Athenaea Fall 2023
Table of Contents Cover: Six Blue Chairs....................................................................................................William Li iii. Dedication.........................................................................................Sofia Bedoya-Correa 1. World Within Me...................................................................................Emily McDonald 2. Tradition Through a Grill...................................................................................Ian Raubi 3. Untitled..........................................................................Guilherme Ramalho De Freitas 4. A Jam Packed July....................................................................................Quinn Lewellyn 5. Talking to Strangers.........................................................................................Ryan Wehri 6. Bee.......................................................................................................................William Li 7. The Clock Tower........................................................................................Katie Benavides 8. Thanks, Fido.......................................................................................................Will Garza 9. Lone Blue Chair..........................................................................................Johnny Truong 10. From the Vault.............................................................................................FVS Alumnae 11. Dust......................................................................................................................Kestrel Felt 12. Leaves...........................................................................................................Megan Mosier 13. Days That Go By............................................................................................Stacia Koster 14. Too New to Know................................................................................................Suzy Barr 15. Agua Suya.......................................................................................................Ellie Schaack 16. Awkward.............................................................................................................Julia Rogers 17. The Things I Carry......................................................................Nicole (Xiaohan) Wang 18. Six Ladies...............................................................................................Maya Litchenberg 19. Dandelion.............................................................................Rocío de Francisco Noguera 20. This Too Shall Pass........................................................................................Menda Dorji
i
Dedication One can’t help but wonder where stories come from. Do they come in the middle of a dream -that place in your subconscious where a wicked imagination distorts reality? Or do they come from an underprivelged upbringing where the crudeness of social webs often dissolves optimisim? Are stories just reveries in disguise of the better self that one aims to be? Perhaps they are just a product of inner desires or unspoken frustrations. Wherever stories come from, each one is engraved by its uniqueness, like a DNA chain that intertwines their reality, their past, their future, and their present... one strand that distinguishes us... Here is to those brave ones daring to bare it all, to put in writing their existence no matter how dull, how buoyant, how obscene, how fanciful, how unpretentious, how dreary, how kindhearted. We read you. We know you. We accept you. -Sofia Bedoya-Correa
ii
World Within Me I carry five mechanical pencils, school books, a green water bottle, a journal named “NOTEbook,” and one lone carabiner strapped on the side of my purple Patagonia backpack. I carry my aunt’s blanket from my grandmother’s house, in memory of my aunt Sarah. I carry my cousin’s rose quartz necklace from long-ago memories when she and I were in New Hampshire as children. I carry my Alaskan love for the outdoors and the hatred of Pikes Peak. The way the road winds up to the top, and the way people say its popular name. “Colorado Springs? Pikes Peak, right?” I carry my memories of cold winter days, of sticking my tongue to an icy pole and never repeating the action. The desire to roam the world. Escape. Jump out the window. Break the rules. The resistance of 7 pm check-in in the dorms. I carry my scattered mine, never allowing me to finish homework on time. I carry the push to be a perfectionist, the hope for the best, and fear for the future. I carry the courage to take a gap year in Colombia and jump into their culture. I carry a unique ring that I never wear, my two feeble ankles, climbing shoes, and my dirty bare feet. I carry the competition of being a little sister. Of looking up to my father’s quick mind, self-assurance, and engineering self. The fear of not being enough. I carry the love of my beloveds and my love for them. -Emily McDonald
one
Tradition Through a Grill Churrasco, the most traditional dish in Brazilian cuisine, is a barbecue made with our own signature. Most Brazilian households have the traditional churrasco in their routines, but I know my family’s way of making it is special. We do it the southern way. In the South, we consider it an event and set aside a whole Sunday for it. We wake up early to prepare the yerba mate tea, the picanha steak (a popular cut in Brazil), chicken wings, sausages, skirt steak, and ribs. My grandpa always did the heavy work, his white hair and big belly didn’t take away his bull strength. His carrying the giant packs of coal from the garage all the way to the backyard amazed me. My granny with her fragile body managed to cook the sides. The coolest thing was to watch my grandpa grill the steak on that big grill made of bricks, with dust and black coal stains collected over the years. He would pick me up and let me turn the steak from one side to the other with the heavy, long fork that he used so easily but, for me, was the biggest effort. After the meal was done, we sat at our tables. I wondered what they talked about on the grown-up table, and now that I know, it is not that amusing. The smell of the meat being grilled. The sizzling sound the pan made. The music we listened to. We played card games, played with legos, video games, and random goofy stuff that kids make up to escape boredom. Whenever I go to my grandma’s, I have flashbacks of all the moments we lived there. We had a churrasco before I came to Fountain Valley, but this time I was the one on the big, dusty, brick grill cooking the steak. I learned how to cook in honor of my late grandpa who passed away a few years ago, because I want my kids and their kids to experience the same feelings I do whenever I feel the smells or hear the sounds. -Ian Raubi
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three
-Guilherme Ramalho De Freitas
A Jam Packed July Food tastes better when you know where it comes from. Doesn’t matter if it’s beef you’ve raised, vegetables from your garden, or simply something you picked from a wild vine. There’s something about taking pride in the process that makes a difference. Just on the outskirts of Concord, New Hampshire, within a twisting maze of prickly vines and stalks that snagged your clothes was a four-year-old me picking raspberries that got sweeter when the sun hit them, with just enough privacy to fully embrace the “one for me, one for the pot” attitude. We brought home Tupperware after Tupperware filled to the brim with soft, delicate clusters of the red pearls; nothing like the ones you could buy in the store. We’d divide them; the best stayed out for breakfast, the rest got set aside with the sugar, seasoning, and pectin. The jars with their two-part lids were placed into the enormous speckled pot to sterilize, and the fruit went into a separate stainless steel pot as deep as my arms were long. I loved the way the raspberries squelched between my fingers in the big pot as I stood on the stool. I patiently waited for further instructions; add this, keep stirring, DON’T PUT THE SPOON ON THE COUNTER. It mattered to me that all the lids on all the jars all popped down so we could see they had sealed. The sense of finality that accompanied the sound had a calming effect. It didn’t matter whether it worked “correctly.” It didn’t set? Guess we have an ice cream topping instead of a sandwich ingredient. Fine by me. I didn’t care for the ending, though. I hated the feel of the damp sponge required to remove the traces of me and my antics from the kitchen; and the shower to remove the kitchen from. But all I really cared about was when I cracked open a new jar on the counter, it tasted better; like summer, and like family. I knew what was in it. I helped. That was my jam. -Quinn Lewellyn
four
Talking to Strangers I’ve always been told, “Don’t talk to strangers.” But I’ve broken this rule hundreds of times. Even from when I was a kid, I have vivid memories of sparking up conversations with strangers. I find these conversations can be more authentic as I have no shoes to fill or persona to follow. So many of these conversations can come from sitting next to a stranger on a plane; I’ve always preferred sitting next to a stranger with hundreds of unknown stories rather than my family, whom I know everything about. My earliest memory comes from sitting next to a retired couple. I remember squirming in my seat, my eyes darting around, and trying not to pay attention to what the lady next to me was knitting. I eventually sparked up a conversation about her grandson who just happened to have the same name as I. I was only seven at the time so the details are foggy in my mind, but she gave me a baby blue beanie that she had been knitting the entire flight. Even at a young age, I knew to cherish these unique interactions. Traveling to the Denver airport once, I hopped on a shuttle as the lone passenger. The driver was an older gentleman with scraggly gray hair, dark brown eyes, and a hunch. This ride would include a conversation I still think about. Not even five minutes in, we started talking about the meaning of life. Are we just here by pure coincidence? We talked about the stars. We talked about religion. We talked about the state of the world. We talked about utopian societies and agreed we didn’t like the sound of them. For the entire oneand-a-half-hour drive the atmosphere in the car was filled with confusion, questioning, and realizations. As the airport grew along the horizon, I frowned as I knew this baffling experience was coming to an end. I learned a lot from this mysterious figure. He made me think about the little things in life and not take them for granted. I came to peace with the world and accepted the fact that we really just are here by pure coincidence. As I try to make it a point to always say something to the person next to me, I have come across my fair share of unique individuals. Individuals who may go against social norms but never fail to put a smile on my face. My favorite one of these was an older woman who temporarily became my grandma. While waiting in the dull San Diego airport, a nice old lady sat next to me. I, of course, started a conversation with her and, when it was time to board the plane, she said, “Just tell them I’m your grandma and hold a seat.” So, I did without much question. What made her unique was her memorable goal of trying to get me to buy purple horse shampoo. We talked about her show dogs and how I should volunteer to help her at every event. Being a naive teenager, I agreed and fueled the fire of her dreams and aspirations of using me as free child labor. As the flight landed, five
I got a business card but magically lost my wallet at the same time. Key life lessons were learned. While long conversations with strangers will always hold a special place in my heart, it’s wrong to overlook the thousands of small interactions. It’s the “I like your pants,” a simple “thank you,” or “I like your hair.” The shared smug laughter of watching something ridiculous unfold with no words needing to be said. The awkward sorrys as we both turn a corner into each other. Life without strangers would be a world I wouldn’t want to live in. -Ryan Wehri
-William Li six
The following piece is sheet music for the “Violin 1” part of The Clock Tower by Katie Benavides. The composition is arranged for two separate violin parts, vibraphone, oboe, and trombone. Violin
The Clock Tower Katie Benavides
16
= 85
22
32
44
27
pizz.
pizz.
pizz. arco 56 70 81 50
-Katie Benavides seven
Thanks, Fido The fatality rate of rabies is 99.99%. One quick, piercing dog bite was all it took for me to grasp the magnitude of, essentially, a universal death sentence. Even abroad, however, I was bitten by the impact of imperfect systems in my own country. For the summer before my junior year, I envisioned a Spanish immersion trip with simple yet fulfilling memories: living in homestays, Spanish lessons, and discovering the complex Spanish-Mayan cultures of pueblos such as San Juan La Laguna. With Mexican heritage, I held the goal of becoming fluent in Spanish as a means to embrace my family’s roots. Upon receiving the news of my wound, my counselor eased my anxiety, and we called for transport to the nearest clinic. Such transport was a bright red, threewheeled, door-less tuk-tuk. After navigating winding two-lane roads through fittingly gray and rainy skies, we pulled up to a small remote clinic several hours from Guatemala City. We were met with a friendly nurse who asked me in rapid Spanish, “¿Cómo te sintiendo?¿Cuando te mordió el perro?” Over the following two weeks, I would receive a total of eleven vacunas at different clinics. The adrenaline prolonged my memory of the mordida, the memory of the vacunas, and the memory of the miedo that I felt in entrusting my life into the care of several humble, remote clinics. I also was weighed down with a guilt by the ensuing financial burden for treatment. The private medical care system of the US was my only frame of reference, and I was familiar with its expensive medical bills and exclusive policies. I knew how daunting the system would be for a foreigner, with little to no money, on US soil. As a broke teenage traveler in Guatemala, I had neither the merit of affording treatment nor being a legal citizen. I expected only the worst when I later asked my counselor how much the treatment cost. To my shock, he simply replied, “Oh, it’s free.” It is difficult not to mention the American prejudices that I have heard about Central American countries. Of how the most notable characteristic of Honduras is its crime rate. Or the assumptions that come with comparing the GDP of Central American countries to the US. Or how most Central American countries only speak Spanish, when really there are 22 Mayan languages spoken in Guatemala alone. Oftentimes, biases limit individuals only to see places through the lens of a foreigner, and not as someone who lives and experiences everything there. eight
Such bias also kept me from questioning the norms of my own country. I am conflicted with the private medical system of the US, despite a desire to one day be a part of it. I hold medicine to be founded on the basic promises of providing care and help to any patient, no matter the circumstances. Yet, any broke traveler might not necessarily be guaranteed the same convenience and safety in the US. It saddens me to think that I had to go through such extreme lengths, such as exposure to a potentially fatal illness, to discover this paradox. I am driven to change and rethink how the US medical system can best help everyone, taking influence from Guatemala’s healthcare system, regardless of a patient’s financial background or status as a citizen. Even with no financial cost, my life is in debt to the Guatemala healthcare workers. In Guatemala, I found kindness, competency, and safety that opened my eyes to see how flawed my own country’s medical system is. I left with a novel perspective, an emphasis to help and serve others, and a keener awareness of when others are not receiving help. Such awareness by my host country saved my life. I am grateful for that dog bite. -Will Garza
-Johnny Truong nine
From the Vault When we first started compiling this edition’s “From the Vault Section,” we looked for prose pieces to stay consistent with the rest of the primarily essay pieces in this fall edition of the Athenaea. As such, this compilation has more or less become an anthology, or a collection of short stories. Ranging from the inexplicable significance of dust to how language barriers transformed one’s character, the following pieces represent the universal theme of this edition of the Athenaea: the impact of sharing stories. -The Co-Editors
Dust When I was five, I thought that dust particles floating in the light were fairies. I would stand in front of my bedroom window and watch them, enthralled, as they re and fell, glittered and shimmered in the sunshine. I’d try to force them into shapes, capture them, push them through the air, although I was inevitably disappointed when they’d evade me. I’ve learned not to try to control the impossible so much anymore, but my childhood gazing has only turned to fascination as I’ve gotten older. I still look towards my window and watch the sunshine and the dust combine to create crisscrossing powder patterns that weave above the wooden floorboards. The dust motes don’t look so much like fairies anymore, but in some places, particularly the theater, they still hold a certain magic. I can see them as the lights of a play first come up. I adore that monumental silence - the moment of time when people await the first entrance or the first line. I never watch the stage, though. I always look up. Some might think that I’m praying then. Really, I’m waiting for the glittering flash of theater dust that signifies the beginning. When I entered high school, I auditioned for my first school production and was cut, so I became a member of the stage crew. This unexpected opportunity became the basis of my love of theater. I loved being backstage and working with a group; together we sawed plywood, retrofitted doors, built walls, and painted set pieces. We made a lot of dust during those afternoons, and no matter how much we swept, something always got left behind. Eventually, that something turned out to be beautiful. ten
On my first opening night I sat backstage, a stagehand, and leaned against the blackened walls, staring up at the ceiling. As the lights came up that night, they made the dust in the theater shine, and it formed streams of glittering color that pierced the darkness. It sparkled above the set that I had helped build; it reflected off of the stage that had just been mopped. The effect was mesmerizing, and one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It was then that I realized why I truly want to be in the theater. Onstage, the lights illuminate something ephemeral. Backstage, in the darkness, I can create something tangible. I can finally evoke the magic within the dust. For three years now, I have grown from being a shadowed techie to being my school’s Stage Manager, and I love the commitment to leadership that the position entails. I love the responsibility that spills beyond my three-ring binders into all four corners of the Performing Arts Center. I love the way my cast and crew have pulled eight shows together beneath the blue light behind the curtain. I love mopping the stage before the house is opened, mixing theater dust into dirty water as the set pieces glimmer magically, fairy-like - against the darkness. -Kestrel Felt ‘12, Spring 2012
Leaves I have found my addiction. It’s not the sort of addiction that you would consider harmful, but, still, it is there. My one-season-a-year fix, or so it could be named, is completely safe- well at least for me. The recipients of my actions, however, are not so lucky. Trampled between the cold gray concrete and my black tennis-shoes, they never even saw it coming. There is something so satisfying about the slow crunching under my sole that I can’t help but to walk out of my normal path to feed my newfound hunger. Passerbys laugh at me as, like a child, I stomp through the Penrose Courtyard, crushing the very life out of the shriveled brown figures. I would even dare to say that I have a favorite, among the variety presented to me here, because their crunch always seems to make me smile a little wider than the oth-ers. To be honest, I don’t even know exactly what tree they fall from year after year, but I know that they always seem to be lying on the ground, beckoning my 8 1⁄2 eleven
size shoe. Normally, how I see it, is never worth striving for. But craziness, insanity, madness-those are the ones that make life worth living, even if it costs a few leaves their dead, brown, shriveled existence. -Megan Mosier ‘09, Fall 2008
Days That Go By Days that go by are the ones we forget. The days for those firm, Ripening grapes That cling to the vine. Days for the wide-eyed calf That suckles from the bottle Nestled in the palm of your hand. Days for the innocent honeysuckle blossoms, Like giggling girls In their white petal petticoats. We forget, because of the shriveled grapes That didn’t get harvested last week. We forget, because of the swollen udders That hung heavy, ignored for days. We forget, because of wilted petals That our derelict watering cans never touched. Should we mourn what is lost or rejoice in the new? twelve
In the fading of green, To the onslaught of brown, To the Powdering, Pondering, White. September to September, June to June, Because sometimes what we lose is worth remembering. -Stacia Koster ‘09, Fall 2006
Too New to Know The Q Burger: this phrase has been whispered all day. This infamous burger that only the veterans of the school can drool over is back. I have to have one. The signs advertising the burger in the Campus Center pressure me and I bolt for my money. An underclassman looks at me concerned as I sprint from the Campus Center to my room yelling, “It’s back, the Q Burger is back!” I look in my wallet: no money. Shoot. After a few awkward moments of staring into my empty wallet, I decide to do the unthinkable: I... dip... into... my... Laundry Money!!! Clutching the coveted quarters, I return to the Campus Center and rudely push into line. After all, I am a senior, I can’t be too nice. Fiddling with the sweaty coins, I excuse the world around me. A child dares to ask me what is so great about the Q Burger. I stop fidgeting. I turn. I look her in the eye. “What is so good about the Q Burger!?!” I begin to start an argument, but then I pause. What is so good about it? I found my answer: Quentin Huckaby, the founder of the Q Burger, the RK guru. I haven’t thought about him since he graduated, but his humorous persona is easily formed in my mind. You can taste his personality in the burger: sweet sarcasm mixed with warmth. His laughter dances in your head, and his sassy attitude lingers on your tongue. If you have never had a big brother, he is the closest thing to it. He put sass into the burger. But Quentin graduated, and the burger died. Some would never even know it was gone. Those two classes who are too young to know true tradition at FVS question the sanity of thirteen
the upperclassmen as we go gaga over a piece of meat. They are too new to know what goes on the Q Burger before it is set into a bed of fries. But now their ignorance of the Q Burger has been dispelled. The secret is out. Andy Onishi has resurrected the Q Burger. I lean over the counter and let my arms support my weight. Conversations crowd my ears, and I can hear pool balls hitting each other and the faint yell of Evan Branigan. However, I focus on the grill. There are currently three pieces of meat on the grill, and I pray that one is mine. I watch Andy as he squeezes the insides out of a plastic bear. Honey now is blanketing the meat. A pinch of garlic salt and a little love are now sprinkled on. The bacon jumps as it sizzles next to the meat. Six ounces of meat has been selected to leave the grill. My eyes stay focused. The meat is compressed by two pieces of bread. A thick slice of tomato, a piece of lettuce, and two pieces of greasy bacon are crammed between the meat and the top bun. It is carefully engulfed in paper to insure its contents’ warmth. Andy turns, I salivate. His hand extends with the burger; it is so close to my outstretched hand; I reach; it is so close; then Andy yells, “Geoff, your burger is ready!” I turn in terror as my burger is placed into a hand outstretched beside me. Geoff is one of the many who never knew Quentin. He is too new to know. His tongue would never be able to decipher the sweet from the bitter personality in the burger. His tongue never spoke to Quentin. His tongue deserved to be last in line. My head falls into my hand. I keep my eyes focused on the next burger. I wait. Many traditions, like Quentin, have disappeared at FVS. In my four years here, I have seen the school transform. While Headmaster’s Day and dorm raids are still present, traditions such as the haunted house, senior pranks, sun- tanning on Sage, and throwing the school presidents in the pool have gone extinct. Every year, I feel that I am new again. I come back to a new dorm or new rules. Tradition keeps ties between classes that have gone and classes that are to come. -Suzy Barr ‘03, Fall 2002
fourteen
Agua Suya “Agua,” the little girl tells me, handing me a visibly-dirty pink plastic cup. She has stringy black hair and a dirt-covered face. Her too-big clothes are draped across her too-small frame. She has beautiful brown eyes-the bright sun above us reveals flecks of gold in the brown. “Para ti.” Water. For you. “Muchas gracias,” I say to her, smiling so as to convey friendliness with my limited communication abilities. “Pero no tengo sed. ¿Podrias darlo a una otra amiga?”Many thanks. But I am not thirsty. Could you give it to another friend? I am lying. I am thirsty-desperately so. I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon cutting bricks with machetes. I sawed while sitting on the earth, and the cloud of dirt found a way inside my mouth despite my attempts to keep my lips firmly shut. The bricks will be used to build a communal stove that several poor Guatemalan families can share to cook food. If the people have a stove, they won’t have to spend so much of their time preparing food for their families over open fires. If the people have a stove, they can get jobs in the surrounding city. Xela, Guatemala. It is a beautiful place, with brightly-colored buildings that all seem to be covered in a layer of dirt. It is a dirtier but livelier version of my own world, at home. I love it, but at the same time, I crave my family, my comfort. A week here is time enough, I think to myself. I feel the dryness in my mouth. It is an unpleasant feeling with which I am unaccustomed. At home, if I want water, I simply go downstairs and get some, purified and chilled to the specifications of the dial on the refrigera-tor. If I am out exercising, I take this chilled water with me (filled with ice, of course, so that it will stay chilled for the duration of my run) in a bottle that has been cleaned by a machine that uses chemicals to ensure that all harmful bacteria are killed. I have complained, before, about unloading this ma-chine, putting the dishes away into cupboards that I did not make or install or really think much about at all, save perhaps to discuss with my mother whether or not the color of the cabinet wood compliments the color of our granite countertops.It is a rare occurrence indeed that I am thirsty. I want nothing more than the unpleasant, sandy feeling in my mouth to be replaced by the feeling of cool water sliding down my throat. But I am smelling the ditch that the water comes from, and I am looking at the brown (tinted green) dirt inside the cup. That water would likely make me very sick— unlike her, my immune system is not accustomed to it. fifteen
She runs ahead of me, turning back to beckon me with a glance and a tentative smile. I shake my head before jogging to catch up with her, trying not to dwell on it— because of a history of privilege, I cannot drink her water. -Ellie Schaack ‘11, Fall 2009
Awkward As it turns out, there isn’t a word for “awkward” in the French language. The closest synonym is “bizarre,” which, more or less, has the same meaning in English. I found this out the summer of my sophomore year when I was an exchange student in Switzerland. Jenily, a daughter of the family I was staying with, asked me if I wanted to go out with her and some of her college friends. I hastily flipped through my handy-dandy French-English dictionary -I wanted to say, “I would feel awkward.” Instead, I said something more like, “I would feel shy.” Jenily looked at me and smiled, “Viens! Ils sont gentils!” (Come! They’re nice!) I smiled; I didn’t doubt it. But I was a burden: I had to have everything explained and re-explained, and even then, odds were I didn’t understand. Ikept thinking, “I feel so awkward,” as I made mistakes or asked silly questions. Jejily, who had ceaselessly helped me since day one, deserved to have a night in the convenience of fully literate friends. But she was determined to get me out of the house. She knew that while the family was at school and work, I had spent the whole day watching a marathon of “Esprits Criminels” (Criminal Minds, French dubbed.) I tried to find the word for awkward again, this time saying, “I would feel clumsy.” Jenily smiled and asked me if I wanted to borrow her mascara for the night. Of course, I had a wonderful time. While I continued to struggle with the language, the food, laughter and company more than made up for any social insecurity. I was liberated knowing that “awkward,” a word that had dominated my teenage social life back home, was a word I’d never find. I asked myself, what is awkward anyway? Discomfort? Difficult? Embarrassment? Sure, the situation was uncomfortable. I couldn’t always say what I wanted to , but that was okay. Was that difficult? Yes, but life isn’t easy. I just had to keep trying. And was I embarrassed? Absolutely. Goodness, I had made some jaw dropping mix-ups. But I tried to fix myself, hoped others understood, and moved on. “Awkward” is an empty word without direct meaning but pure negative social stigma. I sued it as a label to senselessly sixteen
put myself down, thinking that others were as bothered by my mistakes as I was. Such a revelation is one of many that has helped me become more sociable. Many people describe me as an “individual.” I am known to frequently wander off on my own, and it takes me long amounts of time to depend on other people. In most ways, I am an introvert. But, at the same time, I believe that happiness is only real when shared. Learning French would have meant nothing, if not for the people who had helped me, and the relationships that I had made along the way. -Julia Rogers ‘13, Fall 2012
[This concludes the “From the Vault Section”] The Things I Carry I carry a white backpack with colorful spots; two black binders; a pencil case with 15 pens; a hair tie; a 2016 Monkey year Starbuck water bottle; and two phones, one for phone calls and another for Wechat. I carry my big panda, a unicorn-pig and my pillow on my bed, they bring me safety. I carry my two pairs of real Chanel earrings and an Armani jacket which my mom bought for me. I carry two notebooks and a postcard from my best friends. I carry my dog Michael, who lives in Boston now. He really enjoys his life here right now, sunbathing in the morning and city walking at night. I carry the memories of my best friends. This is the eleventh year since I met them in primary school when we dress in a triplet. I missed them and I hope they can visit my graduation next year. I carry the feelings of figure skating, the feel of enjoyment while spinning. I carry the signature of the skating world champion Kim Yuna and the skating performance experience on the stage of the Spring Festival Gala. I carry the smell of my hometown Beijing, which includes soybean milk in the morning, Ele-Me (Chinese door-dash) in the afternoon, gas in the evening and BBQ at midnight. seventeen
I carry my brain everyday; my mom says sometimes I behave like I have no brain, which reminds me to bring it everyday. I carry my love and share it everywhere. -Nicole (Xiaohan) Wang
Six Ladies “If the house burned down right now, what would you grab?” I would ask my mom. “All the paintings my grandma did,” my mom would answer every time. At the time, I was always felt off by the people in the paintings who had no faces. On days where boredom consumed me, I would stare at the paintings hanging on the walls, making up stories of the possible lives they could have lived. Six women sat in brown chairs. Each woman wears a dress in a down to earth color, white shoes and shawls to accompany the look. A different task, a different want displayed in the words communicated through their body language. Crossed legs, straight knees, folded hands, whispering breaths. The lady on the left sat with a high-held chin, her life a mystery as she would never tell what was hiding under her graying curly hair. Sitting beside the mysterious woman sat a lady, too anxious to read her magazine,worried that the town gossip, who sat beside her with her hand ready to secretly convey the gossip would spread the news her son recently went to prison. Dressed in mahogany, the woman’s interest in the lives around her grew. Caring less, a woman reads the article on ongoing issues, unaware of the pale woman trying to talk to her. As my great-grandmother Ruth grew older, less of her paintings had faces, maybe that was the earliest sign of her Alzheimer’s that was slowly infecting her memory, consuming her facial recognition skills. I would analyze her paintings and ask for a thousand stories about my name-sake, searching for some sort of connection. Growing older, I understood why my mom would grab those paintings before all else, they were her connection to her, it later became what I’d grab too. -Maya Lichtenberg
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-Rocío de Francisco Noguera nineteen
This Too Shall Pass November 16, 2020. At 7:21 a.m., the word death finally came to life. I woke up that morning satisfied that I did my part of the night duty taking care of my granddad. It had been less than two months since we got the news that he was diagnosed with stage 3 colon cancer. That morning, my mom texted asking me to wear my Kira-national dress from Bhutan. She didn’t have to tell me why. I knew that something was wrong, or maybe deep down I knew that it was time to let go. All I could hear were three long breaths and short exhales, this was the first step towards death. I was helpless. I could not touch or comfort him since we believe in letting the conscious body go in peace. I watched him as he shed his last tears in fear, not knowing what was coming next. I was afraid for him–fearful that he wouldn’t know where to go next. Buddhists believe that before the body goes to the new realm, the importance of getting directions from a big lama, the phowa, is needed. When the body is near death, senses become clearer than usual, the phowa is then given to direct the soul after death. One last breath and he let go. I was left with emptiness and anger, yet also somehow relieved. At first, I was ashamed of feeling this way, but I came to realize that I couldn’t take away his pain. I knew that the only way to keep him alive was the memories and I feared that I would forget about him over time. After seeing my grandad go through more fear than anything he’d ever faced, I was afraid I would fear death as much as he did. What would I need to know? Where would I go? I had so many questions but so few answers. I didn’t want to be afraid of death. I wanted to know how to train my mind for the day I go through the stage of passing. However, I am still in the process of learning how to be okay with understanding the impermanence of life. I learned that everything in life has a purpose and that one must come to realize this to understand the meaning behind it. A reminder to live in the moment. We’re here for a short time. The time I have in my hands will slip away in seconds, and I must seize the opportunity to live my life in the most fulfilling way. I try to artfully express my emotions so that I do not succumb to falling into the wrong path. Now after three years, I am certain I have found a way to do so. Having experienced this loss and realization, I learned that I can use this event in my life to channel my feelings and utilize the skills I have gained in the performing arts. I use my emotions to connect with my characters who have a similar story. Those emotions are real and raw and because I relate to them, I can fully convey my characters’ stories. By doing so, in a way, I am also able to tell my own. twenty
Acting has helped me convey my messages to my audience, something I did not know how to do when I had the chance. I perform not solely for the spotlight but as a reminder to myself that I am fortunate enough to experience those feelings and that I can keep my grandfather alive in the things I love. I am grateful for the opportunity to tell this story of mine in many different ways. I have slowly learned to appreciate the things that make my life full and, when the time comes, I’ll slowly let go knowing that this too shall pass. -Menda Dorji
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Acknowledgements Faculty Sponsor Dave Reynolds, English Department Chair Editors
Will Garza Sofia Bedoya-Correa Brynn Jensen
Athenaea Staff Emily Safyan, Isabelle Wagner, Ava Sperber, Trayee Reddy Printed by Colorado Print Athenaea is a publication of Fountain Valley School of Colorado.
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