Athenaea Fall 2018

ATHENAEA

FALL 2018

ATHENAEA FALL 2018

Table of Contents Cover..............................................................................................................................Harriet Zhu iii.

Dedication....................................................................................................Lisbet Jackson 1.

Untitled...........................................................................................................Markus Zaba 2.

The Things I’ve Learned in High School...................................................Laila Ghamdi 3.

Untitled............................................................................................................Lucy Vigneri 4.

College Essay, Prompt #7..................................................................................Yinuo Wei 6.

Untitled......................................................................................................Sophie Knuettel 7.

The Tiny Architect......................................................................................Adeshola Mau 8.

The Things I Carry.........................................................................................Ashby Baker 9.

Untitled..............................................................................................................Tilly Rahm 10.

Hangry.................................................................................................................Owen Rask 11.

Mermaid..................................................................................................Stephanie Gerber 12.

The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp by Rembrandt....................Lisbet Jackson 13.

Summer...............................................................................................................Yinuo Wei 14.

Common Buckeye...........................................................................................Elias Fricke 15.

Golden Sky Dancer...............................................................................................Eliza Rhee 16.

I Have Two Voices................................................................................................Elisa Liu 17.

Untitled.........................................................................................................Annie Clifford 18.

Fading Ruby Hearts.......................................................................................Ashby Baker 19.

The Ephemera...............................................................................................Riki Fujimoto 20.

Purle Mountain Isle ...........................................................................................Eliza Rhee 21.

The Pool........................................................................................................Lisbet Jackson 22.

Unpleasantries......................................................................................................Kolbi Lee 23.

Untitled..........................................................................................................Madz Cornett 24.

Wisconsin..................................................................................................Belinda Garrow 25.

Hummingbirds........................................................................................Makena Likewise 26.

College Essay.....................................................................................................Owen Rask 28.

Untitled..........................................................................................................Anna Lassiter 29.

The Things I Carry...........................................................................................Kelly Lynch 30.

Of High-Altitude Flour and Divinity..........................................................Ashby Baker 31.

Untitled....................................................................................................Reilly Kaczmarek 32.

Gospel...............................................................................................................Lillian Ryan i

33.

34.

35.

36.

40.

41.

Untitled.........................................................................................................Jamie Johnson When Did I Know?.....................................................................Honors English II Class Untitled.......................................................................................................Charlotte Kline From The Vault........................................................................................Various Authors Empyreal...................................................................................................Beatrice Mellsop Acknowledgements

ii

Dedication This issue is dedicated to the mud pies we baked on tree stumps and the sisters we chased with mud covered hands. To the bedtime stories our fathers told us and the Teddy bears we couldn’t sleep without. To the skinned knees and band-Aids that we pulled off long before we healed. To the boring dinners with our parents’ friends that we daydreamed through, building towers with our mashed potatoes. To the grass-filled parks with new friends and open fields to run through.To the pirate ships we sailed with our crew of stuffed bunnies and the paint we spilled on the carpet. To the bugs we kept in jars and the flowers we picked for our mothers. To the roadtrips back to the family home that smelled like dust and our grandmother’s perfume.

This issue is dedicated to our youth, and those times rich with curiosity and imagination.

We are not too old to have forgotten the adventures we once had, and I hope we are not too naive to believe that imagination dies with childhood. The author Mark Twain once said, “No child should be permitted to grow up without exercise for imagination. It enriches life for him. It makes things wonderful and beautiful.” As you read this issue of the Athenaea, I encourage you to remember those moments when you were free and wild and overflowing with imagination. We all still hold a curious child within us, and as you go about your day, taking notes, reading history books, and solving for ‘x,’ I hope you find a time to free that child.

-Lisbet Jackson

iii

-Markus Zaba

one

The Things I’ve Learned in High School 1. Vaping is gross.

2. Choose friends over homework. Your future self would rather remember making tea with friends than worrying about what a sexist Greek guy would think of women today.

3. If Owen still dresses up for Halloween, it’s not childish.

4. When you have nightmares, sleep next to your mother. The dark isn’t as scary if you’re not alone.

5. Blonde highlights will NEVER be a good idea. Evidenced by: me, freshman year.

6. Be honest—especially to people you don’t like. a. Don’t be fake/boring. Gross.

7. Stop pretending you’ll finish it in the morning. Please don’t start homework at 10 pm, either. It’s not going to get done, lol.

8. Do reckless, cool things but not for the story.

9. It’s okay to eat a brownie. I promise. Sometimes, sugar, butter, and rich chocolate are medicinal.

10. Relationships change, and I think it might be a good thing. Appreciate what they were in the past.

11. French does not get easier. I can ask for a baguette, though, so I guess everything is good.

12. Tous doit danser!

13. Do not join weird covens without asking your parents or they’ll get mad.

14. Draw on your arms during boring classes. It helps the time go by. Perfect flowers a cups of tea.

15. Working out is never fun. You probably should still run. Sorry.

16. If you offer Aly Starbucks, he’ll pay for your drink. Thanks, pal.

17. Embrace your name, hooked nose, heritage. Identity is malleable.

18. If you let friends cut your hair, it’s free.

19. I’m not convinced how important college is.

20. y=mx+b -Laila Ghamdi

two

-Lucy Vigneri

three

College Essay My high school life is like a Minesweeper game.

Starting the game, I click on the top left corner. Numbers pop out, and I do not know their meaning. I fail the game when pressing my thumb cautiously on the square next to a 1; I hit a “bomb.” I Google “how to play Minesweeper” and skim through complicated game rules. I try again and again to pass each level of the game.

The second day of orientation, I was sitting in a corner of the dining-hall with a group of Chinese students during lunch. I felt comfortable. Everyone spoke my language.

However, I kept staring at tables of American students eating and talking together. I was jealous because I wanted to integrate into the American group. Back in my dorm, I awkwardly started a conversation with my roommate with, “Do you know the zip code of our school?” and I got a 5-digit response. At that sleepless night, I read through every article about “how to adapt to American life” and “how to make friends with Americans.”

Not even one mentioned zip codes. My high school life was full of embarrassing moments, but these did not stop me from trying.

In easy games, all I need to do is to be careful and work on it for a little while.

In difficult ones, I can fail the game because of carelessness, bad luck, or a dying iPhone battery. When I am stuck in one spot and do not know where is safe, I go to a different spot and start in another direction. Sometimes, the new direction meets the old and solves it, or, after a short rest, I come up a solution.

At first, I could only ask people questions about Honors Algebra II or how to serve a tennis ball. These conversations are objective and easy to start. Later, when I moved on to more nuanced content like understanding a pun or expressing my opinion, I had to be careful with sensitive subjects such as politics and religion. When I said “sheet” and “beach,” people heard “sh*t” and “b*tch.” Cah-lah-RAAAH-do people laughed at me when I said Cow-low-rah-doh. An unpleasant mood could end a conversation disagreeably, or the class bell could stop my chat about dining hall food too soon. I tried to remember people’s favorite topics to make sure that I could always put forward new ideas when the previous was “dead.”

There are times that I cannot figure out where the next safe spot is, so I have to guess. However, I always hesitate between several squares. I am just as likely to get it wrong as I am to get it right. four

I am neither a typical Chinese student, nor a typical American-style student. Finding a balance between these two identities is difficult. I enjoy high school, but I also care about my grades. I am curious about different fields because I want to find out what I truly love. I work hard not just to get into a top-ranking university, but to satisfy my passions.

As I become more skilled at the game, I become more confident. So far, I have reached master level in Minesweeper.

Now, I can joke with Owen, the student president, when he is on a scooter acting like a 3-year-old; I can understand Ms. Green’s banter when she says that I become more and more sassy every year; I can stand in front of all-school and tell people to call me by my original name “Yinuo”; I can explain my thoughts in Mrs. Kelley’s English class when others say something that I do not agree with; and I can tease Annie when we both cannot finish a movement in our workout.

Fortunately, American high school is not an actual minefield. I am a player who gets infinite chances to correct myself and try again.

-Yinuo Wei

five

-Sophie Knuettel

six

The Tiny Architect I waddled into the living room, lugging a colossal tub of toys. I plunked the container down and pushed my forty pounds against it. I tipped it, releasing a wave crested with primary colors. No sound was more glorious than Legos clattering over hardwood. Any toy paled in comparison to Legos; the superior square. When the chunky plastic pieces snapped together, fragments of my imagination did, too. Confident in my abilities as an architect, I created whatever I desired to. Frank Gehry had nothing on me.

My chubby hands rummaged through the pieces, organizing them. Red by the box. Blue by the stegosaurus. Green by my backpack. I despised yellow Legos; they remained stowed away. Could that one under the couch complete my dinosaur zoo? Why not try? Every block was a possibility-filled treasure. Through assembling Legos, I found a niche in creating. The satisfying click of the pieces coming together was the sound of accomplishment. Every piece held a storyline. “Barbie’s sick! I need a hospital!” Click.

Snap. “I’ll make the Leaning Tower of Pisa… but better!” Click. Snap… Crash.

Even when my structures failed, I learned that I could gather the pieces up and try again.

-Adeshola Mau

seven

The Things I Carry I carry essays and calculus homework.

I carry video games I don’t play and wooden pencils because I always break the mechanical ones.

I carry a tent stake from my first Outdoor Education trip, my friends laughing when I jokingly threaten them with it.

I carry the memory of July, flames razing the hillside, lighting the night like earthbound stars.

I carry a watch determined to tell time five minutes late, no matter how often I reset it. I carry the disappointment in my father’s voice when I say I only have five minutes to talk.

I carry the fear of attention and the pleasure of recognition.

I carry a fist as the golfers curse the caddies, the same fist that’s thrust in the air when cheering for friends, the same fist that unravels to rub circles on my roommate’s back.

I carry the taste for my mother’s Southern biscuits and strawberry jam, flaky and fruity and warm on Sunday mornings. The oven’s residual heat drifts through the house, and my mother smiles. I pause, thinking of the blood I carry, how it’s not the same as hers.

I think of how I carry English on my lips but a taste for dumplings on my tongue. I think of the Chinese heritage I carry as my skin but the heart I carry as an American. I think of the DNA I share with individuals I’ve never met and wonder why they let me go that Sunday morning. I smile back.

-Ashby Baker

eight

-Tilly Rahm

nine

Hangry Stomps, groans, and muffled cries of pain echoed from upstairs. I was barely awake, sitting upright in my bed, the light barreling through my window as it approached 10:34 am. The sounds became clearer. It thrust open my door and shuffled to the foot of my bed; our gazes met. It had cherry red eyes, unkempt, curly brown hair that hung from its scalp like Slinkies, and a half-gaped mouth that could only form vowels. It was my sister. She had three cavities filled yesterday.

“Gohh to Seven-Eleven and get breahkfesht…NOW. We have noohing in the firgg.” With whatever expression it could portray, it was apparent there was one correct answer; I obliged.

The list was simple: bread, eggs, a doughnut, and Cheeto Puffs. Throwing it all on the counter, the cashier’s right eyebrow raised as he scanned what seemed to be a fortyyear-old’s mid-life crisis breakfast for one. “The doughnuts are buy one, get one free,” he added. I declined.

Returning from my hunt, I laid the holy grail of “cheat meals” before the Queen; it was pleased. I took a seat at the counter as it began to cook. It grabbed an egg, smashed it against the side of the pan, dug its bulky thumbs into the wound, and ripped the egg in two. The insides hit the pan with a thud and began to sizzle. It then stuffed two pieces of sourdough into the toaster. As it moved about the kitchen, I sat in silence. It sat down with its feast: first consuming the egg, then the toast, and, finally, the doughnut.

With every bite, she became more recognizable; her eyes returned to a grizzly bear brown and her hair untwisted. When finished, she turned to me and quietly asked, “Do you want anything?” I did not answer. She shrugged, discarded the remains of the egg, spun the plastic bag of bread like a pinwheel—closing it with a zip tie—and placed the pan in the sink. She stopped, looked at me, and smiled the smile that gives any younger brother peace; the beast was no more. Olivia grabbed her computer and bag of Cheetos and disappeared upstairs to continue binge watching The Closer on Netflix. For breakfast, I ate an apple.

-Owen Rask

ten

-Stephanie Gerber

eleven

The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, by Rembrandt Seven mustached men with faces narrowing into goatees, Peer over shoulders and onto the corpse upon the table.

All pale skin with shadows filling the cracks between his ribs, He grabs at the world a final time with fingers stripped to muscle and bone.

The men encase their academic necks in starched white pleats, As if, without them, the sudden realization of everyone’s mortality might cause their pointed heads to slide right off and onto the table.

Dr. Nicolaes Tulp wears no collar. Knowing the innermost workings of the human form, He has long since come to terms with cold skin and rancid blood.

Instead, wearing a black hat like a lid to keep his knowledge from boiling over and escaping into the students’ wobbly heads.

A darkness holds the doctor, corpse, and students in the scene.

All men simply shadow lit by the whiteness of the collars and the corpse.

All men caught in a moment of life and death and preserved in brush strokes.

-Lisbet Jackson

twelve

-Yinuo Wei

thirteen

Common Buckeye I crouched down into an awkward half-squat, walking unwieldy through high, crunchy grass in pursuit of a small butterfly. It was a tad past three on a cloudy afternoon, and my hour-long plod through the prairie hadn’t yet been productive, so I became jittery with excitement when I saw the creature flutter past. The insect staggered clumsily through the air, seeming to wander without direction as its wings flapped without tempo.

Although careless, the small Common Buckeye, known to the scientist as Junonia coenia, seemed content as it floated mindlessly through the field. When the butterfly’s energy faded, it landed on the ground and fanned its wings, allowing me just enough time to lay my net down over its body.

The butterfly’s wings span an inch and a half, yet the personality within them is immeasurable. Galactic patches of iridescent lilac scales on small black spheres add a celestial element to an otherwise drab, dusty brown wing. The butterfly’s side is spotted with four small eyes. On the forewing lie two black spots, each ringed with a millimeter of pale yellow, and with a pinprick of purple in the center; the purple and black in the hindwing’s two spots seem to have been stirred together to form a glimpse of a star-riddled sky. The wing’s underside mirrors the fluid ribbons of Saturn’s surface, shades of cream, orange, and gold all whisked up into a swirling pattern, interrupted only by small blemishes of gray and a singular large, black spot. The wings of the butterfly in my net had become tattered, and their spots were barely visible; although saddening, these rips and tears gave the insect a unique sense of grit and tenacity, proven by the butterfly’s ability to fly while missing two-thirds of its wings.

The insect’s name, Junonia coenia, it quite fitting. Junonia references Juno, the Roman goddess of love and marriage, while coenia stems from a Greek root meaning “common”. These two names, although contradictory, are represented well on the butterfly’s wings; the spots offer small windows into a goddess’s realm on an otherwise plain being.

-Elias Fricke

fourteen

Golden Sky Dancer My breath diminishes as my senses heighten. It is September 2nd; for thirty minutes now, I have been chasing my target around the alfalfa fields with little success.

Every time I near her, she lifts into the sky and dances circles across the sea of violets and greens until she finds another suitable place to land. Fluttering only a few feet away from me, the creature begins to feast on the purple blossoms. My time to strike is now, and my movements must be swift; with one fell swoop, I snatch the insect in my net. She is mine.

As my catch frantically searches for an escape, I take a moment to inspect her beauty. Her golden wings and slight stature indicate that she is an orange sulphur butterfly. Orange sulphurs, or Colias eurytheme, are common creatures of alfalfa fields.

I am convinced mine is more beautiful than most; her dark, broken margins (indicative of females) along the inside of her wings strike against her tangerine hues. She gives me no intense gaze like a praying mantis or garden spider, and it becomes apparent that her simple nature defines her being. Butterflies are generally simple creatures, but orange sulphurs are more so; for instance, most male butterflies will put on an extravagant display to impress their mates, but sulphurs will skip that part altogether. Maybe that makes her species artless, but I admire the sulphur’s simplicity. All she requires is an alfalfa blossom and a clear sky to dance in.

-Eliza Rhee

fifteen

I Have Two Voices Based on the poem “You Have Two Voices,” by Nancy Prasad I have two voices when I speak in English or in my mother tongue.

When I speak Chinese the words narrate their emotions like fairies dancing in the forest under the sunset and my voice sounds like a lark who never stops singing.

But when I speak English each word is trap which I step into without hesitation: the words shatter in the air like a mirror smashed by rocks.

(My language tastes like a strawberry.

It is juicy and sweet with a lovely fragrance.

English tastes like peaches.

It is fuzzy on the outside but sweet and tasty inside.)

My language sounds like classical piano songs, white keys connected with black keys playing that fluent movement.

English sounds like Jarizona Blues filled with dissonance but attracting people’s souls by those chords -Elisa Liu

sixteen

-Annie Clifford

seventeen

Fading Ruby Hearts The roar of gunfire fills your ears, and you swerve to the left just as the bullets hurtle past. Flinching, you stumble as another round flies from the M60 machine gun no more than 15 meters away. You distantly register the clean sound of shells falling to the floor before you dive around the corner of the hall and book it toward the stairwell. You have to get outside. More shots fire, and you hear voices yelling: “Call for backup! She’s getting away!”

Another round echoes through the narrow hallway. You weave from wall to wall erratically in hopes of throwing off their aim, your blood humming, muscles taut. More voices shout angry commands, and the heavy thud of incoming footfalls alerts you that their backup has finally arrived.

Running faster, you kick open the stairwell door and fling yourself over the railing, landing on the level below and sprinting down the next few flights. Echoed shouts chase the sound of your footsteps.

“Alert the ground forces! Someone stole the ruby!”

Finally descending to the first floor, you reach for the container strapped to your belt. Yanking the cap off, you hurl the cylinder at the exit, ducking as the door explodes in a concussion of fire and metal. Ignoring the popping shrapnel, you continue your mad rush through the burning entrance to the world beyond.

Frigid winds and twenty-some rifles welcome you, as you burst into the bleak, gray outside world. In that moment, you realize that you’ve been here before. You remember the cold, but you cannot feel the bite. You remember the wind, but you cannot feel the air.

You remember gunfire, but you cannot feel the pain.

You are dreaming.

Images flash; you faintly recall that you’ve had this dream before. You can’t recall everything, but you know you work for a place that, in previous dreams, you’ve called the Factory.

Concentrating on that place, you warp to a hulking yet nondescript amalgamation of tubes, ducts, and metal. The guard outside motions to you, and without realizing it, you’ve already handed him an ID card.

eighteen

Inside, cogs groan and creak, teeth grinding and gnashing with the ferocity of a wild animal. Gears rotate in dizzying cycles, as steam loiters in the hot air. You meander through this labyrinth of brass and steel, until you arrive at the beast’s silent heart.

Grasping the stolen ruby, you twist it into the empty notch.

Time stops. The Factory stills. A click! echoes, and the machine roars to life, this time sated and smooth and controlled. The stalwart hum caresses your corporeal yet noncorporeal form, the heartbeat rising until—.

You jolt. The incessant beat continues. You look out the window, where gold light merges with pewter sky. Blinking at the bruised, lilac clouds bobbing on the horizon, you register that the beat isn’t the steady thrum of the Factory heart but, instead, a requiem for the dream trickling from your memory once again.

-Ashby Baker

-Riki Fujimoto nineteen

-Eliza Rhee

twenty

The Pool Mountain paths cut by streams and sheltered by evergreens watched me take my first steps. Wild strawberries and fields full of columbines heard my first words. Pikes Peak waved me off to first grade, then second, and then third. The Colorado landscape with its jutting peaks and inescapable sun reared me and built me into the person I am. A person with a mind as full of color and intensity as the landscape of my home.

When school was still just coloring and recess, I skipped with my friends past the signs warning hikers of eroded trails and into the darkness of evergreens. This was the land of fairytales. Sprites darted from patches of sunlight into shadows beneath the skirts of pines. We chased them to the sleeping dragon’s caves we never dared crawl into.

A mountain stream cascaded down a steep granite slope and ran into a pool. We left our shoes on the moss doormats of fairy homes and dropped into the water. It burned. We soaked our shorts and watched each other’s lips turn blue. We trapped our toes in the black and gold mud on the bottom of the pool. I never left with dry shoes. Always, they came home wet and muddy, and, always, I came back feeling alive.

Life was clear out in the pool. It was mud up to the ankles and water up to the hips. It was sun on my nose and a crown of flowers and grass in my hair. It was simple.

Everything you could imagine was real. All fantasies were truth. It was wild and rich with stories waiting to be told.

-Lisbet Jackson

twenty-one

Unpleasantries I dislike pleasantries. I clench my fist in my pocket before putting on the fake smile that accompanies every “hello.” My least favorite word in the English language is “sorry,” (if only because it’s usually said in situations that don’t require an apology) and every time my mom says “Have a good day,” I have a mental debate about whether the phrase is a command or a wish. I conclude that I find the phrase unpleasant either way because I don’t like taking commands and I wouldn’t want to fall short of her hopes. I firmly believe that “How are you?” is the verbal equivalent of a hostage situation. The asker (who doesn’t expect a true answer) frees the hostage only after the hostage satisfies the asker’s demand for mundane conversation.

I’ve learned from frequently spacing out that failure to respond to a “hello” or “How are you” makes me seem rude. The omission of “thank you” puts most people in a bad mood (although the omission of “you’re welcome” is more acceptable). After a friend asked why I was giving him “a death stare,” I learned that my disdain for this cultural norm is conspicuous.

I try to appreciate the goodwill that these expressions are meant to convey, but often find myself vexed by their meaninglessness. I don’t like to talk. I like to laugh, tell jokes, and exchange advice and insight because I feel like I’m gaining something by talking. But I don’t like to talk, so exchanging greetings, saying how my day has been, and saying you’re welcome after being thanked for basic human decency is draining. Still, I can hardly get upset at someone for being polite towards me, and perhaps that’s what’s most frustrating.

I suspect part of my pleasantry-dread stems from the ubiquity of these polite remarks. They feel like mass-produced kindness. Billions of pleasantries are said each day, and inflation causes them to lose value. Furthermore, pleasantry-inflation makes genuine kindness harder to recognize. Finding genuine kindness in a world of pleasantries is like finding blue Gatorade in the Pacific Ocean. Moreover, hearing the same greetings, gratitudes, and apologies from every person feels like a nail so deep in the coffin of individuality that it’s piercing individuality’s corpse. Every conversation I’ve ever heard or had by the coffee dispensers could be competently recreated by robots. I’m hardly innocent in this regard. I’ve autopiloted through countless conversations while brewing tea. twenty-two

Most of all, I hate the disingenuous nature of pleasantries. The only acceptable answers to “How are you?” are “good” and “a bit tired (or stressed, or sick, or any other negative quality).” It creates a false atmosphere in which everyone is happy all the time.

Negative emotions can exist only in socially acceptable quantities. Every parting is a “goodbye” even if it causes tears. You’re always expected to “Have a good day” even if you slit your wrist the night before, and it’s always “nice to see” someone you hoped to never see again.

-Kolbi Lee

-Madz Cornett

twenty-three

Wisconsin Outside the window a ruby-throated hummingbird flutters nearby.

The brief buzz shocks me unlike last night’s drizzle slipping off ancient oak leaves.

I am only familiar with solitude, but today it hasn’t rained so my window is unhinged on the second day of June.

Outside the window A neighboring birch tree shed its final leaf.

It smells like the last day of summer camp, but it has been weeks since I’ve seen a child play.

I still prepare my mother’s green beans only to eat alone and give thanks to hot water bottles for warming my feet on my birthday eve.

Outside the window Appears a screen of white.

I can only guess what lies behind the massive ice crystals that form as I nod off.

Peat fires lure my eyes to the tender glow and thaw my fingertips which crack open the last bag of dried berries to paint my tongue oxford blue.

twenty-four

Outside the window Sings a red-winged blackbird.

Not since May have I opted to sing along, but today I tighten the lonely strings of my sister’s folk guitar.

The daffodils softly hum to the rhythm of a chipmunk scurrying across the porch.

We sing to Wisconsin under the rising sun.

-Belinda Garrow

-Makena Likewise twenty-five

College Essay I admit it; I collect stuffed animals. Wait! Before you stop reading and file me in the weirdo folder, hear me out. I am a moderately normal seventeen-year-old boy. I blast music while driving with my friends. I laugh at jokes. I stare at screens for longer than I should. I am a thoughtful individual. However, that wouldn’t be the whole truth. The caveats are that the songs I blare are tracks from Broadway plays, I hyena shriek at the most mundane of dad jokes, those screens usually play informative Ted Talks, and my endless thinking has led me to collect stuffed animals. If you are still inclined to read—or forced to because of your job—let me share the lives of three of these stuffed inanimate, objects and, hopefully, you will understand why I keep them around.

“Hawaiian Punch” is constructed in the image of a classic Hawaiian punch soda can—I was an outstanding neologist in my youth—sewn together from a mix of blood orange, silver, and ocean blue fabric and stuffed with enough beads to make friendship bracelets for everyone in El Paso County. Punch is an adventurer at heart; traveling to an abundance of places when the chance arises. But he does more than globe-trot; he is keen on adventuring and immersing himself in these new places. He bushwalked a 100-kilometer section of the Bibbulmun Trail with a group of rugged Australian teens, he learned Spanish and strolled the Plaza Mayor in Salamanca, Spain, and he investigated his lineage in a castle in Jülich, Germany. Although he does love to explore every nook and cranny of the world, his favorite spot is his gargantuan Star Wars-themed bed in Colorado Springs.

Scruffles is a small, unkempt YooHoo friend whose appearance is evocative of a cartoon. He is a lemon sorbet-colored bipedal lemur whose eyes are disproportionately massive for his head. His bulbous, blue eyes are not just a biological anomaly or lousy joke on the part of mother nature; they have evolved in proportion with his ever-expanding sense of curiosity. Scruffles is curious about everything, from the intricacies of trickledown economics to how popcorn is grown and processed. His huge eyes barely have time to absorb the information before he fires off another question. You may think he is satisfied, but then you see his eyebrows raise and his hand and mouth begin to move in frantic unison to construct another question. Although sometimes annoying, Scruffles’ incessant questioning is a consequence of his never-ending curiosity and drive to learn.

twenty-six

Biggy Bear is the kindest soul around. He is a worn, white stuffed Teddy Bear with a large scar down the middle of his chest, a remnant of two open heart surgeries.

Biggy Bear does not hide this scar; he wears it proudly like a cool body necktie. No matter the day, you will see him marching about, head held high with a small grin or wide smile plastered across his face. While this display of teeth could indicate that he is already laughing at his own joke—which he often does—it usually signifies his perpetual optimism. No matter what obstacle stands in his way, he faces it head-on, his smile leading the charge.

Yes, I am a seventeen-year-old boy who still collects and sleeps with stuffed animals. Sometimes I am embarrassed to say that, and every once in a while I hide them when my friends come over. But each of them is a piece of me, and although I won’t bring them all to college—making it easier for you to find me a roommate—I can guarantee you that every trait and quirk described here will be on display. However, don’t be surprised if you discover a stuffed plush of your mascot in my future dorm room.

-Owen Rask

twenty-seven

-Anna Lassiter

twenty-eight

The Things I Carry I carry the sound of my grandmother’s kitchen door slamming as my brother and I ran through it in our swimsuits, covered in bug bites, late for camp.

I carry my bracelets. Little pieces of somewhere else- Poland, Maine, Massachusetts, Spain, Santa Fe, Guanajuato.

I carry my headaches, and the feeling of failure they bring me. Knowing I caused the concussions that brought them and feeling ashamed that I cannot make myself better.

I carry my school books and my mother’s high expectations. I carry the weight of every mistake and test score affecting my grades, my GPA, my future.

I carry a crystal my mother gave me and the naive wish that I will wake up and not have any pain. That I will not pause to find my words; that I’ll be able to think as quickly as I used to.

I carry my father’s grief and my inability to lessen it. The knowledge that he lost his brother and his best friend the same day I lost my uncle, and I can never understand his pain, nor make it any less devastating.

I carry the taste of a cup of tea my mom made for me, but I left behind.

And I carry accomplishment. The feeling of hitting the water after building the nerve to jump. The view from the summit after crying on the trail. The end of a swim race after shaking on the blocks.

-Kelly Lynch

twenty-nine

Of High-Altitude Flour and Divinity Sometimes, five feet one-and-a-half inches just aren’t enough height to reach the flour sleeping in sunshine-yellow packaging on the top shelf at City Market. Flat feet, tiptoes—the technique doesn’t matter when planners decide on six-foot shelves.

When I was in kindergarten, I used to leap for that high-altitude flour, chubby fingers splayed in the air, as I bumped against processed foods. Mom would round the corner, appearing saintly in the glare of overhead store lights, to save the shuddering bags of gluten. Quit that! You’re disturbing the other customers, she would say, her strong arm reaching up to grasp the flour.

Somehow, Mom made five feet and one-and-a-half inches seem tall enough to reach not only City Market flour but also the kitchen counter at home, the extra blankets and Tylenol in the upstairs cupboard, and the dark chocolate bars on the third shelf of the pantry, purposefully placed just beyond my chocolate-hunting hands. Now, I stand five feet and one-and-a-half inches, yet I still can’t grasp the flour without hopping. *** Despite my mother’s efforts to imbue spirituality within me, my early recalcitrance quickly convinced her that Sunday morning church was ineffective in developing my spiritual life. Thus, we started our own ritual: baking Southern biscuits.

On Sunday mornings, cocooned in my cream-colored blanket, I would stumble down the stairs and watch as Mom’s strong arms kneaded the unsweet dough, nudging it into one-inch-thick circles. Her hands glowed with sunshine-packaged, high-altitude flour; when she waved, powder scattered from her fingertips, enshrouding her in white plumes.

At 450 degrees Fahrenheit, the oven trilled, and Mom fed filled cookie sheets onto hot racks and set the timer for ten minutes. We snuggled into our chairs, wicker joints chirping, as our 9:26 service began with Simon and Garfunkel’s “59th Street Bridge Song.”

Soft notes swaddling the kitchen, we didn’t need pipe organs or stained-glass windows, bread or grape juice; we had Pandora and kindergarten stick-figure drawings, biscuits and strawberry jam. In this way, home was more sacred than church could ever be.

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At 9:36 Mom held my hands. Dear God… In Jesus’ name, Amen. While I didn’t pray with her, I did say, “Amen” at the end, not to thank God or Jesus but my mother, the true creator of our meal, for her body of biscuits, her blood-red jam, and her whipped cream wholly unrelated to the church.

-Ashby Baker

-Reilly Kaczmarek

thirty-one

Gospel In tinted glass, I see her.

I take each step with her, we grow further.

I feel her fear in me, crawling up my throat.

On cold tile floor, I stare at her.

I feel her cold in my core, quiet prayers for her, Over a clean, white altar.

I expel her spirit and watch it dance.

I take everything in her and set it free.

I release her from the pit of her stomach And let her soul swim in a porcelain pool.

When there is nothing but silent screams To send into holy water, I wash her.

I lay her out, and I cross her.

Feeling warmth where once was chill, Seeing beauty where once was ill, I keep her still.

I let her love grow, I give her soul home, I sing gospel for her, and she shines.

-Lillian Ryan

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-Jamie Johnson

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When Did I Know?

When did I know that the leaves fall off the trees and the grass grows? When did I know the sound of my mother’s voice and the call of my father’s whistle?

When did I know what my first words would be?

When did I know that the bitter smell meant coffee, the sweet one meant pancakes? When did I know it was time for Sunday brunch?

When did I know that the fight would never end?

When did I know, when did I know... that I carried a rare genetic disease?

When did I know that all those vocab words that filled my head for weeks would betray me at the last second, when it really counted?

When did I know how to walk, to laugh, to dance, to smile, to dot i’s and cross t’s, to say please and thank you, and to tell people I love them?

When did I know how to appreciate the beauty in simplicity?

When did I know I was already headed down the longest road?

When did I know I would be speaking at all-school?

When did I know that life could end with the choices made? When did I know that people can walk away without a single thought?

When did I know the worth of tomorrow? When did I know the worth of a minute?

When did I know that family being your friend is not the same as your friend being family? thirty-four

When did I know that all nights turn into mornings?

When did I know that all decisions have consequences?

When did I know the salty smell of the sea?

When did I know that the future would be so foreboding?

The things I know I don’t remember knowing.

-Honors English II

-Charlotte Kline thirty-five

From The Vault In the following pages you will find poems from previous Athenaea publications.

Introduction to the S.A.T. stop. do not go on to the next page until you are told to do so; read the instructions carefully. a word of introduction. do the following questions carefully; do not be nervous. do not be worried. remain calm during the test period go on to the next paragraph. your college shall review the test scores. do the questions care-fully. do not be hurried. your entrance into the college of your choice depends on these scores. if you do not go to the college of your choice your life shall be changed. if you do not do well on these test questions, you shall not go to the college of your choice. you shall not go to any college of your choice if you do not do well. you shall be an outcast from society since you did not go to college. you shall be distraught. you shall go into evil ways. you shall be a bum, a tramp, a beggar, a hobo. you shall then be a thief, a criminal, an enemy of the people. be calm. you have one hour. go on to the next page.

-Jeff Hamill, 1967 Athenaea

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Laundry “You don’t have to worry about that yet,” she said, In between the thunder of a mid-summer storm.

“You’re only 16. All you have to worry about is doing your laundry.”

And she is almost right.

Except I do not think about the clothes, as they are tumbled tight on medium heat, but what they are washed of: of sage and streaked soil, of s’mores and sweat and sunscreen, of shooting-star skies.

And as long as that sage-strewn lakeside remains to dirty me another day, then she’s right; I don’t have to worry about things less clean: about far-away fighting, about my family and my faith, about finding a college and facing my fear of failure.

I will find bliss in my laundering ignorance, and let the rain outside take care of the rest.

-Hannah Radner, 2006 Athenaea

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This World Dying child, Remember where you moved to; Put those dreams in the cellar For a rainy day next June.

For now Stop running so fast In that small stride.

You’ve got to fly in the sea To view the shore You stand on.

Yes, touch the fire Feel its ashes Of tricycles And ice cream trucks Gone by.

Live the detailed house Of steel wires and Surrounding print Burn the red grass And think of chartreuse foilage.

Look what street you’re on You’re not in Mom’s reach anymore So take her hobbiesOnce you pay the rent You can play with the little boy -Randy Melton, 1986 Athenaea

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The Gilbert ’Tis this day the students cram, hoping not to be put in a jam.

Students worry and bite their nails, some even feel mystery ails.

Many are hiding under a tree, hoping for one more period free.

These Gilbert tests are notorious, for most of his kids don’t end victorious.

Everyone copes in different ways, for it’s not so easy, like in the good old days.

Days like this come thrice a quarter, except the 2nd quarter, which is shorter.

Gilbert stays up and thinks of tortures; everyone so worried, these days feel like scorchers.

The doctor sure laughs at our pain; we all wonder what he stands to gain.

But there’s only one way to survive his assessments, which is to dedicate many time investments.

To study hard, and study now, for this is the only way I know how, to prepare for his tortures and attacks, and to avoid a parent’s smacks.

-Alex Tonsing, 2006 Athenaea

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-Beatrice Mellsop

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Acknowledgements Faculty Sponsor Dave Reynolds, English Department Chair Editors

Owen Rask Ashby Baker Lisbet Jackson

Athenaea Staff Laila Ghamdi, Brooke Dashiell, Kathryn Potts, Kolbi Lee, Junseo Jung, Annie Clifford, Sophie Potts, Beatrice Mellsop, Eliza Rhee, Kiya Cockrell, and Kimberly Macdonald Printed by Colt Print Services Athenaea is a publication of Fountain Valley School of Colorado.

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