June, and the sun brings vengeance: tank tops, sunscreen, short-shorts, and, ultimately, burns that scathe my skin; infect my brain. My injuries feel serendipitous.

It's June, and I hope summer treats me kinder than it does now.

It’s July, and I am disgusted by how hot summer must be, how unlovable my beloved is. There's an abundance of rotten tomatoes in the yard. It’s July, and I'm reminded of everything I hate.

It’s August, and I’m not so sure why the clock started ticking backward or what I said before or if I really meant it It's August, and I don't remember who I was yesterday, or if I really liked it

It’s September, and I find myself wishing for the suffocating grasp of Jack Frost and the stability of freezing over once again. The sun starts to set earlier, and now I know that it’s September, and winter is coming.

It's October, and everything’s coming back to me now. The ghost of previous years lingers in my mind: the people, places, things I've done, seen, experienced I envy the trees; they can always let go of the past It's October, and I can't wait for this to be over

It’s November, and none of this feels real The sky cowers in a blanket of gray, and I'm not sure when I saw the sun last The trees loom like skeletons. I see myself in them more and more. It’s November, and I keep the cold in my bones.

It's December, and it's not as frigid as I would like, and the scratches don't go as deep as I remember, but the glares of hallway spectators are sharper than ever. And now I know how hard January will hit.

It’s December, and I don’t think I can do another.

12 months to a year

Beck Smith

I often wonder if, when I bloomed up from The Earth, did She know how I would pinch and prune this body that She birthed?

Could She see the sidelong glances, the disdain in my gaze, as I plucked and pulled and twisted and tore, each and every way?

I imagine Her confusion as I swiftly hurried by her pleas completely silenced by a heavy slew of lies.

But—if I had heard Her, I know just what She'd say: "Child, don't you know why I created you this way?"

(She'd say)

"I gave you strong, confident arms, to fill with joy and love, to share with others—all your friends and yourself most of all

I built you legs so you could leap, and feet so you could land, a brain, that’s quick and clever, and two helping hands.

Your eyes, nose, lips, and cheeks may not be perfectly smooth but they twinkle beautifully when you laugh! and that's a perfect truth "

So now—instead—I wonder how I ever did despise, this body that She so carefully made, that’s disastrously, wonderfully mine

Jaydn Bayford

We’re Ferris wheels above cascading waters, tipping over the edge and humming tunes to keep amused although we ’ re all in different baskets. We can scribble our way out of the lines where we drew. When I scribble, will you frame it?

I’m a dried paint spot, already colored, but each day I’m present. And, ah! So are you!

And oh, can I be invisible as a Cabernet Sauvignon: dry and sweet In simplest terms, when I’m red, will you be there?

Hand me Ghirardelli and some Lindor, embrace me with chocolate scents I’ll drizzle your day with caramel If life is turned to ripples with moss, cough me some advice When the plug of the mixer bowl is afire, fold me in a batter of flour and sweet ingredients but if the wrong hands fold me in a Seine, free me with your might And as will I to you.

When your aura is tarnished with bleak smiles and soft cries, I’ll cry you a river with orchids and moths (even when the moon is full out).

They dealt you cards exceeding 21 in Blackjack, I dealt you hearts and aces. Your warm embrace is a trouvaille, and I can still see it as a mangata the moon ’ s reflection on the water.

Linh Le

Buy one, get one free

Buy one, get one free

Buy one, get one fifty percent off Fifty percent off this bag of candy, Fifty percent off your school book fee, ability to see, privacy, accessibility, mobility

Fifty percent off your humanity Buy one, get one Me

In our age of overconsumption we have begun to modify We have modified our creation to what will sell–what will sell? Will we sell?

Overconsumption and modification

Overcommodification

Our price tag mentality in which we assign cost to things instead of simply letting them be When diversity becomes your background character Kaching!

When your sexual orientation becomes a Target LGBTQ T-shirt station Kaching!

Only to be put away by hate

So did you really mean it?

When life changing education is put behind a paywall Kaching!

When life saving medication is there, but not for all Kaching!

Our interactions become transactions

The higher the rise, the harder the fall Kaching

I fear this is not really our BEST DEAL

This SALE, S-A-L-E is stale

comes at higher price than what you can see

Let us first pick out our commodity Is it an object? Is it society?

Then click into our carts, enter a discount

Discount the culture and art that sets us apart

Before paying now

Paying the price myself, with my self

Thank you for shopping with us

As bonus gift, at no extra cost, No extra fee,

You’ve got a promotion!

Buy One, Get One Me

Sienna Wellcome

Sometimes, the world feels dark. The seemingly endless downpour of negativity and tragedy leaves me without hope, wondering when will it end?

But hopelessness doesn’t help. It won’t ever completely end the world won’t ever be perfect

But I won’t fall into that pit of despair The sun may be hidden, but it is always there

So I tilt my face to its warmth and let it infuse my soul with hope. I remember that where there are shadows, there is always light.

Sahil Balani

In a realm where clouds dance free a lone raindrop breaks with glee. Each twist and flash, a gleaming jewel, it falls with such graceful ease through skies embellished in mysteries.

Belittled by giants like the moon and the sun as Sisyphus rolls his stone undone our journey has just begun. We are mere specks in an endless sea, yet in all the chaos, one can squint, and see a shimmering hope, a daring hint

So, we must dance and dream in this vast, unfathomable stream, for in our hearts, a truth so clear, we ’ re significant and we ’ re here, our legacy will forever last.

Jonas Mascioli

Once, he created a poem he titled it “Happy” because that was his life, and the hardships he endured allowed him to grow.

Once, he composed a poem he named it “Mediocre” because that was his situation, and the hardships he suffered added to his misery

Once, he constructed a poem. He called it “Less Than” because that was how he felt, and his hardships spiraled down, down into a pit of depression

Once, he threw together a poem He called it “who cares, ” because no one did, and his hardships only deepened the cavity of depression in his chest

Once, he nearly made a poem He would’ve called it “blank,” because that was how he lived, and he was tired of it. The cavity in his chest grew, and his whole body became a pit of despair.

Once, his son wrote a poem. He called it “Goodbye,” because that was what he never got to say, But he took his hardships and used them to create poetry.

Later, he would create another poem and he would call it “Happy,” because that was where he was going.

Jaiden Patel

'Due East' I reassured myself. Guided by the stars, full of hope in my eyes, hurriedly I packed, I couldn't bear to be deferred

On my bike, I trekked Due East was calling my name. Oh, how far I went They told me I would strain

How I scoffed in their face, “Due East is easy! See, look here, You just follow my pace!”

Then there I was: Lost in the night. 'Damnit!' this frustration... I wasn't right!

I prayed so much, so hopeful and cheery, yet nothing got me closer to East, and I was weary

Due East is where I was, Due East, here I stand Maybe Due East isn't about the destination, Of course! Due East is the journey I plan

Priscilla Trujillo

The teddy bear he gave it to me before he left, before he never returned.

I thought I would see him tomorrow but he's gone now.

He's gone the memories run in my mind, my not being grown his tying my shoes my ice cream dripping down my hand the family dinners the broken bones

I think back on how he left replaying reimagining rethinking. But I have to remember he's gone.

I miss him.

The teddy bear what I have left It's what holds him close The teddy bear smiles at me with pity knowing I will break soon

My thoughts suggest this could end me In my mind

Thinking I won't survive, and I wont get through this.

The teddy bear is the sun, burning my heart with its smile, haunting my dreams with its screams, hurting my memories with new enemies, Replaying them as documentaries.

I tie my own shoes, I don't let the ice cream drip down my hand, I eat alone, and I rarely have a broken bone.

My father’s gone now, and I’m unknown

I will be the first in college; I will have a career, and I will make him proud His name will be known by ALL, and everyone will cheer Then, when I remember the smell of his frigid, dripping beer, I will go to his tombstone.

He's gone now, and my heart’s made of stone because I know he is my home.

But what will remain in my mind the teddy bear he left behind, staring at me, all grown

Janae Bayford

The sickening absences that hurt, contaminate, and leave residual smiles.

You’re so flawless and distasteful at the same time, like a pernicious cancer, slowly infecting my tenderhearted ire.

You wring our hands with bittersweet kisses, thinking “ my, we ’ re so ruthless ”

You savor syllables as they keel off tongues, but you ’ re an exiled virtue who seemed to forget that paradise can be a disguise

Hives spindle my flesh, possessing the itch I need

Some things are manipulated too easily by you, my lovely “playwright.”

The ideas you share to create the performance of a lifetime. Is the stage your burning vendetta?

Or, perhaps your greatest love?

A love so passionate, that you have no eyes for me?

You love watching the sweat bead off people’s pores.

I’ve seen playwrights stuck in pretty glass cases, like a fly adhesively sickened in a spider’s web, yet tangled in the medial just like that

My ‘dramatist,’

My ‘artist,’

My ‘poet,’

My ‘playwright’

You dress our sweet dialogue into the art of a crazed war

You know I was never taken for a gullible fool.

I too wear the same addictive war paint, in the right play, in the right club.

All right alongside you.

Felix Gardell

Blanketed with repose, relax the vessel that is your body. I am the quiet you long for be not afraid, for you are beyond measure in wanton malice, mortality dripping in the irony of human ego. Sink your teeth into it, drown in it, worship it, tear its rotting flesh Feast upon the obscurity as if it is an act of sacrifice We will share a meal as if it were sacredbetween bread, wine, flesh, blood. Your presence can only appease the burning hunger, a savior to trembling hands. I am not playing God. I do not wish to. T H E C O L O R

Eliana Irons

When I was younger, I hated that pink that gorgeous and perfect, pigment and shade I loved that rose tinted color I think its beauty cannot cover the problems made I envied how it stood strong in its bane, when their silver tongues had spat on the street, those same terrible words caused endless pain If you are feminine but never neat the world will never praise what you have deemed. To be pink is to be looked down upon by those who have never dared to be seen. The moment you see is the second it’s gone. To be feminine is to be so strong, for only the weak stand when they are wrong

C L O U D S

Alexa Paul

Anxious thoughts are like clouds: they cover the sunshine of the day. The thoughts are so loud.

The negativity rolls in like a storm cloud, every word you hear turns the clouds gray. The thoughts are so loud

Silence is so loud, the thoughts are overbearing, and all you can do is pray Anxious thoughts are like clouds

You sit, shaking, crying as your heart pounds, the rain patters down the driveway. The thoughts are so loud

You’re swallowed whole, like a kid in a crowd, you never see the light of day. Anxious thoughts are like clouds the thoughts are so loud.

W H E R E I T L E A D S

Hugo Nibbe

Fighting it not a good idea. Sending it away detrimental. Finding its purpose impossible. Your vision fades, so where do you end up? Right back there in your own imagination.

F L E E T I N G S K Y

Jaiden Patel

I don't remember how the sun traces across the horizon.

A fleeting feeling: one I often mistreat, and take for granted. The euphoric feeling you bring My eyes don't sparkle on their own.

Jaiden Patel

I finally saw one, I thought with awe.

A radiant streak, pulsing from the sky. I tracked the line down, leading eager eyes further astray

LITTLE CREATIVES

By EHS Little Raptors

A “ W E B E L

The 24-25 EHS Little Raptors:

Ames, Brennley, Claire, Cyan, Evy, Hana, Kallyn, Kennedy, Mac, Norah, Ollie, & Sammy

We’re brave and we ’ re strong. This is where we belong. We are karate-chopping ballerinas kicking soccer balls in the air. Monkey-walking, frog-hopping, deep-ocean swimmers before we fall down.

We know our letters: A B C D E F G. We collect feathers and clap. We can be happy and sad. We are special with our friends. This is where we belong.

We’re kind and we ’ re strong. This is where we belong. We are proud wrestlers and dinosaur painters. Unicorns! Cats! Duckies! Everything! Our names make us special. Our family is special too. Giving Mommy, Daddy, and Jane a hug makes me special. But so do Hot Wheels, playground swings, and princess bicycles. This is where we belong.

We’re smart and we ’ re strong. This is where we belong. Sometimes we feel silly. And strange. And different. People don’t understand our frog hops. Or our magic. Or that we like to be snugglebears when we ’ re kind of sad. We make silly faces and funny songs when we feel like the Odd Squad. But we can feel better when we dance or make chicken noises or jump like eagles or hear Daddy’s jokes. Even though we can feel goofy sometimes, this is where we belong.

We’re kind and we ’ re strong when we ’ re right. When we ’ re wrong. And here, at Eaglecrest, This is where we belong!

A “

”

The 24-25 EHS Little Raptors: Cal, Dustin, Ella, Eyrind, Greyson, Lucy, Milo, Noura, Penny, & Sophie

PROSE

Evie Foster

My mom is what you call a perfect person. She can do no wrong, she cares too much, and she will always be there for you in your darkest times. It took me too long to realize that. I never thought anything was wrong. I thought our lives were perfect. That was before the dreadful news hit me two days before Thanksgiving. The day where the whole family comes together to celebrate and be happy through a deliciously cooked meal. Every day leading up to that moment was ideal, flawless, and simply perfect, until it wasn’t.

When I was a kid, I used to play outside with my neighbors as if we had superpowers from throwing leaves, or we had every animal on earth standing by our side Nothing else was as important as when I was playing outside, and every game was perfect So, when I heard my mom call my name from inside, I was hesitant and began to argue Even though I could see the fatigue in her face, I still argued I wanted 5 more minutes, and she reluctantly gave it to me I was happy When I wasn’t playing outside, I was at school hanging out with my friends and learning new things School was easy, and I rarely gave it a thought. To me, hanging out with my friends was more important, and one of my friends invited me to her sleepover. I was thrilled to be invited and begged my mom to let me go when I got home. My mom annoyingly argued with me, saying, “I don’t think I can get you there on time because I have to work. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” But I barely heard a word she said, I just persisted and persisted to get what I wanted. “But Mom! I can get ready really fast! Please Mom, please!” As I watched her sigh, knowing that she gave in, I didn’t once think about how exhausted she looked, how she makes dinner for us every night, how she did my hair that morning, or how much she really cared for me. I was just excited to hang out with my friends. “Thank you, Mom!” I said excitedly as I gave her a hug. Our bodies were warm as we held on close together. She seemed as if she never wanted to let go of me, and we were both happy Even though this sense of warmth was pleasant and unexpected, it vanished from my life as quickly as my mother's smile did the moment I snapped A snap caused a crack, and I didn’t realize that until I could see things from her point of view, from her pain

When I was a pre-teen, a middle schooler, I started paying more attention to school and my grades I stopped playing outside as often and paid more attention to playing video games with my friends, Youtube, my looks, and my popularity All I could think about was my friends as I swung my legs back and forth while we ate lunch on the bench. With them by my side, I felt as though they were the most significant individuals in my life, and I was at my happiest ever. I would completely forget about the lunch my mom packed for me and only manage to eat a few things. I didn’t think she’d mind, though. Making lunch is easy. When school was over, my mom would pick me up after a long day. I was uneager for the masses of questions my mom would throw at me the second she brought me home. “How was school today?” and “Do you have any homework?” I didn’t want to talk, and just the sound of those questions coming from her mouth every single day annoyed me. “I don’t want to talk right now, Mom!” I responded angrily, breaking the joy in her face when I first stepped in the car, and neglecting her excitement of seeing me after her long day the way a person neglects death. Even if my response never changed, she would still ask me. I thought it was stupid of her to repeatedly ask, but she was just trying to stay close to me, as if we were otters trying to keep warm by holding hands, and as she was trying her best not to lose me, I was starting to let go

When I became a teenager, a high schooler, I never thought about playing outside School felt impossible, having friends was so complicated, I rarely had free time and I was constantly stressed out I would sit at my desk after school staying up at night until I finished all my homework. Waking up in the morning was hassle. I could barely inch my way out of bed without complaining or opening my eyes all the way. My mom noticed something was off and she tried to care for me, but I just ended up pushing her away, drifting further from her in the harsh stream. We continued to drift apart with each passing wave; however, she persistently sought to make her way to me, to my frozen hands, which were, in some way, warmer than hers. “Mom, please go away, I need to focus,” or “Mom, can you leave me alone for a few minutes, please? I’m just tired. ” I wasn’t being disrespectful, I just wanted personal space for a little bit. My mind was on other things--the science project, stupid drama, and algebra homework were getting me fired up and the current just kept getting stronger. “Mom, back off! Please!”

Wait...why did I say that? I saw her heart break in her eyes as she silently walked off, and this time I saw it For the first time I could feel the distance between us My hands felt like ice, I was shivering and I couldn’t heat back up without her I wanted to say sorry, I didn’t mean what I said, it wasn’t even her fault But for some reason, I just couldn’t, and now it was too late

The next day, around midday, my dad was calling from downstairs to me and my sister, “Girls, come to the living room, please ” We looked at each other, confused, as we hesitantly walked to the living room Thanksgiving was coming in two days, so I suspected it was going to be about that I was eager to see my family, yet still wondering what the important news was. “Your dad and I thought it was only right if we told you... ” My mom spoke, but not in the normal tone I was expecting. It was sad. I could hear her voice cracking and see her eyes sparkling as tears started to form. My heartbeat got faster.

“ ...that I have been diagnosed with cancer. ” My heart stopped for a solid minute. I looked to my sister beside me, and she looked the same. My parents were starting to cry. It was as if all the weight that had been bearing down on me had vanished; I was lifeless. I was paralyzed. At that moment, my only thought was of what a lousy daughter I had been. She had always been there for me, and I sat on the other side of the couch, not knowing if I should cry. I thought to myself and recalled every time I had lashed out at her or been in a bad mood, realizing that it was never her fault I tried to forgive myself by looking back at every happy memory I’ve shared with her, but even knowing that we ’ ve had many more cheerful times, I couldn’t forgive myself for the distance that widened every time I caused a crack in her heart The current was the strongest it had ever been There was a storm approaching It felt as if we were miles apart, and I didn’t know what to do It kept getting stronger and stronger as my heartbeat grew faster and faster and then it stopped

I was sitting next to her, my mom, this beautiful angel that can do no wrong. I stared into her eyes and I could feel my hands starting to defrost just from being in her presence. We were trying to find each other, and for the first time, I wasn’t drifting away. “Don’t leave me, Mom. I love you. I’m sorry. ” We wrapped our arms around each other in a warm embrace. Crying soft and gentle tears, I thought to myself, I haven’t lost her yet.

Izzie Intriago

“You don’t look Latina.”

I examine myself in the mirror of my mind, trying to see myself as a stranger would. My skin, a pale, horchata-color that’s a product of my mom ’ s milky complexion and my dad’s cinnamon-colored skin. My hair, the color of dark chocolate; not quite black but not brown either, starkly contrasts it No matter how hard I’ve tried to manipulate it, it has a mind of its own, landing in waves sometimes and staying stubbornly straight at others. My eyes, two sapphires sparkling in the middle of this.

My mind shuffles between this mental picture and the snapshots of other Latinas I’ve seen. What hidden features could I adjust, what can I tweak, that would make me more like them?

I know better than to believe that all Hispanics look similar as we ’ re one of the most diverse ethnicities, but with each confused comment I get, my foothold on this belief begins to slip

“You don’t look Latina ”

The words ricochet around in my head, echoing like a gunshot A pent-up frustration formed from the many variations of this statement I’ve received begins crawling its way up my throat, dangerously close to escaping from my teeth.

I bite my tongue to clamp the retorts down, throwing away any lesson that could be taught with a practiced, “Yeah, I know. I really don’t.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth I regret them. The person on the receiving end of them, relieved that their unintentionally hurtful words weren’t met with any racist accusations, keep rambling the many ways that I don’t seem to be what I am

Because they’re the experts

I shut my eyes, my mind opening the imaginary mirror without my consent Blue eyes White skin You don’t look Latina

So is that it? Do my white-passing features erase what’s inside of me? Does my new home block out the old one?

Does my clumsy tongue, the tongue that often stumbles over the language that was supposedly my first, discredit the work that I’ve put into trying to establish connections with the people I love who are an ocean away? My insecurities have caused any fluency that once existed to shrivel up and hide, fleeing from my own scathing judgment, deepening the divide between my two halves

But it’s the same tongue that knows the gastronomy of her country as well as if she had lived there her whole life. Each crisply fried plátano tastes like home, the flavorful ceviches feel like the Sunday mornings that I’ve missed, and the sweet, juicy mangos remind me of who I really am.

Similarly, the sapphire eyes that mark me as other are also the lenses for me to interpret my culture. Through them I see a lush landscape, each square inch filled with coastlines, jungles, cities, and mountains My eyes drink in the hamacas set up in every imaginable place, the colorfully woven goods on display, waiting to be snatched up by desperate tourists. I see a people who rise above the difficulties with humor, who take the hand that they are given and with great ingenuity and perseverance use it to rise up A people who love so fearlessly and welcome others into their lives without second thought. The people that I am a part of.

Similarly, the sapphire eyes that mark me as other are also the lenses for me to interpret my culture. Through them I see a lush landscape, each square inch filled with coastlines, jungles, cities, and mountains My eyes drink in the hamacas set up in every imaginable place, the colorfully woven goods on display, waiting to be snatched up by desperate tourists I see a people who rise above the difficulties with humor, who take the hand that they are given and with great ingenuity and perseverance use it to rise up A people who love so fearlessly and welcome others into their lives without second thought The people that I am a part of

But I also belong to the people who gave me my eyes and my skin A people with a troubled history whose victories often come at the expense of others. How do I love the part of me that I’ve been taught to want to erase?

How am I supposed to feel whole, complete, when I’m forced to pick a side depending on who I’m with? When I’m instructed by society to throw away any pride in my heritage with a concession of only being “half ”

I’m supposed to be both American and Latina simultaneously, but I often feel like neither

“You don’t look Latina ”

I long for people to see through the skin and the eyes all the way down to my soul, the soul that knows with utter confidence who and what she is, and for them to accept me like the normalcy that I should be.

But no, with each “I’m actually Latina” I utter, a look of disbelief enters the faces of those I talk to. The look that reaffirms the words that my brain whispers each time I look in the invisible mirror: “Are you even a real Latina?”

The doubts inflicted by others snake their way through my mind, making me want to visibly prove what I am Sometimes I imagine myself laying in the sun until my skin simmers, burns, and sets into a carmel color that would be acceptable to everyone ’ s narrow expectations. I imagine staining my eyes into a justifiable brown that wouldn’t raise suspicions, to morph until the person staring back at me in the mirror becomes unrecognizable

Instead I take a deep breath, give my feeble explanations with a feigned smile pasted onto my face, and bury the razor sharp words deep within my battered and bleeding heart

These arrows come out when I’m alone, transforming into scalpels that I cut through each Hispanic person I encounter with. I am desperately trying to find the characteristics that make them more or less Hispanic-looking. As if that’s a thing. As if there’s a visible way to increase or diminish what is embedded in our DNA I’ve believed the lies that others have fed me through their presumptions, that I must look a specific way in order to be thought of in a certain light. I’ve believed that if I don’t look Latina that I will never fully be Latina. That the fifty percent of me will never be enough. That blue eyes and white skin strip me of my family, culture, and experiences

How dare I? How do I allow those who don’t understand my life and background, and who have no real interest in ever understanding it, to deprive me of my heritage through their narrow viewpoints? My horchata-colored skin is a reminder of the distinct cultures that have been manifested through me. My ocean-blue eyes remind me of the coastline that has claimed me as its own My hair is dark like the mountains that surround me no matter where I am I am both American and Ecuadorian, and no disbelieving looks, no societal expectations, can rob me of this.

Grace Hutauruk

Sitting in my least favorite class of the day, physics, I pondered the foods of the cafeteria and counted how many minutes until the bell would ring. With my eyes glued to the school schedule, I often felt like the bell was either five minutes or 40 minutes away–time stretched depending on my interest in the lecture or what was being served at lunch.

My teacher had assigned us into groups of five. Luckily, I was acquainted with two of them. We were tasked with working together to figure out the steps of measuring the amount of momentum a cart has while rolling down a hill All of us alike, we felt confused about the things that we had been learning for a week The silence of our confusion had evolved into us making jokes over our ignorance of methods to calculate kinetic energy Each of us asking, “So, what are we doing?” and responding with, “I don’t really know either ”

Why did I need to understand the science behind a moving cart?

One of us, Arden, was a little more knowledgeable than the rest He made hard efforts trying to teach us the assignment, to the point where he would start cursing out of frustration, or maybe that was just his way of explaining things I’m still not sure The moments of silence between each of his explicit phrases were filled with the essence of our secret giggles and our forced frowns Unable to hold ourselves in, everyone else and I bursted out in laughter Laughing until our stomachs ached, until we couldn’t breathe The room echoed with our joy

Who knew that physics would create one of my most memorable high school moments? I haven’t felt this way since the beginning of sophomore year I’ve longed for these feelings of euphoria ever since I moved states It felt great to finally be my authentic self without the restraints of anxiety and fear

The class that I loathed had just shined a vibrant light on me, as if I were a plant and the sun had just enriched me with its light energy, giving me more life

The highlights of life aren’t always created at hyped up parties or important events but can be found in the tiny crevices of our everyday lives I definitely never expected to be so profoundly influenced by five minutes of hard laughter in my 11th-grade physics class

Because of this experience, I’ve become more attentive to the little things in life Our laughter had lit a sense of gratitude inside of me, helping me appreciate seemingly insignificant moments My curiosity and motivation have expanded and changed immensely I know it’s possible to find something meaningful out of the mundane Now, I’m always wandering through the alley of the unknown, hoping to come across a penny, hidden by the darkness A penny that could have the same effect as a $100 bill, giving me the feelings of jubilation, prosperity, and thrill I’m able to go through each day with nothing exciting to look forward to or everything to look forward to because I’m sure that the most valuable moments are bound to happen at any second

I just need to take the time to observe and appreciate them with an open heart and mind I believe so because my least favorite class had left an indelible mark on me that I will always be grateful for

Ciaran Tibbetts

I like my apples a very particular way. gala. the redder the better. circular. cut in My way. Perfect. I need to slice it down the middle and cut the core out at an angle. first the Left side, then the Right. cut at an angle. a Right angle. can’t be acute. can’t be obtuse. ninety degrees. If I don’t cut correctly, I’ll end up eating the core. the seeds. or worse. the hard part of the apple that the seed long thrown away sat in while it ripened. If I cut it wrong, that’s Armageddon. Destruction. Loneliness. Death. suddenly a Nuclear Bomb is dropped on My World and Everything I hold dear is obliterated in half a second. don’t cut the apple wrong don’t do it If I fail a test with that Wrong gala apple in my backpack, then it was My own Fault because I cut the apple Wrong My Left Eye starts to burn no that’s Wrong make it even

so, the ever-present question remains.

how do I cut an apple if it is oval? not circular. not Perfect. do you cut it Longways? Shortways? Up? Down? will the decision determine how My day goes? will I go to school thinking about what drama is going on or will I be saying a silent farewell to my Friends and Family? because, of course, If anything Bad happens If my Brother gets a paper cut If my Dad had a bad day at work that’s all My Fault Right? because I cut the apple the Wrong way

Edwin Garrett

in a world of stone, there’s a box

it’s an old thing, bulky and squarish. broken down. thin pieces of metal are strewn out the back like veins.

it’s bleeding.

there’s a flat board in front of it, with buttons corresponding to a language long forgotten beside that is a… thing, about the size of her hand. it’s connected to the box by a thicker vein. must be its heart.

it’s out of place as it sits in a field. what’s a field? she asks the wind doesn’t answer.

once upon a time, there were trees. flowers. bushes, and grass, and twigs, and leaves. at least, that’s what the world thinks it’s so hard to remember, isn’t it? so hard to see color in a world gone monotone

her life has been grey. concrete and asphalt, steel and iron, glass and walls. it’s the color of the sky, of the water, of the cities and the people.

beneath her feet are tiny blades of life, soft as she crushes them under her shoes.

grass, the wind whispers grass as green as emeralds, as springy as a cushion, as lovely as nectar but what’s that? she looks at the box, at its board and its heart. is it alive?

no, the wind says, with great amusement. no, it’s a screen. an old one, an original. humanities greatest achievement, yet the source of their downfall.

that can’t be we ’ re still alive the wind sighs. yes, yes you are.

she takes a step forward. and another. and more and more until she stands in front of the box.

looping around it are long blades of grass, swooping and grasping and taking, trying to pull the box into the earth bright little things sprout from the grass, in colors she’s only heard of pink, she guesses. the color of a face when it’s mad. the color of a heart filled with joy. the color of her mother when she laughs.

she stands in awe of the box. of the little colors around it. does it give life?

the wind laughs harshly. her hair whips around her face. give life? hardly!

then what’s it for? how’d it get here? where am I? it was for prosperity growth it got here when you abandoned the earth. you ’ re in a field.

what’s a field? she asks somewhere that can’t exist anymore oh, she frowns. well, that’s a shame. it is, isn’t it? the wind deflates, calm in a sadness so untold and unknowable. after all, the wind’s been here since the beginning it’s seen everything every laugh, every cry, every empire, every atrocity

what do i do?

nothing that shouldn’t have already been done. you tried your best, in the end, to stop the inevitable. but human greed is too great for the earth, and mother nature was tired. is that why fields can’t exist? because of us?

yes

…is it my fault?

no then who’s?

everyone. no one. the people who could stop it, didn’t. but why would they do that?

greed power money spite for the joyful and loathing for the things they can’t control is that all humanity is?

no, the wind says, with great conviction. don’t you ever think that. just because a handful of humans decided the world shall bend to them, doesn’t mean you all are like that. you have such capacities for good, for light you can do so much with your consciousness and your opposable thumbs, your hearts that sing and your voices that carry please, never think that humanity was built for destruction she nods, a tear in her eye and her heart full of longing, of hope of love for the natural and desperation to do better. the box has a name, doesn’t it? the wind nods doesn’t everything? she nods. what’s the box called? the wind smiles.

E X C E L L E N

Jada Bobb

Growing up in Austria, a predominantly white country, impacted me and the person I am today. However, my confidence and self-esteem were two things that suffered especially. I was 5 years old playing with my white girlfriends not understanding why they d make fun of my beautiful skin color that they compared to excrement. Questioning why my hair isn’t bone straight and why I don’t fit their definition of pretty. I would ask myself, why is my life already filled with self-doubts when it has just started?

Today I am seventeen years old and confident about my appearance, yet I will forever refuse to present myself “undone” in today's society I don’t ever want to give people the opportunity to question me or my worth because I don’t fit their stereotype

I struggle, trying to understand why achieving a successful life was made so much harder for people like me As a Black woman, you get judged from head to toe no matter what Your hair isn’t done? You look embarrassing, how can you leave your house like that? You don't have big breasts and a big butt? Isn’t that supposed to be the benefit that comes with your skin color? How come all these expectations society has set for me are in regard to my body and looks? Why does no one care about the aspects that would prove what kind of person I am? I am set for more; I am set to prove that Excellence’s best form comes in black.

The working definition of Black excellence is the celebration of success in the Black community. I would like to emphasize to you what Black excellence means to me and the person I want to be. It represents managing to be great when society is setting you up for failure; surpassing the expectations other people have set for you and proving that your skin color is the best gift God could have given to you.

Day by day I am trying to improve and figure out what kind of person I want to be so that one day I manage to fit my definition of success and excellence. All these expectations as a daughter, sister, student and athlete contribute to me feeling pressured and often overwhelmed. Moreover, I used to think that the pressure came from the outside: my family, my coaches and my teachers. Nevertheless, I was wrong, the pressure I am under on a daily basis comes from no one else but myself. Despite the fact that I am trying to give myself some grace, I have my expectations set I cannot see myself fail, I know there is a lot of work to do in this world and it seems like no one else is trying to step up and make a difference Understanding what excellence means took me a while especially because I was taught that excellence is good manners, good grades, and an outstanding performance Don’t get me wrong I am far from being what I have to be in this world Conversely, excellence is finding a balance with life and the burdens it comes with Now, who has overcome more burdens in life than the us? Who has helped the world evolve more than the us? I strongly believe that our change in mindset has and will continue to make a difference.

So no, Black excellence should not just be “ a celebration of success in the Black community”. It needs to be a celebration in all communities everywhere. Why?

Because Black excellence is excellence!

Naya Kennedy

It feels like being black is illegal. Like I'm an outlaw running free, contraband. I am a sin. An eyesore. My dark skin is symbolic of a prehistoric earth, a distant planet.

I have been told that race is fake and that I've never experienced discrimination. It was just me being dramatic. I was exaggerating. "Racism doesn't exist anymore, " they'd say, rewriting my history as if trying to make me disappear.

I can sometimes feel people's gaze contorting me, twisting and rearranging me into Jezebel. Sapphire. The pickaninny. The coon. My skin color is weaponized against me to constitute my humanity. I become a walking caricature who must bow down to the white man and listen to him tell my story

I'm even betrayed by things I love the most I enjoy studying Japanese and I'm enamored with the serenity and strength of kanji and the beauty of its literature and culture as the sun rises over the land

But it’s also overrun with colorism I became uncomfortably familiar with 美⽩ (bihaku), meaning beautiful and white It refers to the act of whitening one ' s skin in order to become the epitome of beauty by erasing one ' s darkness Those who are “too dark” are often bullied, ostracized, and even gifted with skin-lightening creams It seems that no matter where I go, disdain for the color of my skin has sunk into every crevice of society I can't help but find examples in anime, movies, and music alike

Even across oceans, I'm undesirable to people who've never even met me I’m battered with insults and I become the laughing stock once more. Lazy. Angry. Loud. Incorrigible. Good-for-nothing. I begin to falter, wondering if there really is something wrong with me. Frustration flows as brackish tears. They cataract down my cheeks as I wonder, “Why can't I just live?”

I sit idle in these thoughts until I think about my baby cousins, the angelic gifts that I have been blessed with. Each of them has bright, beautiful eyes that shimmer like quartz, brown skin like that of rich umber, and kinky curls and locks that mark our resilience and our rebellion. It brings such sorrow to know that some people can't see how bright we shine. It’s such a shame.

My cousins have become my mirror and remind me of our sublimity and splendor. I want to be their beacon, a torch that traces a path to self-love and power. I want them to be able to look at me and see themselves reflected right back. I want to embody the incredible strength that my skin represents and help them understand that their skin holds power. It holds stories and irrevocable strength that transcends mountains I want to make it clear that this beauty cannot be replicated, and nothing can rival the opulence that is their essence

We are not the burlesque, savage fools many want to paint us as Our blackness lets us widen and grow like the morning sun It lets us blend in with the transience of the night It tells the stories of our ancestors We emanate light and illuminate a dark, unknown earth into one that overflows with rich culture, laughter, and music We set ourselves free and create a place for ourselves to belong We are beautiful by virtue of our existence, and our black identity is our inviolable treasure

Hailey Hosier

The little boy clutches the strawberries, hoping they’d make her happy quickly She always asks for them, needing them like a fish needs water Without them, she gets angry she yells and sometimes hits But after, he hugs her and tells her he loves her She cries in his arms, repeatedly whispering, “I’m sorry ”

Today, he brought some home (as they were a peace offering) His mother’s eyes widened She takes the strawberries, throws them away, and hugs the boy

“Why did you do that, mommy? You like those strawberries.”

“I need to stop takin– eating those strawberries. I– I don’t like them anymore. ”

He is confused but still is happy nonetheless.

Years later, he now understands what “strawberries” really meant. He watches her cook, humming a sweet lullaby, and smiling as he is setting up the plates for dinner.

They are happy. Without the “strawberries.”

Anaiya Huerta

You would hold me in your arms, and your hands would scorch my skin You would sing me sweet psalms, just for you to run off and sin You told me it would be fine, but I was a fool to keep your word true I held you dear to my heart, but now that’s the last thing I want to do

How do you let them go when you never planned to? How do you let the spark that once shone bright be blown away too? How do you find peace when you never thought of war? How do you say bye when the one thing you used to want was to stay? I don’t wait for you to call my name I don’t wait for you to keep the vows you made You broke your vow, and now you broke me too Is this what you longed for, for me to not like you? You like to tell me that we’d work, but not in this life Yet I know we could not change, even if I did stay

I don’t want to be mad or hold any hate, but how could I let you treat me that way? You made my chest sink and my breath coarse and harsh. You left my heart in the rain, and you never cared if it pruned in the day. You left me with sores and aches that could not go away in just a few days. You left me alone locked in a room. A room I could not leave. A room where you had the key. I guess now I’ll have to find my own way to break free.

I wish to find the one I fell in love with long ago. I wish that your palms still made me feel warm. Yet when our eyes lock, I can’t seem to find you. You know why I am the way I am and why I think the way I think, but now we walk by and don’t dare to say a thing. You were right. Not in this life.

Neo Abbey

Learning to accept Death, something even today I struggle with accepting and learning I cannot remember when I learned to live with it, nor can I remember when I had to start accepting it I cannot remember the day, nor can I remember what the season was What I can remember is this: I was 8 years old, a boy living in Arizona, with no past or future I was sat down by my Grandpa, Aunt and Uncle, just to have my entire world shattered as the words were uttered by my Aunt Larissa At that moment in my short span of living in different places, I was in a two-bedroom apartment with my Grandma, Grandpa, and my cats Bella, Puppy, and Macie

Bella always had a habit of following me on my long winded journey to school, just down the street from our home. Regardless of how far I traveled she would always be a little bit behind me and always there to greet me when I got home. In a way she was my guardian alongside my grandmother's watchful eye as I got closer to my destination, my school. I can't remember much of my grandma's voice at this time, not anymore at least, I can and will always remember the warmth she radiated. The warmth in her eyes, the warmth in her smile, the warmth in her hugs, and the warmth in the things she would say to me, but unlike the Arizona sun, the heat never burned me, only progressed me to a full bloom. Even as much as she warned me, I didn't listen, I carried on with my days fearless of what tomorrow holds and ignorant to what yesterday was. She warned me, not often but she did warn me, of her death. That someday she wouldn't always be there for me, although she did not warn me of what would happen after. Maybe because she didn't know what to tell me and was scared to tell me the wrong thing, fear of sending me, an 8-year old boy into an endless spiral of grief. Or she just simply didn't know how to say it.

The feelings that lingered after her death were something akin to an ice-cold freezer, with a door sealed shut and only a foggy light to see what's in front of you. As time passed I managed to crack open the door of that freezer and let some of the cold out. I would need something to open it though, a catalyst. These catalysts were anything from a simple question of how my grandma was doing, to playing our favorite song, it didn’t matter that much of what the situation was. The only similarity was the result of me crying just to think about her, to think about the warmth that had left me. Over time the freezer finally had thawed and melted, the door had finally opened and I could feel the sun kissing my cheeks. I can still hear him sometimes, that boy 8-years old crying in memory of his grandmother. But it's a different kind of crying, it's not the same kind full of grief, it's a more accepting cry, accepting what he had lost and accepting what he has to do. Even in this place of acceptance he still bargains. He bargains to see her one more time, to hear her one more time, to hug her one more time, the last time. But as much as a mothers worried thoughts do, his thoughts are just thoughts that plague him from accepting what cannot be changed.

In this downward spiral, I have given some and lost everything, I’ve learned to live with the idea of her passing, the idea that she is gone is never going to come back to me. But even though I have accepted it, I still ponder, I ponder on situations where the outcome was different. A different path, a second turn, a flip. I ponder on who I would've been, who I would've been if everything had turned out alright. The situations that were not and would never, a different timeline, a different place, a different age we would’ve been. What would have happened? Who would I have turned out to be? Would my interests be the same? Would I have had the same love for nature and all of her beauties, would I have grown to have been kinder? None of that matters, not anymore because it wouldn't have happened anyways.

I’ve accepted that everything that has and will happen to me has a purpose for me to grow, a purpose in my life A moral that I need to learn, a lesson to be taught Even if these lessons are complicated and confusing, even if I feel like I want to give up I cannot, I couldn't give up even if I wanted to I can't give up for one reason and for one reason alone, not for my friends, not for my family, not for anyone except for me The thought that has and will plague my thoughts for the rest of my lifetime on this earth, the thought of a boy crying, not knowing what would happen to him, not knowing what the future held for him Crying in mourning and confusion The boy, me, I am the reason to keep going I am the catalyst that pushes me to continue in life To make sure I never feel that alone and lost again, to make sure I always can feel the sun when she is shining down on me, to make sure I can always hear the rain, and to make sure I always see the moon when she is full

Liah Rabinovich

Shwayder Magic is a phrase I have heard since I was 7 years old, as an aleph (the youngest age group at our camp) crossing under that Shwayder camp sign (Appendix 1) was the most thrilling yet nerve-wracking experience I had yet to experience. I still remember gripping so tightly onto my pig Pillow Pet my knuckles turned white, but once I stepped off that bus, I was greeted with a human tunnel of counselors and staff singing our camp welcome song. My nerves slowly drifted away, and within hours, my cabin mates and I were all bonded. Together we navigated the tight quarters of the cabin like, who would get the extra cubby for their shoes, We shared secrets late into the night, painting each other's nails or doing the boys' makeup for Shabbat There was no WIFI no cell service and with our phones confiscated there was no pressure to keep up with the latest social media trend, for once we didn't need to be anywhere else, we were nothing but ourselves But Shwayder wasn't just my childhood summer camp, it was another world For 3 weeks each summer, it was a haven of laughter, exploration, and self-growth I still think of the way the sun would rise in the morning peeking over the treeline casting a soft glow on the flag pole.

I had gone to camp for eight years of my life but there was one year I couldn't go back. I had never felt a heartbreak quite like this. I don't remember a summer where I wasn't at camp and suddenly it was stripped away from me. Gratefully I got the opportunity to return to camp this past summer, although something was different, I am no longer a little girl clutching my bag nervous for the weeks ahead, this time I am here as a staff member. The place feels the same yet I am different, I feel the soul of my old self within the trees and the soil. There are moments when the old magic still finds me. In the laughter of campers as they conquer the ropes course, in the roaring of the river, in the wind rustling through the trees, those moments remind me why I missed camp so There is a bittersweet element of returning as a new person: the carefree

simplicity of childhood is gone, but camp is even more meaningful in some ways It's like peeling back the curtain on a beloved childhood play, now I think of sending my children here, how one day they will see their mother's name signed on the inside of the closet of art, in the staff lounge, how they will see my initials on my Daled project on the ceiling of the dining hall I consider how the little girl inside me sees how much I have grown and matured, how she is no longer scared to make friends or to dance around at the table. This place isn't just a place it has nurtured my being in a way not just any place can do. When interviewing Jeria Esserman, a former camper and the daughter of past director Scott Esserman, I asked her what she felt Shwayder magic was she said “I think Shwayder Magic is the way camp brings people together. It's also the physical place that camp is- it's one of my favorite places on earth- there's no other place that does that [bring people together] if my mom and dad hadn't worked at camp Izzy [her brother] and I wouldn't be here.”

I had always hoped that one day, the more I was there, I would understand Shwayder Magic, but in the end, being away from camp truly showed me what Shwayder Magic is It's not just one thing; it's everything It's all around us We are the Magic

L E A R N I N G

Isabella Carrera

I learned to look up when I was twelve years old To see the world for what it really was, to appreciate the beauty around me I can’t remember when it occurred to me, nor can I recall what ignited my spark to begin looking up again. But I can remember the feeling. I feel it every time the sun shines against my face, every time I see the birds soaring through the sky, every sunset and moon shine; the feeling of being alive. I can also remember that, at the time, I was struggling to find anything hopeful. For most of my life, I had been confined by the four walls of a classroom, by the limits of my imagination. Not only that, but I realized I was being limited by limits themselves

Growing up, I can remember the joy I felt hearing the garage door open, knowing my dad was home. I sometimes went all week only seeing him in the morning, so every day after dinner, when the garage door opened, I knew the loop would be broken. As a family, we would go to the park, have movie nights, go fishing - which I didn’t much enjoy, but it made my dad happy - play board games, and spend the days laughing about things I can no longer remember Although I had spent these years, jovial and joyous, some moments led to me forgetting what looking up truly meant

It was the month after my birthday, four days before 7th grade. I remember waking up to my sister telling me something was wrong, the ambulance showing up at our house. I remember staying with my grandparents, not sure what the paramedics had said to my mom before I left My grandparents spent the afternoon trying to distract us, my sister and I We went on a walk, and when we came back, my mom was finally home I saw her face, and that was when I knew My dad had died at 37 Before he even really got the chance to live. I began to go through the motions. Going to school, doing my homework, eating dinner, going to bed, repeat. On the weekends, there wasn’t a day we spent at home. Going to my grandparents, to the mountains, out to eat, anything but home.

I felt displaced I had lost a part of me that I would never get back I had spent the next few months looking back on my life with regret. How could I say no to that fishing trip? Why did I choose to stay upstairs when he was still one room away? I never let the grief show, but that doesn’t mean that I never felt it. I remember praying, looking up towards the stars. Hoping for any other set of cards than what I had been dealt. But that's not the way life works. When my cards got worse, I lost all hope.

But this wasn’t a story of despair That little girl, who viewed the world in bright colors and sunshine, she wasn’t gone. When her sun was covered in shadows, she looked towards dreams instead. She learned to value the simplicity of moments, the richness of a laugh, the luck of waking up in the morning. She learned to watch the birds fly in free spirit, see the rays sparkle off of dewdrops, dazzle in the lights of a city, and never overlook the vast world around her. She lost herself, but she gained her hope.

I refused to lose that hope I would read “The Rose That Grew From Concrete” in middle school I would say “Long live the rose that grew from concrete”. I remembered the little rose, how “by keeping its dreams/it learned to breathe fresh air”. I would say “By keeping my dreams, I will learn to breathe fresh air”. So I did. I pushed away the concept of limits, and I looked up. I began to see the world as neverending possibilities A world not defined by its wars, deaths, fights, and sorrows I saw a world defined by its humanity, by the moments of humility when no one was watching In looking up, I see a world full of wonder, one that is mine to explore I see a world that awaits me A world in the persevering smile of my mom, in the innocent eyes of my sister, and in every passing soul who is not defined by their limits.

So when the grief begins to creep back up, and the ways of the world seem too dark to manage, I have to remember what I taught myself: never stop looking up Life is too short to dwindle on what’s wrong, and I have learned one too many times I am a dreamer, I’m hopeful, and I am ready to live

Beck Smith

Grandma. Simply uttering the word conjures bright images of smiling old women, short and stout (just like a little teapot), who always seem to smell warmly of muffins, or cookies, or some other sweet delicacy reserved specially for Grandma’s House. Grandma’s House: a structure full of childhood nostalgia, most notably 4th of July Celebrations, yellowed board games, and crinkled, benevolent laughter wafting from the couch, sprinkling goodwill and knitted textiles throughout the air.

These are the pleasant daydreams that I read about in books, or heard about from friends, but very infrequently did I find them in my own world When my parents invited my Grandma over to babysit, I would trudge dejectedly to my little purple room, tears slipping down my cheeks It wasn’t that my Grandma was a cruel woman, or even a terribly unkind one, but she was frugal, and made me drink my cereal milk every morning She didn’t sneak sweet treats behind my parents’ backs, or take us out for ice cream; rather, she dictated my snacks with harsh regularity, pouring my Goldfish as if they might jump out of the Tupperware and bite her toes Her bedtime stories were never as soothing, and somehow, despite her stout teapot stature, her hugs were never as comforting, even though her arms formed the same shape as my parents. It was as if, beneath her gray sweatshirt and pressed white curls, lay a hard and resolute statue, still covered in light blue packing peanuts (so as not to break in shipping).

About the time I turned ten, my older sister Amber moved out, and my Grandma moved in. The afternoon my parents told us the news, I sobbed in my bedroom, absolutely incredulous at the idea of sharing the kitchen table with this foreign old woman. Why, it hardly seemed a fair trade at all! Amber seemed to leave sunflowers behind wherever she walked, and she was being exchanged for an elderly woman who wouldn’t even play Minecraft with me. The thought was debilitating.

When my Grandma arrived, she brought a tidal wave of boxes, jam packed with old quilts, sewing magazines, and other relics that I would never see again They stacked high in our garage, displacing the family Suburban and crowding out the hula hoops and sidewalk chalk She hobbled through the front door, settled into her chair, and from that point onwards she was always, just, there She scarcely left the house, unless it was for church or doctor appointments, and her presence seemed to ring as if my heart had tinnitus A reticent, six year diagnosis of tinnitus

A few weeks ago, my grandma came to dinner wearing a shirt that read “Happiness is being a Grandma” and bore a loving illustration of an old bear in a rocking chair. I blinked; I’d never seen her wear that shirt before. Throughout the meal, I snuck glances at the old bear, and shame bubbled in my throat. The meal continued, the lasagna sitting stagnant on the table, and my Mom glanced at the box of Nilla Wafers behind me. She chuckled, “ y’know, you guys used to call Vanilla Wafers ‘Grandma Cookies’ because Grandma always handed them out to you ” . I blinked again. Somehow, I’d completely forgotten about Grandma Cookies. And yet, when I reached into the dregs of my memories, past the cereal milk and styrofoam packing peanuts, they were there: Grandma Cookies. How had I forgotten?

Oftentimes, I wish I could sit down with my Grandma and ask her about her childhood. My mom tells me that she was married by 15, had her first child by 18, and had become a single, divorced mom of three children at age 21. Most of the stories I’ve heard about her life, few as they are, paint a picture of a household living paycheck to paycheck and a young woman working three jobs to make ends meet. When I write it down in quick succession like that, there’s nothing more that I want than to march down the stairs, break into her cocoon of solitude, and give her a hug. And yet, I always seem to find myself blocked by her impenetrable wall of packing peanuts, even when we ’ re two feet away at the kitchen table Most days, I get the distinct impression that her Ministering Sisters from church must know her better than I do

My Grandma has lived with us for a belligerent six years, and will likely continue to live with us until her last days At 85, her ears “ aren’t what they used to be” and her eyes are swiftly filling with cataracts At odd times of the day, you might catch her playing solitaire on her decrepit computer, doing the dishes after everyone ’ s retreated upstairs, or squinting at her iPad, the words blown up as large as possible. In years past, I despised her constant presence and painted a picture in my mind of an old, frugal, capricious lady: the worst kind of babysitter. But now, she just appears to me a frail and elderly woman, who had to live a life full of hardship in order to get here, to our house.

I don’t suppose that I’ll ever truly understand the monument living in our downstairs bedroom; the chasm stretches too wide between us. And yet, as I’ve submitted college essays and FAFSA forms and prepared to leave her behind, I’ve wondered if something couldn’t be done to unbox some of her old, crinkly packaging, if maybe there’s a grandma hiding under all those encased layers of polished marble.

Perhaps it’s a decade too late, but I’d like to think that I would drink my cereal milk now, if she asked me to

B

Kian Marzano

Except When They Do

Bringing awareness to men ’ s mental health is something that needs to be done, and figuring out why men ’ s suicide rates are higher than ever is necessary to solve an ever-growing problem. I know one phrase has played a massive part in many boys’ upbringings, contributing to the poor mental health of men: “Boys don’t cry. ” This phrase carries a lot of weight and history. Most, if not every, man has heard it at least once in their life whether it be “ man up ” or “be a man. ” These all share the same toxic idea of what a boy should be and how a man should act. It’s an unhealthy way to raise a child and gives boys the wrong idea of masculinity early in life The phrase can affect both boys and grown men and should be replaced with something that encourages emotional expression, not suppression

They Do

Except When They Do

They Do

“Boys don’t cry ” has been a common phrase in how young boys are taught to handle adversity Fortunately, it’s started to fade in recent times as the term “toxic masculinity” has gained understanding Still, that doesn’t mean the phrase hasn’t impacted people today especially those in the past A 2018 article by Ester Carolina Apesoa-Varano, Judith C Barker, and Ladson Hinton studied suicide rates in men over 60 and found this age group had a much higher rate of suicidal ideation. This is no coincidence. Given their age, these men likely grew up with the idea that “being a man ” meant suppressing emotion and not opening up, leading to later mental health struggles and a feeling of having nowhere to turn. The article describes, “Their narratives of suicide highlighted central tenets of hegemonic masculinity. Men from both ethnic groups asserted that 'being a man ' involved strength and independent choice. For some men, suicide exemplifies these ideals; for most men, suicide violates them. The majority of men who felt that suicide further violated their already fragile manhood either reclaimed a decisive masculine self or embraced a caring self, especially in relation to children and family” (Apesoa-Varano, Barker, & Hinton, 2018). Hegemonic masculinity prioritizes emotional suppression, aggression, competitiveness, and power traits now associated with toxic masculinity This shows how, even in their worst mental states, men pretend not to feel it choosing death over admitting they need help

They Do

Except When They Do ExceptWhenTheyDo

Except When They Do

Many studies on men ’ s mental health point to the same issue: an inability to open up In recent years, men ’ s mental health has declined sharply, and suicide rates have risen Toxic masculinity and the pressure to hide true emotions play a large role Real data from 2023 shows: “The male suicide rate in 2023 is roughly 23 deaths per 100,000, compared to roughly 6 deaths per 100,000 for women, or a four-times difference. Men consistently represent an outsized share of total suicides. In 1972, they accounted for 71% of suicides a figure that rose to 80% in 2023” (Reeves & Secker, 2024). Society has shaped how men and women believe they should act. While women do struggle with mental health and suicide, it’s no coincidence that men are four times more likely to die by suicide. Typically, women are taught that vulnerability is healthy and not a sign of weakness, while men are taught the opposite and this absolutely impacts the numbers.

Except When They Do

While I haven’t focused much on how these expectations affect younger boys, recent studies show that mental health issues can begin early. “The Age” in Australia reported that “ as many as one in five males aged between 16 and 25 feel life is not worth living and that nearly one in 10 actually contemplate suicide Almost one in two reported 'coping with

c e p t W h e n T h e y D o

b o y s d o n ‘ t c r y

stress' as their main concern, while more than one in four were concerned about depression and a similar proportion were worried about body image” (Wake-up call on young men ' s mental health, 2013). While suicide is more common later in life for men, these problems often develop early and grow over time. Older men are often more alone and don’t know how to rely on others because they were never taught how. Instead, they were taught that “boys don’t cry. ”

Many people still believe in traditional ways of raising boys and shaping how men should act I acknowledge the different views on toxic masculinity and the idea that phrases like “boys don’t cry ” should still be used I’ve grown up with these ideas and, unfortunately, still apply them to my own thinking But that doesn’t mean I want boys to continue learning the same way I’ve experienced firsthand the struggles of living with such an unhealthy mindset I want boys to live how they want not be told how to live Media often portrays men as strong, emotionless protectors people to aspire to be, not relate to This was especially true as I was growing up, reinforcing what a “real man ” should be Even though I’m aware of these unrealistic ideas, I still find it hard to change my thinking. I believe men should be strong and self-reliant, because without them, I fear society would become weak.

This struggle to change perspective is backed by research. “Boys’ emotional illiteracy damages them as individuals, as a group, and as part of society. It triggers a form of masculine bravado or fearlessness which can, in turn, display itself as reactive aggression against the self (the denial of one ’ s own vulnerability)” (Goodey, 1997). This helps explain why it’s so hard for many men, including myself, to shift their mindset. But I’ve started to realize that society wouldn’t become weaker if men relied on others in fact, leaning on others can make us stronger, not weaker.

The phrase “boys don’t cry ” will always represent society’s idea of what a man should be teaching boys and men to suppress emotions and reject help from others Toxic masculinity likely won’t disappear completely, but it's up to those who recognize the struggle to bring awareness and challenge the harmful ideas society pushes We need to understand that it’s okay to cry, to show emotion, and to open up because that’s how men can truly become strong

e x c e p t w h e n t h e y d o .

Amen Bekele

You're an awful daughter, a cruel little sister, a terrible friend, and you ' re also spoiled, ungrateful, unlovable, complicated, too much, too brash, too opinionated, and too emotional. Since I can remember, I've always been “too much” for the people around me, especially my own mother. I don't blame her; she was never able to fully understand why I didn't have friends, why I felt things so strongly and deeply, or anything else about me.

Being misunderstood is the story of my life, people are typically quick to judge and even quicker to leave But I’d be lying if I said I was never a judgmental and insecure person because, for the longest time, I honestly believed that I could do no wrong, which is so much further from the truth I was a child still healing from wounds I had no idea how to heal on my own, and as the saying goes, “hurt people, hurt people ” Because everything I went through as a child, I went through it alone I didn’t know how to depend on others, so when I saw people with support systems I never had I would get extremely envious All I could think was “Why does everyone around me have somebody but I'm completely alone?” “Why does everyone I love leave?” “Why am I never good enough for those around me?” And eventually, these thoughts led to the fall of all of my relationships with the people in my community.

Losing the people whose opinions I cared about too much taught me one thing. You will lose yourself attempting to make up for your insecurities if you get carried away with what the people around you have. The opinions of others took over my life, and I often made decisions based on my "friends’'" opinions rather than my own. However, I finally lost patience with myself since I could never measure up to or accomplish enough to " earn their approval" because I would never get it. I would never be satisfied in life unless I did things entirely for my own happiness, and sure you can call me self-centered if that's what it is, but I'd much rather be selfish with my nose held high than be stuck in a hole of selfpity trying to seek security in others

If I could go back in time to the very first day of my freshman year I would tell myself that it is okay to be alone You can find peace in loneliness, you won't ever find security in life within others, but that's okay as long as you are secure in yourself You are strong, you are full of love and life, you ’ re gorgeous, you ’ re a child of God, and no one else can label you or try to put you in a box The only way you can truly discover freedom is by being who you truly are.

Ashlie Larson

In another world, I’d be dancing through a field of golden barley at dusk. The most radiant colors scattered everywhere by the stained glass ruins of a kingdom long forgotten. I’d live with careless ambition of better days and the curiosity of a cat that never died. I’d patch the holes in every painting and in every wall. I’d leave the mark of kindness on every table and counter top. I would sail through endless oceans without getting lost or fear of drowning. I would fly to the highest mountain and never run out of air.

But, even Icarus flew too high Even the oceans have treacherous storms Even business owners can’t supply a few extra scraps Sometimes, we don’t have the resources we need to patch the holes and the cracks in every wall and painting Sometimes we venture too far Sometimes we think too much Even Greek Gods had imperfections, the ruins had a history, and even the barley needed care

We spend endless moments trapped in a perfect and unreachable world, but spare a moment for me Imperfection. One of life’s many wonders. Imperfection has worth.

Even light without the dark is dangerous. Without the darkness, light would never have a name, the sun would never have purpose, and color would become nothing rare. Without darkness, life cannot survive. Without light, life cannot thrive.

The tallest trees vary from each other. You vary from the person sitting next to you.

Spare a moment for me, and I’ll share with you a secret.

You are perfect because you have imperfections You have worth because you fight for something seemingly worthless You are beautiful because you are different You are unique because he is and she is and they are You are normal because normal doesn’t exist

So when you wake up in the morning, and you look into the mirror, don’t pinpoint that one pimple on your forehead Don’t drench yourself in hairspray for a bad hair day Don’t wear something that makes you uncomfortable. Don’t sit there and tell yourself what you think you are because what you think you are is not always who you actually are. Your self-worth is infinite, and no one can take that away from you.

So if you read this, share it with someone. Spare a minute for yourself and your imperfect reality and embrace it. You will make it through.

Aaron Lumowa

The tiny Asian grocery store in my town welcomed me with the comforting smells of soy sauce and dried seaweed sesame oil. These ordinary smells took me right back to my grandmother's kitchen and the beautifully cooked meals she used to make. My family had a multicultural upbringing. We ordered pizza every Friday night, spoke English at home, and observed Christmas according to American customs. My Grandma, however, would cook in our small kitchen, whispering about a history I never really understood. I felt as though a piece of my identity had been suddenly taken away when my Grandma unexpectedly passed away She left a void that I was trying to fill While I was grieving, I found myself meandering through the aisles of that grocery store It was then that I made the decision to duplicate Tamago Kake Gohan, a dish of steamed rice topped with a raw egg and a dash of soy sauce, one of her easiest yet most satisfying recipes The taste of her cooking, the afternoons I spent observing her prepare, and the culture that had always been a part of me, even though I had not always acknowledged it all, came back to me as I stirred the egg into the warm rice I started using cooking as a coping mechanism for my grief, but it also helped me rediscover the aspects of who I was that I had been ignoring, My desire to share these facets of my identity with the world and my cultural heritage which I had neglected came back to me as I spent more time in the kitchen. I had previously kept these things to myself because I wasn't sure how they fit into my life's larger story. But I realized the value and beauty of accepting and expressing my story via cooking. Every meal I made evolved into a vehicle for me to communicate who I am, fostering deeper connections with people and revealing aspects of my past that I had previously kept to myself. I felt like I was making progress toward knowing my grandma and therefore myself with every meal I cooked. I started making more frequent trips to the grocery store, picking up the names of ingredients I had never heard of before and honing recipes that had been on the back burner. I was able to celebrate my heritage, heal, and preserve my grandma’s memory through food I take the lessons I learned in that small kitchen with me as I get ready to head off to college After being broken and unclear, my identity has grown stronger and prouder I've realized that I can combine the flavors of my heritage with the goals I have for myself, honoring my past while defining my future Furthermore, I am aware that I can always find my way back to my Grandmother's stories and traditions, the kitchen, and my home Although I don't plan to become a chef or a cook, the lessons I learned from cooking will be priceless Creating connections, embracing my identity, and drawing strength from my heritage are all things that cooking has taught me These are the principles I'll carry to college to help me through unfamiliar situations and obstacles.

Yohanna Nebiyou

Some people leave an impact on everyone they meet. My grandpa, Shitta Damte Kassa, is one of them. He dedicated his life to helping others, especially children separated from their families. He worked as a social worker for 25+ years and still found time to put his family before everything else. Even though he died at 47, the difference he made in the world and the people he helped will never be forgotten.

Shitta’s work was focused on children. He spent over half his life working in Africa with UNICEF and the International Red Cross, helping over 600 children reunite with their families. He felt very strongly about keeping kids safe and protected He knew no child should grow up without the bond he and his children shared “He always said that the kids he worked with had been through so much that they were numb,” my grandma told me

At home, my grandpa was a caring, respectful husband to my grandma and a devoted father to his four children Even though his work often took him far away, he always made sure his family felt appreciated and loved. He never started arguments in the house; he only tried to settle them.

Despite all this, Tsehynesh was always scared, her husband being so far away and in dangerous places. “I was proud of the work he did, but I was also scared,” she said. “He was away a lot, and I was afraid something might happen to him. I worried for the kids.” My grandpa's love for his family was clear in everything he did. Even though his job kept him busy, he always tried to be there for his children. He never missed any chance to appreciate and support his children.

Despite his illness, my grandpa never stopped caring for others His work, which took him far away, was a reflection of his responsibility and desire to help those in need He never looked for applause, but his kindness, calmness, and selflessness left an impact on everyone who knew him Those who worked with him and were close to him remember him as a man who always put others first He was someone who gave his time and energy to help people, whether it was his work with children or his role as a husband

Unfortunately, my grandpa's life was cut short. In 2003 there was a tumor found near his liver. In 2004, he was told he had cancer. On May 25, 2005, he died of liver cancer at 47. He got malaria while working in Southern Sudan; the medicine that cured the malaria did far more damage than good. The medication caused liver cancer. This cancer spread quickly, and there was nothing to do to cure it. “It was a waiting game, ” Tsehaynesh Yilma says. It was heartbreaking for the entire family; they had to accept and come to peace with the fact that all his good work resulted in his own death. At home, Shitta was a caring and respectful husband to my grandma and a devoted father to his four children, Miraf Kassa, Sofonias Kassa, Hellen Kassa, and Henock Kassa. These 4 children felt abandoned; the man who dedicated his life to helping everyone else wouldn't be there to guide them the rest of their way. He wouldn't be there for graduations and weddings, Tsehaynesh Yilma says “He wasn't here to watch you guys grow up ” Fortunately, we live carrying his values and legacies

Although my grandpa’s life ended quickly, his effect lives on in the children he helped, the family he loved, and the people who remember his kindness His example of putting others first continues to inspire all who knew him He is a hero My grandma often says, “He was a man who always put everyone else before himself ”

My grandpa's work with children, the love he had for his family, and his death showed the kind of man he was he lived to serve others. He left a mark on everyone he met; his story is one of love, sacrifice, and compassion.

Gianni Tillery

From the harmonic melodies to the face-scrunching lyricism, music is something anyone can feel. For me, music wasn’t a resource to eliminate from the still room. Music has altered every part of my life and molded me into who I am today.

As a child, my love for music began slowly. From learning Michael Jackson dances in my backyard to dance parties with my mom to Bruno Mars. The calm serenades of the slowest songs with a good instrumental can alleviate any type of anxiety From this, a love for R&B and pop grew My constant playlist always affected my mood While dealing with my mom ’ s absence during a period of my life, I chose to shadow my emotions with a rough yet fragile exterior Although I played a facade of the tough guy, I was still a child desperately reaching out for my mother So after hours of playing hard, when it came time to go home and see an empty bed I would always run and play Mirrors by Justin Timberlake Although I didn’t know how to show emotions, that never meant they were never there Lyrics within the song cut deeper and deeper until I was able to shed a silent tear within a dark room This moment taught me that I was different, saying I was fine then releasing everything on my own helped me cope with the stress.

When middle school came, it was as if I entered a whole new playing field with competitors everywhere watching me. Being able to show emotions in the form of tears may have worked in elementary but not middle school. After my mom ’ s return, she could see that a shift occurred and I was no longer a falsely nonchalant child. She praised me for showing emotions but warned me to never let anyone see they hurt me. So I didn’t. I cut the slow music and adapted to the new rap of the time. The type of Hip-Hop that you couldn't play in front of your grandparents. The gangster type of music I leached onto made me feel invincible The music taught me to never let someone disrespect me Never give up your friends to the other side, and most importantly always keep your family close These morals may sound pleasing, but if taken the wrong way they can turn you into an entirely different person Instead of crying, I became angrier and rageful If I didn't like how someone looked at me it was disrespectful and it had to be dealt with on the spot This type of mentality cost me friendships, relationships, and academic success The biggest cost though was the loss of my personality and mindset Anger consumed me I lost who I originally was

The move to high school was surreal. Without truly knowing who I was, it felt as if my soul was occupying a vessel, and I was just an entity peering through my eyes into the world. As I creep toward the end of high school, the question of what I want to do always floats within every sentence. No longer filled with rage no longer filled with sadness I had no answer for them. At least I didn’t have one then, over the summers and the three short years of high school I’ve found more and more about this newer version of me. I’ve come to embrace my love for superheroes, show my “nerdy” side, and most importantly find music I can listen to and feel serenity. Lauryn Hill, Brent Fayize, PartynextDoor, The Weekend. This music doesn’t stimulate an angered response yet it doesn’t fill me with overwhelming emotions. With this reinvention of myself, I’ve come to learn that I strive to become better than yesterday, and with college, I believe it’s time to embrace the pros and cons and allow myself to live harmonically

P A I N T I N G L I F E

Micaela Amisi

Painting involves multiple elements, starting with a blank white canvas with limitless possibilities just you and your creativity. Starting high school felt like going into that blank white canvas: a new environment, new people, and a fresh start. The possibilities were endless, I didn't know who I was, who I wanted to be, or who I would become. It was a little scary thinking of the unknown and uncertain world, but I trusted myself.

During my freshman year, I started to add a sketch to that canvas I made new friends, embraced my Filipino and Kenyan heritage, developed my style, and began to define my identity Just as an artist envisioned their masterpiece, I was starting to understand who I was and who I wanted to become However, a few months after my second semester of freshman year, I moved schools It felt like I had to restart the painting I was already developing Starting over again was intimidating, but when painting, you have to trust the process Every artist encounters a roadblock when creating a masterpiece

Even though it felt like I was beginning a new painting, the traits I developed in my old school stayed with me. On the first day of my new school, I felt that new kid anxiety, because “what if” factors were spiraling in my head. However, as I walked into my first class, I immediately felt a sense of belonging. The richness of culture and the warm welcome of the teachers and students made me feel comfortable enough to break out of my shell and just be myself. Yes, starting at a new school was very daunting, but it introduced new shapes and perspectives that added color to my painting.

Yes, moving schools was a big transition that was challenging and overwhelming, overtime I overcame my shyness and embraced my identity. I learned new cultures and experiences through a club I joined called Elevate (which encourages members to embrace their culture) and shared my cultural background with my peers as well

My high school experience became a unique and complex painting filled with rich details and experiences With many other roadblocks that I had to work around, but they have built a masterpiece Now, as I enter college, I do not want to erase what I have started on that canvas I want to continue to build that painting, adding more complexities as I approach new challenges, enjoy new experiences, learn about new cultures, and gain new perspectives on life. I'm looking forward to attending college because I will build onto my background, and experiences which will enable me to network and collaborate with my classmates and instructors to prepare me for my endless work journey.

P A I N T I N G

Ciaran Tibbetts

First day of senior year, I walked into my AP Art History class, found a seat where I could see the board without my glasses and geek out to the world ahead of me without someone trying to talk to me when I wanted to be alone Our teacher handed us a sheet of paper with ten works of art on it and asked us to rate each work I put a painting that I loved at the top of the list It had paint splatters and random colors strewn across the canvas A crossed out word and a crown at the top caught my eye. I found it beautiful. Our teacher later told us that the painting was made by a man named Jean-Michel Basquiat. The other kids in my class cringed and shuddered at his work, calling it “chaotic” and “stressful,” but I found solace in it. His painting somehow resonated with me. I did not understand why until I told my mom about what we learned in class that day. I showed her photos of Basquiat's work and she said:

“That's what I imagine your brain to look like.”

I thought about it more and more after the conversation, and it started to dawn on me why I felt so connected to these paintings. My mom was right; Basquiat's paintings are a really good representation of what my brain looks like My brain does not make sense for a lot of people, some may call it chaotic and stressful It may be that, but it is my chaotic and stressful I understand it, my brain is my organized chaos It is full of color and sticky notes and scattered thoughts that could or could not make a coherent sentence My brain is full of references that nobody else would get My brain is full of swirls and doodles that cross over and loop around random thoughts My brain is full of movies, tv, and book quotes that I have held onto It is full of music that I do not listen to but still know every word of, or winners of reality shows that aired when I was eleven. My brain is full of color and paint splatters that spill out onto my clothes, and drawings that fall out onto paper.

My brain is a Basquiat painting. It is chaos It is stressful It is me And it is beautiful

DRAWING AND PAINTING

Zahraa Arkwazi

B L O O M

Raya Cobb

Ciaran Tibbetts & Beck Smith

Zion Diriba

J.J. Weems

Linh Le

Bryn Gallivan

O

Bryn Gallivan

SCULPTURE

E

Farrah Phipps

Zee Schultz

Angelina Sadaraka

Ariun Battumur

C R A N E

Julieta Franze

PHOTOGRAPHY

Jeanette Tran

Jeanette Tran

Ciaran Tibbetts

Cillno McFadden

Cillno McFadden

Raphael Batoebara

Jaydn Bayford

Manna Biliard

EDITOR BIOS

JENNIFER HA

Grade 11

"A page, turning, is a wing lifted with no twin, and therefore no flight. And yet we are moved."

-Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

CILLNO MCFADDEN

Grade 11

The Literary magazine has phenomenal energy. Every moment I'm here I know I'm a part of a team.

BRYNN TORPEY

Grade 10

“The worst enemy to creativity is selfdoubt.”

-Sylvia Plath

SIENNA WELLCOME

Grade 9

I love baking, dogs, the mountains, and thinking of cool fantasy/adventure story ideas but never actually writing them I’m really excited that I get to be part of Lit Mag this year!

CINDY VY

Grade 11

I’m 17 years old and have an obsession with hair dye (right now my hair is red) I love art! I’ve been drawing since I could remember, I specifically do digital art I also love reading manga and books My favorite animal is cats and I enjoy sweet treats.

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

N GALLIVAN

ere the people who were not in the s. We lived in the blank white spaces edges of print. It gave us more om We lived in the gaps between the d’s Tale

ng great ew wants.” he o bu on

SPONSORS

KIM TORPEY

-Friedrich Nietzsche English Teacher

“The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude.”

wear a hat, whatever you wanna do.

-Norm MacDonald