ATHENAEA Fall 2021
ATHENAEA FALL 2021
Table of Contents Cover.................................................................................................................................Harry Wu iii. Dedication..............................................................................................................Elisa Liu 1. Untitled............................................................................................................Mia Sanchez 2. Thank You, Pookie......................................................................................Quinn Lander 4. Fruit Leather Lunch.....................................................................................Caroline Ellis 5. Waddle............................................................................................................Claire Brown 5. Untitled......................................................................................................Naomi Edwards 6. Ever Heard of Green Pepper Pork Dumplings?.............................................Linda Pan 7. Preference.............................................................................................................Ari Child 8. Sexualization of Women..........................................................................Emma Garman 9. Why I Paint...................................................................................................Emma Garman 10. Insomnia................................................................................................................Elisa Liu 12. How to Make a Bowl................................................................................Anabelle Brown 13. Untitled Monochrome Shot...........................................................................Francis Zhou 14. Untitled.......................................................................................................Emma Garman 15. Release...............................................................................................................Claire Brown 16. Cooking for Eight..........................................................................................Mia Sanchez 17. To Ponder.....................................................................................................Quinn Lander 18. suddenly gone...............................................................................................Analí Muciño 19. Untitled............................................................................................................Maya Magee 20. A Man Who Left.......................................................................................Fiona Monahan 21. Untitled Monochrome Shot...........................................................................Francis Zhou 22. 39 Steps Poster.......................................................................................................Abby Lin 23. The Hour......................................................................................Honors II English Class 23. Haiku.................................................................................................................Ja'zell Pease 24. Ikebana.................................................................................................................Linda Pan 26. Dreaming of Roses.....................................................................................Wiley Wagnon 26. Hidden Identities.............................................................................................Maya Magee 27. Tree Planting..........................................................................................................Elisa Liu 28. Blue Colander Pesto............................................................................................Sadie Fox 29. Untitled Monochrome Shot...........................................................................Francis Zhou 30. Sacrifice.........................................................................................................Quinn Lander i
31. A Reason to Sell Your Soul.............................................................................Laelim Jung 33. Thunderstorm.....................................................................................................Linda Pan 34. Like Earth....................................................................................................Mason Burdett 34. Untitled Monochrome Shot...........................................................................Francis Zhou 35. Dou Zhi-er.............................................................................................................Elisa Liu 36. Pass-along Poetry...........................................................................Athenaea Poetry Club 37. Lonely Midnight Walk.................................................................................Francis Zhou 37. Time..............................................................................................................Quinn Lander 37. Melting Elk.......................................................................................................Isabel Garza 38. Aging Young..................................................................................................Francis Zhou 38. Self Love.......................................................................................................Quinn Lander 39. Untitled.......................................................................................................Emma Garman 40. Excoriation.....................................................................................................Claire Brown 43. Untitled....................................................................................................Sophie Simpkins 45. Acknowledgements
ii
Dedication Seasons cycle. After a year of quarantine, we gather. We sense that summer flashes in the light of stars. Then, we welcome autumn by jumping into piles of fallen leaves. We have not caught the first snowflake of winter, but it is on its way, accompanied by silence in the clear sky. In the 91st year of Athenaea, we continue to seek inspiration on this lovely campus with clusters of purple blossoms, bales of clouds, and handfuls of soil. Last year, many students studied at home for the whole school year. Fortunately, even though some students were in the other hemisphere while some were five minutes away from campus, the interactions between us never reduced, just like we never stopped peeking from the windows to observe the beauty of seasons. Exclaiming at the smell of pine trees or marveling at the luster of osmanthus, we expressed our care for each other and our expectations for a new year. This year, in Athenaea, creative artists share their inspiration in each work. Their words, phrases, paint strokes, sentences, and paragraphs are hundreds of flowers flourishing in their seasons, leading us to taste the flavors of time. Thank you to the my fellow editors, Quinn and Claire, to Mr. Reynolds, and to the artists for submitting their works. With dazzling sunlight, we experience the circle of seasons in 2021. With the shining moonlight, we appreciate the scintillating wit of every artist in this collection. -Elisa Liu
iii
-Mia Sanchez
one
Thank You, Pookie One day in the warmth of early June, my grandmother and I visited the roadside arboretum of my hometown; we paced slowly (as she wasn’t walking so well, anymore) down its winding path amidst the trees. The trees that make up the forest are, for the most part, beautiful. Some of them were uniform, purposeful in their ascension towards the sunlight, while others sloped and wandered, weaving through the empty air, searching for the next patch of sunlight. However, many of the trees seemed completely out of place; imported or invasive, they clashed harshly against the scenery of the surrounding roadside forest. I distinctly remember a particularly ugly patch of bamboo we saw on our walk. My grandmother and I were laughing about our family's shortcomings and idiosyncrasies as we came up to the dense collection of panda food, and she suddenly stopped, mid-sentence, screeching her plod to a halt. She stared at the erected mass of green, hands on her thinning hips, slightly hunched with a face painted with perplexity for about 8 seconds of silence. She then stood up straight and asked the bamboo aloud: “What the hell are you doing here?” We turned and kept on down the path. Eventually, we got tired of looking at the carefully planted trees, and my grandmother’s malnourished legs needed their rest, so we searched for a place to sit down. We decided upon a well-shaded spot about 20 feet off the path that was shared with young, thirty-foot-tall common sugar maple. Pookie and I nestled our butts in the grass and took refreshing sips of water as the morning’s sun rose upwards towards noon. Pookie is my grandmother, my father’s mother. She hates both of the aforementioned proper nouns, and finds being referred to by her first name condescending, so she decided long ago that Pookie was a good replacement. Pookie has lived in the same house as I for long as I’ve been alive. Our relationship is unique: an anomalous mixture between that of a parent, sibling, and close friend. She’s almost like a parent because in large part she has helped raise me. She’s baked my birthday cakes, given me scoldings and changed my diapers. She’s also like a sibling in many ways because we have a very close, playful relationship; we’ve always laughed and played games together when I was growing up and even now we still joke and tease. Yet we’re almost close friends because we lack the competition that siblings harbor for one another. Pookie and I are similar in many ways, and more than that, we understand each other well. She has brought me a great deal of pain, and an abundance of happiness. It’s strange how in my youth she took care of me, two
and in her old-age I take care of her. It makes me think who’ll be there for me when I’m her age. Sitting in the grass under the maple tree, Pookie and I pondered our surroundings in silence. Lying flat on my back, I stared up into the branches of the young tree, watching it move in the light, steady breeze. Subtly, it gives me a nod. The sensation seeped into the back of my mind, a drop of water on a dry paper. It was shocking but at the same time inexplicably familiar. It seemed almost like an unspoken hello, an affirming sway of recognition. “Pookie,” I start without moving my eyes from the young maple’s glimmering leaves; “do you think this tree knows we’re here?” “Hmm…,” she mumbled. I peeled my eyes from the tree to look at her: she’s skinny, a figure of sticks and twigs like she’s always been, shin over shin, hugging her knees to her chest. Staring into the branches, searching for an answer, she took a long few moments to consider. “Maybe,” she says, decidedly. “But it might be a good thing to find out.” We exchanged glances, passing the invisible talking stick. “Yeah,” I said longingly as I looked back at the maple’s thin, tendrilous branches. I grinned as I considered the offshoots extending from the main trunk; stretching outward in search for light, the tree’s limbs swayed in the breeze with animation, leaves dancing in the wind, winking. A thought shot into my mind from the ether: they’re literally reaching out. It grinned back at me now. “I think it might just be.” -Quinn Lander
three
Fruit Leather Lunch My dry Colorado afternoons were often filled with the sounds of rushing air ducts and creaking floors in the old house on Broadview Place. My dad, who was the only other person home, had to spend most of his time resting because of his chemo, so I found ways to fill the days on my own. However, when lunchtime would come around, I had to find a way to feed my tiny, grumbling tummy. Before I started grade school, I was still lacking in the height department, so I could not reach high enough on the kitchen counters or in the fridge, where most of the good food was stashed. The only accessible food my dad kept was an old stash of fruit leathers and canned mandarin oranges in a bottom cabinet. My little hands obviously couldn’t open the cans, so the dried fruit strips were my only reasonable choice. The leathers came in three flavors: strawberry, grape, and, my least favorite, apricot. The dense, sugary strips became a staple of my adolescent diet. This versatile snack was not only good for appeasing my appetite--their flat and flexible nature made them the perfect tool for entertainment. I was not allowed inside my dad’s room, so I would wait and lie outside of his door next to the air vent. The leathers were the ideal size to fit between its slots. I slid them in and out of the vent like the only dollar you have that’s too wrinkly for the vending machine. This worked to pass the time until my dad was rested enough or my sister came home from school. Legend has it that multitudes of the chewy, sticky snack still lie in the air ducts of that house. -Caroline Ellis
four
Waddle White feathers cut through the water And beady eyes catch a glimpse of a fly. Down goes the head, striking the water, Darting about to find its lunch. Lucky duck, snatching up the tiny critter, Enjoying his blissful morning in the pond. -Claire Brown
-Naomi Edwards five
Ever Heard of Green Pepper Pork Dumplings? “Dumplings for farewell; noodles for welcoming” is a proverb that originated from Northwest China. Due to the geographical position, the main staple food for Northwestern Chineses is wheaten food. With time, eating noodles and dumplings became a convenient but affectionate way to welcome and farewell loved ones. My mom moved from Ningxia, Northwest China, to Shanghai, at 20. She does not know how to cook, except when making green pepper pork dumplings. The ingredients have nothing special, but my mum changed the celery cabbage and leeks (normal vegetables used in dumplings) into green peppers when I told her I did not like the stinky aftertaste of leeks or the insipid celery cabbage. When I moved from Ningxia to Shanghai, my mom brought her traditions. My family would eat dumplings every time a family member was leaving: when my mom left for business travel for a week; when my grandparents were going back to Ningxia after three weeks of visit; and when I was leaving on August 19th to FVS. We make green pepper dumplings as a gift to important people who are leaving for their new page of life. I remember the confident look on mom’s face when making the dumplings, stirring up raw pork with diced pepper, then folding the mixture into soft dumpling wrappers. She poured love, care, and thoughtfulness into the dumplings, always keeping in mind my picky appetite. Green pepper dumplings taste sweet, like the first wisp of fresh air I breathe on the prairie in FVS. Yet, green pepper dumplings taste harsh, like standing alone on the FVS prairie without my family. Green pepper dumplings are memorable: when I close my eyes, I see three people sitting on three sides of a square wooden table, tasting the green pepper dumplings like a formal farewell. We all sit there with smiles, satisfaction, and unspoken sadness. -Linda Pan
six
Preference I think if I could chose to be, I would rather be the desert than the sea. The desert has its quiet nights, Only a cricket’s chirp and batwing’s flight. The desert sky is my church; I watch its red-rock sunsets from my perch. The desert's flaming hot days Bring life to the river, blocking the sun’s blaze. The desert cliffs of sand turned stone Are where lizards scurry to heights unknown. The desert rains when the monsoons beat, Yet plants and animals live intimately with the heat. I know that the sea has its place, But I feel as though the desert is my taste. -Ari Child
seven
-Emma Garman eight
Why I Paint It’s often said that “a picture is worth a thousand words.” My kindergarten scribbles of rainbow pooping ponies and messy portraits of my pet cats, which at the time, I confidently labeled masterpieces, may offer a comical counterpoint to the expression. Over time, these meaningless doodles have evolved into intricately washed watercolors and textured oil paint deliberately smeared onto the canvases that I am proud to sign. Now each blank canvas is my podium, enticing me to stand up and give a passionate speech. What do I say? I am a feminist. I proudly stand up for the rights of women to make choices about their bodies, speak out for every cent the gender pay gap deepens, and advocate to demolish systemic inequalities against women. With every brushstroke, I tell my stories. Stories that, from my mouth, are ignored because I am a woman. I paint for every time I’m told to “cover-up” because my collarbones are too distracting to the boy sitting next to me or to “take it off ” because my clothes hide my only valuable assets. I paint the anger I feel when I’m cat-called down the streets of Toronto. I do art because my thousand words spoken out loud are too often drowned out by my male counterparts. The permanence of ink on paper and dried acrylics on canvas allow me to say what the world won't yet listen to. -Emma Garman
nine
Insomnia “One sheep, two sheep, three sheep…” On a quiet night, I lie in bed for another twenty minutes. The room is so dark that the Moon is as bright as the sun. With bad posture, My arms do not fit anywhere. The pillow is so hard that I Rather put my head on that Teddy Bear. My phone rings. It must be a notification for my favorite Youtuber’s updates. My face is itchy. Ouch, I should clip my nails! Okay, it is time to sleep! I close my eyes. Everything goes back to peace. Chirping of cicadas. Beaming from stars. “One sheep, two sheep, three sheep…” Wait, I need an alarm. I flip and reach my phone. Aha, new messages from group chat! Fine, I just lost another twenty minutes in life.
ten
I put down my phone but the Regret, remorse, and agitation already Occupy my brain. I have not felt this energetic before. Maybe I can get up to do some work. During another wasted minute Stretching my body under my blanket, I start to think. “An English essay, Review quiz for math, Chapter test for Biology, Readings about Greek philosophy…" ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ -Elisa Liu
eleven
How to Make a Bowl My identity is fashioned in the same way as a ceramic bowl. First, a piece of me, a pound, is sliced away from the rest. Maybe the pound of my sexuality. Once liberated, it is wedged. As air bubbles and excess water leave clay through the pressing, uncertainties fall away from the pieces of me. I, the clay, am ready for formation. Then the clay must be centered on the wheel. It is done by pushing the clay up into a cone with one completely steady hand while spinning the wheel. The other hand works in conjunction with the first to flatten and push down the top. This process is repeated until I am left with a gumdrop shape that looks still in the center of my wheel, even as it spins. The chunk of me is slapped down as close to the center as I can get it before starting the wheel spinning. And as the wheel turns I force the clay closer and closer to the truth, true center. I keep my right hand steady, coning the clay up, with a question at 8 years old, “Why are girls so pretty?” The clay chops down, with another question at age 12, “Am I gay?” It cones up again as I find a new word at 13. Bisexual. The clay lands in the center and looks still. Now that my identity is fixed it must be fleshed out. I press my thumbs into the center of the gumdrop to open the bowl. It’s important not to press so deep into the clay that a hole forms at the bottom. It should always be thick enough to support the outward curvature of the sides. As I start exploring my new identity, I have to be careful not to lose myself. There will be time to clean and trim it later. So I kiss a boy first, to see how it feels. Then a girl. And both feel good. The width of my bowl is defined. At this point though, it is sloppy and too thick. The next thing I must do is refine the edges into one thin and continuous curve. I start pulling up the sides, using both index fingers to pinch the sides of the clay in a constant upward motion. I join the GayStraight Alliance at my school. I meet others who are like me. After these two pulls, the inside of my bowl holds its perfect curve. Now it is time to work on the outside. A metal knife is used to trim the excess clay from the bottom of the bowl, to make the outside curve match the inside. I start wearing pink, purple, and blue. I tell my best friend and she reacts with confusion that is easily carved away by my knife. I start to feel as though what people see is who I actually am.
twelve
The bowl is then left to dry completely. Right before the first firing, when all the moisture that the air can remove from the clay is gone, is when the bowl is most fragile. It can easily chip or shatter if too much force is applied. I ask my parents about bisexuality, and they tell me that it is a sin. It is here I almost crack, chip, or shatter. The bowl is then put into the kiln to harden. It is not harsh words that harden my identity but being immersed in warmth. So much warmth that doubt can’t do anything but evaporate. It is falling in love with my first girlfriend. It is being in love with my current boyfriend. My identity is lifted out of the kiln, still warm, and now solidified. Throughout this, I am the potter, and I am the one who is tasked with finding who I am, with finding my place. And maybe, I’ve already found it. -Anabelle Brown
-Francis Zhou thirteen
-Emma Garman
fourteen
Release I want to soften into myself. To feel my breath pour into every crevice, every ridge and dip and fold and pocket. Like wind blowing across the mountains, grazing the tops of your shoulders And making the pines shudder. I want to feel my tongue resting on the floor of my mouth, My lips drooping at the corners, My eyebrows unfurrowing, My belly expanding back into its original form, The knot in my sternum unraveling. I want to be able to sink into my back and know all of its terrain, Leaving a deep, weathered imprint like you would on your favorite couch. I want to let my fingers go limp and let my knees fold in, Draping myself over my bones And just staying that way for a while. I could dip into my body And let the tension drip down the sides of my skin. I could breathe out to even my little pinky toes And filled the spaces in between with a warm forgiveness. And then I could finally live in the home That my body built for me so long ago, And give it the occupancy it’s been waiting for. -Claire Brown
fifteen
Cooking for Eight Every time I visit my grandmother, she asks me, “Have you eaten?” Regardless of the answer, she will fetch me a crescent of cantaloupe, a bowl of steaming beef stew, a fresh cinnamon-covered biscochito, or a popsicle from her stocked freezer. We eat while we catch up. Ermie Sanchez taught me how to make tortillas. We blend flour, crisco, salt, and water into warm and flexible flatbreads that can be eaten any which way: fried and crisp, with a dash of lemon and a sprinkle of sugar, enveloping rice, beans, and tomatillo salsa, or my personal favorite: fresh off the pan and smothered with butter. They taste like comfort. Ermie raised eight children. She cared for my grandfather after he returned from war injured. I can’t imagine the volume of her labor: three meals a day, seven days a week, every week for a lifetime. Uncountable minutes spent stirring, steaming, washing, chopping, frying, baking, broiling, roasting.... Every one of her children has achieved a college degree. They went from an overcrowded childhood to Stanford, MIT, Colorado College, and Boston University. They have raised a new generation of young adults who do not worry where their next meal will come from. This didn’t happen by chance. Ermie cooked it into fruition. Ermie fell two months ago. She broke her arm and was put on bedrest. Immediately, her children flocked home to her. Along with their care and service, they brought their thanks: Bobbi’s stuffed mushrooms. Susie’s enchiladas. Takeout Thai courtesy of Jeanette. Broth made by Sil. Ice cream from Will. Cookies from Phillip. Groceries from Chris. I hope that she sees our offerings for what they are: an attempt to thank her, though nothing will ever be enough to repay my debt to my grandmother. -Mia Sanchez
sixteen
To ponder Some days my thoughts escape me, like a fish that squirms from the hand; with a flick of its head and a kick of its tail it’s gone, and all you’re left with is its faint impression, the memory of a slime covered finger. It floats off only to be sucked under the surface of a river filled with appointments and due dates, never to be conceived again; it’s a cold glass of milk turned warm in an arid room. A moment gone without seizure. Where did you go, inkling? -Quinn Lander
seventeen
suddenly gone You’re right there: screaming and laughing and dancing and crying and singing songs and painting nails and dressing up and watching movies and sneaking answers and face-timing 'til two and having a sleepover every weekend and then suddenly it’s gone. no more classes together no more silly looks across the lunch table no more giggles over who’s cute or who made us laugh or how terribly we did on a test every once in a while you get a squeezed hand a brush of the hair but it is never the same. it is not broken. it has not died. it is just lost.
eighteen
a smile from down the hall
do not remember
and you the way
back.
-Analí Muciño
-Maya Magee nineteen
A Man Who Left The soldiers didn’t seem to feel the cold. They stood at attention, folding the flag with Crisp white gloves in dark blue uniforms; Standing over his grave Faces like stone. Three planes flew above Perfect formation, Starkly Grey triangles Against the surrounding blue. One black speck fell away The missing man salute Tears poured down their mother’s face, Spilling onto her round black dress when her children got three Perfect triangles: Red, White, and Blue. The soldiers didn’t know what to do with the third flag; For a baby who would never feel his father’s touch. A tribute to a fallen soldier Who lost no war Sitting in stone Cut to a perfect angle Urn for a man who was lost to the world Who would never feel his son's touch.
twenty
The baby never stopped crying Still new to the world. -Fiona Monahan
-Francis Zhou
twenty-one
-Abby Lin twenty-two
The Hour The hour of remorse The hour that sits still like an empty chair The hour before the storm The hour in which the darkness takes over The hour of sorrow battling the hour of worry-free The calming hour until it is time to wake The hour of driving back, away from the day The golden hour before the flash The hour at which the sun breaks into dawn The hour the earth stopped spinning The sleepless hour after a fight The hour when children sleep and parents weep -Honors II English Class Haiku Oh, small rock.... what have you endured? tell me a story Birds love youclear blue skies. slowly fading -Ja'zell Pease
twenty-three
Ikebana My mom and I walk into the Ikebana (Japanese flower-arranging) workshop, greet the tutors, and sit on two short stools in front of a wooden table. Being so familiar with the process, which I have been practicing for five years, I take a few seconds to figure out what to do next. Mom starts talking to the tutor about gardening. She has spent years taking care of the little garden on our balcony. I listen, then wander into my memories. I recall her smile when she showed off the blooming begonia to our tutor, her disappointing frown when she could not figure out the Nageire style (the hardest style of flower arranging- to stabilize all flowers by using crossing branches rather than a Kenzan holder), and her devotion when she tried to take a picture of her arrangement for a new social media post. Time passed. The whole year of distance learning brought my mom and I closer. We shared experiences. Through flower arranging, I have learned more about her than I have learned in Ikebana. The unspeakable challenges of adolescence flew past quickly while friendship grew. I learned the value of family. The smell of flowers brings me back to reality. I need to get up and get going. I have a mission today-- create an arrangement for my grandfather Xu, who died during Covid. Xu used to be a worker at a chemical plant, which made him more vulnerable when facing the pulmonary disease. It took me a few months to really start feeling the loss. I was deep in silence. I carry memories, love, and determination with me today. Here at the workshop, I am going to express my sentiments through an Ikebana product. I choose to use five-needle pine tree branches, purple irises, lighter purple balloon flower, and white baby’s breath and plan to make them in a Nageire style. This is only the beginning. For the next two hours, I sit in front of the flower materials, staring at the grave pine branches and springy baby’s breath, figuring out how their unique and delicate lines can be placed together. My back hurts. I have tried several times but still can not stabilize the pine with the purple irises. The powerlessness to twist nature almost discourages me, the arrangement needs to be perfect for Xu. My hands are still on the branches; I sigh; I stare blankly. I’m thirsty. I miss the ‘salty soda’ beverage (popular among old men in China) Xu would hand me when I lived at his house every summer break. I can almost taste the saltiness, but bitterness rises instead: I should’ve made time to visit this year as I promised to.
twenty-four
Then, sweetness: a mixture of memories and flowers. Sunk in memories, I do not cry. I keep working until the purple and white flowers are shrouded by the dark strong pine branches and hazy pine needles that create a scene of timelessness and peace. I create a world for Xu, or a box that contains everything we shared: pieces of childhood memories, the soft touch of an old man’s palm in each handclasp, and the salty, bitter, sweet soda beverage. I relax, then look around. Mom is putting the last lotus into a tall fat vessel. We enjoy the moment of completion. I cannot twist nature. People come and go. Sometimes we have the opportunity to say goodbye; sometimes we don’t. I used to be afraid of the sadness brought by goodbye. However, now I have flowers standing along with me. I learned to use Ikebana, a reserved, sincere way to symbolize my feelings. Not only grief, but love; not only shown by the final product, but in the process and the people who share the experience with me. Being patient, feeling love, and expressing love are what Ikebana brought me and made me. -Linda Pan
twenty-five
Dreaming of Roses I want to put my roses in a vase I want to cut the stems at an angle, and fill a glass to the brim I want to precariously place the petals and stare at them for hours I want to touch the impossible softness of her cheek, softer even than the petal of a rose I wish that time would stand still, and that we could be roses in a vase Next to each other, just enjoying our own company I want to feel the scrape of her thorn, the caress of her petal, and smell her sweet perfume I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than a bouquet of roses -Wiley Wagnon
-Maya Magee twenty-six
Tree Planting Poems are the leaves in my tree of creativity. Words emerge as buds when I am inspired. They use my emotion as energy to grow. Each leaf has its color, reds and greens, expressing my love and hatred, optimism and pessimism. I began learning poetry by joining Athenaea, a school poetry club, my freshman year. I was introduced to haiku, limericks, sonnets, and more. I was truly touched by the optimism presented in creative metaphors while reading Emily Dickinson’s Hope is the Thing With Feathers. Robert Haydon’s Those Winter Sundays reminds me of my own childhood, wearing my father's giant jacket after a snow fight in December, and I learned to observe small details of nature through Robert Frost’s Tree at My Window. Exploring poetry eventually guided me to write myself. In my second year, I became an editor of the Athenaea, diving deeper into the composition of poetry, writing more of my own pieces. On many starry Friday nights I hold my computer, sitting crosslegged, chasing a flashing idea around the page. A short poem about a sleepless night records my languid habits and asserts a momentary anxious, disgruntled outlook. As an editor, I assign specific prompts for club members, and the poems stream in. They are all unique and inspiring, even though the topics are the same. I remembered editing a collection about "fall" and being amazed by the diversity of descriptions about those horse whinnies, beaming sunlight, and falling aspen leaves. Details are pieced together from different points of view, all comprising the idea of "fall," just like leaves with all kinds of colors germinating on a tree’s new branches. In my senior year, the other editors and I are preparing activities so more people can partake. My favorite thus far has been crafting poems blindly: combining random sentences from people in the room to create surprisingly cohesive works. By merely reading a few sentences from a poem, I narrow the distance between others and myself, which is one of poetry's greatest powers. Athenaea has accompanied me throughout high school life. I‘ve developed knowledge and passion for poetry, and have helped others do the same. My tree of creativity has flourished with leaves, but yet there are still more branches to grow. -Elisa Liu
twenty-seven
Blue Colander Pesto I grew up on a farm in rural southeastern Connecticut, where the town lines blurred and the school districts were unclear. I carried eggs on the hour-long bus ride to elementary school and sold them for two dollars to my teachers. I brought in tadpoles from my pond in a plastic bag with pond water and we called them our class pets. Our garden was abundant with produce, which later turned into our dinner. My dad hunted and brought home venison, which later turned into stew my mom made. Since I was a young girl on our farm, I have always loved basil. I’d stroll through the garden picking beans and tearing basil off of the stem. My mom would hand me a blue colander (that is now in my kitchen in Boulder), and ask me to go out to the garden, pick basil, and fill the colander to the top so she could make fresh pesto. I’d sit in the garden, carefully plucking the leaves off the stem, filling up the colander, but nibbling on the basil as I plucked. Pesto brings my family together like it brings together the pine nuts, olive oil, garlic, parmesan, and basil into one spread from a food processor. Whether it is summer picnics at my family's small, traditional, yacht club, or a buggy, bickering dinner at my grandparents, there always seems to be pesto; even though the pesto my grandmother makes is so garlic heavy that the smell and taste linger forever. Back when my grandfather was able-bodied and young spirited, he used to put pomegranate Polar Seltzer into his pesto. It was his secret ingredient, and I swear the carbonated bubbles and the crispness of the pomegranate made the pesto better. -Sadie Fox
twenty-eight
-Francis Zhou
twenty-nine
Sacrifice I tentatively raise the fork to my mouth and close my lips around it, taking the first bite. I begin to chew when the taste hits me, like a cicada on the windshield of an 18-wheeler going downhill. My tongue shrivels from the foul flavor as my eyes begin to water and my teeth burn; they seem to be actively degrading, seething from their roots buried in my skull. My jaw locks down uncontrollably, taking with it chunks of flesh from my cheeks, a vice-like clamp around the bolus in my mouth; I feel my teeth crack and chip under the force of the involuntary bite. Against my body's better judgment, I swallow. The mass scrapes past my throat and slowly scorches downward through my esophagus; I gulp my glass of water to help it along, providing little respite from its acrid toxicity. It finally hits my stomach and the real pain begins; the substance seeps into my gastric pits and enters my bloodstream while the muscles in my stomach begins convulsing violently in protest. My heart beat races and sweat begins to rain from every pore and orifice of my body. Infected blood Vigorously courses through my veins, and an adrenaline panic sets in, pounding my temples senseless.
thirty
Suddenly, as though someone has pulled the tail of the bow-knot that binds me, I loosen; every joint in my body begins to rattle in its socket uncontrollably. I ratchet my elbows against the table, steadying against the shakes. Every sphincter in my body seems to open at once as the toxic substance dissolves my stomach lining and oozes outward, melting my gastrointestinal viscera into a dysfunctional soup. I feel myself begin to slip away as“How are they?” a voice echoes from across the table. “They’re good, Mom.” I say sheepishly, still Quivering in the pants of my pajamas. “Good,” she says, with a smile, returning to her plate. God damn, I hate brussel sprouts. -Quinn Lander A Reason to Sell Your Soul Have you ever had a hedgehog as a pet? I haven’t. But I’d like to. There’s something about the way that their size is small enough to be considered the cutest thing ever, but big enough that it won’t be eaten by a vacuum1. When you cup your hands, they fit perfectly inside and can curl up into a cute little ball. You might be wondering why I wouldn’t want a hamster or something of equal size. Well, the difference is their appearances. I don’t particularly like things that look like rats2.
1. Hypothetically. 2. When I watched Cinderella as a child, the mice freaked me out so much that I cried for the whole movie. (Mostly because the mice are in the movie the whole time, but the whole movie I was in tears, nonetheless.) thirty-one
Hedgehogs look different from the rodentia family1. And they have a little button nose. Plus, every cartoon hedgehog you’ve ever seen is probably the cutest thing in the whole wide world2. Seeing hedgehogs is the source of my everyday joy. The truth is, I tried to buy a hedgehog but apparently you must be 18 or older to legally buy a hedgehog, and I am not 18 years or older, but I have five months and six days left 3. If anyone reading my essay is 18 years or older, then I would love you forever if you bought me a hedgehog 4. -Laelim Jung
1. This is probably because hedgehogs are not rodentia. They are Erinceinae. But porcupines are rodentia, which I find quite interesting because despite their similar resemblance to hedgehogs, they are still rodentia. I suppose if you look closer then they do look a bit greasy, like ferrets (which is interesting because ferrets are actually Mustelidae, not Rodentia, which makes three families for animals that look too similar, which leads to my thought that there are way too many families for these same looking animals. Except hedgehogs, of course, because they are way cuter than any rodent or ferret.) 2. If you disagree with this fact, then I disagree with your whole existence because I know that I’m right, because I’m obviously always right, or else I wouldn’t be writing this essay about how hedgehogs are the source of all my happiness and joy, which might sound a bit sad to you, but this is the truth, because nothing can quite compare to the innocence of a cute animal. But not just any animal. Just hedgehogs, because they are the cutest thing in the whole world. 3. If you’re wondering why I don’t just ask my parents, it’s because I already have, and they said no because they think that hedgehogs are too expensive (which is totally bullcrap because no amount of money in the world could be sufficient for a cute hedgehog and I would personally go in debt for a hedgehog if it wanted me to) and because my dad is a cruel human who denies me of my fundamental rights of happiness and joy in life by denying me of my desire to own a cute little life companion hedgehog that would probably love me more than he does, obviously. 4. No, really. I’d literally go into debt for you. thirty-two
Thunderstorm First, the rain falls softly on me. With a rain massage, I close my eyes: I hear the rain drop on the roof, slide to the ground, sink into the soil, and reach the dark underground. I almost reach the deepest dark, the sweetest sleep. Then, thunder hits on me, surprisingly The sound loud, electric current flows through my skin. I see houses turn to red flames, humans tumbled; I swim up from the dark, urgently. Light shines through and Violently pulls me up to the dimming surface. With the sour aftertaste, I’m awake. Slowly, I look around, rain still padding, softly The dorm phone rings and scares me: “The missing adult has been found.” I hope he is okay, on such a thunderstorm day -Linda Pan
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Like Earth We learn in school that the Earth is constantly in motion. Our blue and green world that has so generously housed us for thousands of years is never stagnant. The graceful rotation of mother nature on its invisible axis provides us with beautiful sunrises and ethereal sunsets. Her revolutions around the flaming ball of energy that centers our galaxy provide grounds for celebration. Each time around, we celebrate birthdays and holidays and anniversaries. We remember tragedies and lost loved ones. Our planet continues to serve us even as we punish it year after year, decade after decade. The human race has been stationary in its effort to keep the planet moving. It is time we learn from Earth. It is time to take action. It is time to be dynamic. -Mason Burdett
-Francis Zhou
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Dou Zhi-er Douzhi-er is a traditional Beijing breakfast. It is famous for its funky appearance and taste. “Xiao, come! Try this drink!” My grandpa held a bowl with grey-green liquid that smelled like sour beans with steamed eggs. Of course, I did not try it. I did not want to be killed when I was seven! However, he kept saying it, and the way he drank it made the liquid seem to have a good taste. He sent the bowl to his mouth and inhaled. His eyes narrowed, creating wrinkles that formed into an arc indicating satisfaction. He swallowed the liquid with an appreciative smack of his lips. I picked up the bowl. The strange smell encompassed the whole table. It is sour but fresh, pungent but addictive. I sipped carefully, letting the sour juice flow into my mouth. However, its tangy taste made my face crumple. My tongue was numb for seconds, and tears poured out. I barely held the bowl because my body was shivering. My grandpa laughed so hard that he leaned backward. He tapped my back and said, “You will get used to it when you grow up. In the family named Liu, everyone loves drinking it.” During these years of growing up, I kept drinking douzhi-er with my father and grandfather. The breakfast shop we went to every day can create a taste that elders remember based on their childhood. I got used to douzhi-er and even enjoyed it. Others only sense the strange smell and flavor, but I taste its sweetness. When we finish the last drop of the liquid in our bowls, satisfaction replaces all of the astringency. For every local in Beijing, Douzhi-er represents the childhood of staying with families for breakfast. For me, it also reminds me of my grandpa after he passed away. -Elisa Liu
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Pass-along Poetry Editors’ note: One club meeting, in the absence of Mr. Reynolds (our faculty sponsor), we editors decided to write blind, passalong poetry; essentially, everyone writes a single line of poetry, folds it over as not to be seen by the recipient, and passes it to their left. The recipient then writes another line blindly, folds it over, and passes it along to their left. This continues until everyone receives the paper on which they wrote the first line. Surprisingly, many of these turned out to be fairly cohesive and thought provoking. This is writing in its unedited, unintentioned form; the beauty of randomization - enjoy. #1: What a beautiful sunny day; Jump, jump, it’s a spider! Where in the fridge is the vanilla ice cream? His oversized feet galloped across the linoleum tiles. The bobblehead in the windowsill sways to the beat of the sun. An alarm goes off at 7:45; Where did the time go? #2: I climbed the tallest tree in our yard, Swirling in the murky waters of imagination. The bird makes a vicious call; I grabbed an apple, fresh and sweet. Pick up the chocolate candy that is dropped on the floor. The M&M melted briskly in her grubby little hand.
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Lonely Midnight Walk Hammock tumbling in the wind I hope that it is lovers Making out -Francis Zhou Time Who am I, But a collection Of stardust And dinosaur piss? -Quinn Lander
-Isabel Garza thirty-seven
Aging Young if I need to mourn every shovel ever dug could be my graveyard every minute ever passed could be my funeral every person ever loved could be my pallbearer and every word ever whispered could be my epitaph if I really need to mourn -Francis Zhou Self Love A victim of imagination, it has you, like a fish hooked through the eye, reeled back into the seat of that train you’ve tried so hard to avoid; The tracks only go downhill. The laundry room is a good place to go at this ungodly hour of the morning; with lost socks for roommates, the white noise of the dryer is a nice escape from the discomforting company of strangers. Restless, you turn towards the bathroom. You stare at the man in the mirror, pleading, screaming at him to love himself, unaware of an answer to how he might be able. Indignant, he just stares back at you, his eyes like knives on tightly drawn skin. thirty-eight
You have the sudden urge to clean yourself. In an attempt to boil the bad thoughts from your mind, you stand, tensed, beneath the steaming water, muttering to yourself those phrases of self-assurance you know to be true: I’ll get off this train eventually. Well, hope to be. -Quinn Lander
-Emma Garman thirty-nine
Excoriation Dermatillomania (n.): An obsessive-compulsive related disorder characterized by the repetitive picking at one’s own skin. I. Rip rip rip rip, Skin peeling off my flesh, Nails burrowing a trench Across my forehead, Jagged cuticles stripped, Bare and raw and bleeding. A limp in my step, A self made wound the culprit, Throbbing under my big toe, A hole gouged out where there should be tissue. I hobble instead of turn In my ballet class. A mirrored image, Distorted with red and pink And divots everywhere, The scabs and flakes in my hair Are far more noticeable than The tiny little bumps my fingers dug out. Graphite on lines, blood smearing my homework. Dirty snowfall, skin flakes littering my clothes. Rusty nail clippers, weapons marring my body. Hours spent picking, trances stealing my time.
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II. WhywereyougonesolongwhathappenedtoyourfacedidyoufalldidsomethinghityouyoukeepyournailssoshortifyoujustLEAVEITALONEitwillbefineitwould healjuststoppickingthat wouldmakeitbetteryou'rejustanxiousit’sjustabad habitdon’ttouchitwhat’sthatbandaidonyo urfaceyourskinisthemostcompromisedI’veseeninawhilejustLEAVEITALONEareyousure youhavethatdisorderI haven’theardofitwhyistherebloodonyoursheetswhyisyourmirrorsos mudgedanddirtyohIpopmypimplessometimestooIgetiteveryonefindsitkindofsatisfyingsometimesstopspendingsuchalongtimeinmybathroomyourskinisjustsoprettystopruiningityouwouldhavesuchanicefaceifonlyyouwould LEAVEITALONEIthinkyouneedtowearsomemakeuptodayohmygodwhydoyouhavesoresonyourscalpthatseemsreallyseriousyouneedtoseethedermatologistthatspothasgottensobadit hasn’thealedintwomonthsjuststoppickingjuststoppicking juststoppicking JUSTSTOPPICKING!JUSTSTOPPICKING!JUSTSTOPPICKING! III. Hey. It’s okay. I know what you’re talking about. I see you. Let me just hold you for a while. I love you in your entirety, girl of jagged keratin, For the green eyes set in the face of scratches, For the loving touch of the hands rough with scars, For the soft hair covering the spots on the neck, For the gritted teeth in the face of the struggle to control your own body. I know the picking and the tearing Is a virulent ambrosia dripping down your throat, Dopamine zinging to your brain while fingernails destroy What you fought to protect. forty-one
These flaws and marks and scars Are also a part of the ridges and gullies That sculpt you. But the blood on your hands And the scabs in your bathroom sink Will never be a stronger testament to who you are Than the way you gently rub on your moisturizer After a vicious episode, letting forgiveness Be the balm that soothes your stinging face. Your hangnails and infections and The fingernails stripped down to the edges Can never be worth more than The way you cackle out loud and tap dance down the sidewalk And adorn your eyes with bright eyeshadows Rather than hide the wounds you wish weren’t there. I love you. IV. Honey and polish and sweetness and time, Romance and serums and some peace of mind, Notebooks and paintings and pencils and rest, Candles and car rides and self forgiveness, Coffee and kindness and spironolactone, Lunch dates with friends so you don’t feel alone,
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Paw prints and long hikes and surrendering, Exhaustion and wisdom and golden rings, This is how you heal broken skin. V. Deliverance (n.): the action of being rescued or set free. -Claire Brown
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Acknowledgements Faculty Sponsor Dave Reynolds, English Department Chair Editors
Elisa Liu Claire Brown Quinn Lander
Athenaea Staff Maya Magee, Francis Zhou, Mason Burdett, Fiona Monahan, Analí Muciño, Anabelle Brown, Annaliese Fricke, Ari Child, Linda Pan, Sofia Al Ghamdi, Tory Jensa, Jocelyn Ni, and Malachi Miller. Printed by Colt Print Services Athenaea is a publication of Fountain Valley School of Colorado.
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