The Phoenix - 2011

1

the PHOENIX Gonzaga College High School

Fine Arts Review

Volume XXVI

2

DEDICATION

Dear Reader, This Magazine is dedicated to a man who under extraordinary circumstances was able to lift the hearts of the Gonzaga community, while nurturing and supporting the long-standing tradition of artistic expression on Eye St. Although only here for a short time as president, his efforts and example have left a lasting impression within the foundation of our campus.

As we go forward from this year we will fondly remember the generosity of Fr. Joseph E. Lingan, S.J., 35th President of Gonzaga College High School. Alis aquilae!

Tom Robertson ‘11 Editor-in-Chief The Phoenix Volume XXVI - Jordan Person

3

the PHOENIX 2011 - Volume XXVI Editor In Chief Tom Robertson

Production Brooks Reagan

Chris Brown Alex Casey Aaron Clark Andrew Donilon Matt Druckenbrod

Editorial Committee Jorge Gallindo Nelson Gomes Matt Griffin Brandon Johnson Billy Kilgallin

Michael Ledecky Ryan McGlynn Andrew Richard Will Speros David White

Moderator Dr. Harry Rissetto, PhD

Special Thanks Ms. Jennifer Carter, Mr. Tom Baker, Mr. Stephen Hanks, Mr. David Norton, Mr. Joe Sampugnaro, Mr. Rick Cannon, Mrs. Helen Free, Mr. Brian Becker, Mr. Allen L’Etoile, Mr. Brian Larkin, Mr. Kevin Jordan, Mr. David Villeta, Ms. Sarah Miller, Mr. Jamie McIntyre, Mr. Kevin Hare, Matt Weider, Johannes Schmidt, Will Felker, and all those who submitted material for consideration.

- Max Hills

Table of Contents

4

Poetry Miguel Rivera Nicholas Phipps-Evans Kevin O’Boyle William Lawler George Lee Miguel Rivera Max Hills Eddie Sloan Max Hills Miguel Rivera Neil Stechschulte Jack Hennessy Miguel Rivera Nicholas Phipps-Evans Chris Schule Miguel Rivera John Morbito Nicholas Phipps-Evans Daniel Sweet Tyler Jones Nicholas Phipps-Evans Miguel Rivera Anonymous Nicholas Phipps-Evans Tyler Jones John O’Neill Max Hills Tyler Jones Kieran Hutson Max Planning Nicholas Phipps-Evans Kevin O’Boyle Tyler Jones Kevin O’Boyle Tyler Jones Nicholas Phipps-Evans Max Hills Eddie Sloan Max Hills Max Hills Ian Harkes Miguel Rivera

A Letter from an Orange Another Day at the Job The War to End All Wars The Hammer Falls January Ode to a Plum Her Political Piece Those Memories The Prayer of Edmund Dante Our National Anthem I Wish Oh Calmly The Turban Cellphone The Roads Ahead Bus Stop Meet Jack District Carpe Diem I Am Addicted Fragmentos Celestes y Blancos Louder than Words Book Penguins Haiku That Love Phrase The Ballad of the Titanic The Journey Preparation At the Game This is What I Get for Meditating The Band Dark Stars Snow Day My Love...Just Take It Mystery America’s Hypocrisy Life’s Miseries GFR ‘11 Not Alone...Not Really Protege

7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48

5

Table of Contents Literature

Michael Ledecky Will Speros Miguel Rivera Griffin Jones George Lee Andrew Ravenscroft Cayman Sotudeh Christian Salcedo Xander Seton

State of the Union 2176 The Table in the Corner Dream Girl Saratoga Fade Away in White Tupac Pet Peeve Summers Gone Yes Ma’am Getting Lost Acceptance

50 53 55 57 60 61 63 66 67

Art & Photography Robert Skonberg James Doyle Jordan Wallace John Morabito Nick Vitale Nick Vitale Nick Vitale Zach Olmstead Jordan Person Jordan Person Jordan Person Jordan Person Jordan Person Jordan Person Jordan Person Will Speros Rafi Moreno Rafi Moreno Chris Brown Chris Brown Robert McHugh Isaiah Battle Peter Benzinger Peter Benzinger Andrew Robinson Andrew Robinson Christian Forte Christian Forte Christian Forte Christian Forte Anthony Dahut

70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100

Isaiah Battle 101 Peter Benzinger 102 Peter Benzinger 103 Christian Forte 104 Christian Forte 105 Christian Forte 106 Christian Forte 107 Christian Forte 108 Christian Forte 109 Christian Forte 110 Chris Brown 111 Chris Brown 112 Nate Flagg 113 Will Speros 114 Will Speros 115 Cooper D’Anton 116 Cooper D’Anton 117 Anthony Dahut 118 Anthony Dahut 119 Tom Robertson 120 Tom Robertson 121 Tom Robertson 122 Tom Robertson 123 Jordan Person 124 Jordan Person 125 Jordan Person 126 Jordan Person 127 Jordan Person 128 Jordan Person 129 Jordan Person 130 Jordan Person 131

Jordan Person Jordan Person Jordan Person Jordan Person Jordan Person Jordan Person Jordan Person Jordan Person Alex Panzarella David MacNamee James Doyle Jasper Evans Roberto Gorostieta Jack Caudle Matt Kreil Nick Vitale Zach Olmstead Andrew Robinson Pancho Rothwell Pancho Rothwell Wyatt Dillon Nick Thunman Marc Ray Marc Ray Dillon Rudnicki Jordan Wallace Brian Ott John Morabito

132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159

6

Poetry

I left quietly slowly, slowly I opened the door as to not wake anyone in the house but not before I looked back Into your bedroom and saw your face, bits of toothpaste around your mouth your arms, wrapped around the over-sized stuffed bear I won for you at the carnival I didn’t mean to wake you so I left quietly I didn’t mean to make you cry so I told you I wouldn’t leave again why I left, I never said but I leave this letter, taped to an Orange for you to tell you that I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay that I’ll come back one day Until then Please care for our Orange Tree where we used to play used to laugh used to talk about the Oranges that fell to the Earth from our Orange Tree care for her, water her love her, speak to her about me about you keep away the pests and weeds so that she may grow tall and strong so that the Oranges may again fall to the Earth so that you may sit under the shade of her leaves and read this letter and split this Orange into pieces and eat it piece by piece.

Miguel Rivera - A Letter from an Orange

7

8

Nicholas Phipps-Evans - Another Day at the Job

Crash, crack, cackle, his head booms.

Stress built up from the minute that formidable tie suffocated his vulnerable throat, sucking the little air his soul had to offer.

Staring at his computer, pale faced, crusted lips, eyes black as coal, and cold as ice, completely consumed by words that mean less than the office coffee that lingered tastelessly on his lips.

Chatter rung his ears to hell.

A towering man of 4 foot 11 stood over this sitting worker of the union.

The wavering arms that the boss offered drained dry his dignity.

In the office this man sits, barely alive.

Another day at the job.

Air so pure so clean Life so cold and cruel Leaving fast like stolen jewel Green mist thick as molasses Rain that burns on touch of skin Poisoned by their choking gases Lowered in the ground among my kin Now in that nearly lifeless maze Some feeling of my brain on high Thoughts clouded by the light green haze I let out a wrenching cry Tossed in some rubbish heap A life below even currency Not even enough to keep Death in the trenches, just common courtesy

Kevin O’Boyle - The War to End All Wars

9

10

William Lawler - The Hammer Falls

Life’s hammer falls, trying to break us, Making the burden we bear increase, Some blows are hard while others are soft, But the blows fall and do not cease, At times we bend when the blows strike us, And that makes getting back up much harder still, It may seem impossible to do it, But yet we can, if we have the will, Some try to move away from under life’s hammer, They duck and they dodge and they feign, They soon forget life’s hammer but, When it finds them, they feel all the more pain, Some see life’s hammer far in the distance, They don’t brace themselves to be ready, And when it hits them, unprepared they crumple, Like so many towers unsteady, A few will stand tall and proud, Bracing themselves for each blow, Walking on straight and erect, And on through life strongly they go, These are the men who will beat hard life, And yet in life’s face they don’t flaunt, They allow a smile as the hammer falls, Every blow means they aren’t yet in the shape cruel life wants.

11

On Monday I threw out some rancid cheese that was hiding in the back of my fridge.

It was jaundice-yellow, and it stank.

Tuesday was grocery day.

I was running low on grape jelly and instant noodles.

Wintry mix kept me in on Thursday.

The streets were lacquered with ice, so I watched a senator speak on TV. The man talked again on Friday.

He says the depression’s almost over, but I don’t think so.

On Saturday I took down my Christmas lights.

Then I went outside and shoveled snow.

On Sunday I looked back at the week, digging for some hidden meaning, waiting for the month to end.

George Lee - January

I attended a wake on Wednesday.

He was a circus clown who choked on a plug of tobacco.

12

Miguel Rivera - Ode to Plum

The envy of all you stand out from the rest your imperial hue your regal demeanor everything about you seems to say Eat Me. Apples dare not show their faces, red with shame Pears hide their horrendous figures Pineapples huddle together they know they will never be adored As we adore you, Prunus armeniaca Poets and Artists claim your blossoming to be as beautiful as the sun setting As glorious as the dawn They strive to, Pathetically capture your birth In Triumvirates you are brought into this world, to bring to order your realm Although once you grow old When your ripeness begins to fade You know Under your purple robes Under your golden flesh Lies your heart, your successor Waiting for his reign to begin.

13

She saw the best of me when I was at my worst She would clean me off when I was down in the dirt She would take last just so I could get first She was the only one who understood how I was hurt And even when the curtains went down she would still be at work

Every night I wonder how things would have been if reversed What if that day we had never conversed Well... maybe the same because love is never rehearsed.

Max Hills - Her

And I know she will be by my side for better or for worse.

14

Eddie Sloan - Political Piece

So I guess Its time for Eddie 2 go political... jus cuz i drink kool-aid, wear baggy jeans, n eat chicken does dat mean im stereotypical to da black vs white world i cnt b lyrical, i cn only rap bout thugs, shoot slugs, n sell drugs?

Who world u wanna knock, lose my mind 2 da rock and my body 2 da block.

I keep my semi automted cocked 4 Why i dnt kno im high oon dat dro im slow i cnt survive in da black vs white world i cnt be in da status quo.

Obama!Obama!Obama!Obama! even though he da president it still dont stop da drama! da drama! da drama! of life itself cuz racism needs 2 end n rap n poetry need help.

Ladies n Gentlemen! Boys n Girls!

I jus went political but i got a question.

Is my apperance stereotypical?

15

Those memories will never be forgotten All those who gave me their heart and I dropped em

Those roots you tried to grow but I chopped em You gave me your dry soul but I damped em Those who were serious about love and I duped em Those who needed a hug and I should have helped em Those who ran for my love and I clipped em Those memories are never forgotten but will always be heart stoppen.

Max Hills - Those Memories

Those who tried to love me and stopped em

16

Miguel Rivera - The Prayer of Edumund Dante

My fate defined by the crash of a Gavel my new father is Whip my new mother is Shackles Sure I will repeat my Crime A second time. Where is God? When will he give me Justice?

A white wig is worn by Justice in his iron fist, a Gavel a black robe is worn by God I pray now, only to the Whip.

Like an owl, it glares at my naked soul in dreams. My Crime Tied to me, unnamed souls hang on my Shackles Only in my tomb lies the key to my Shackles In this place, they are Justice Brand me. I am my Crime.

Hammer me. I am but a nail for the Gavel Mark my body for the times I sinned against you, Whip.

You are not my judge. In this place, they are God. An old priest in the metal box beside mine told me to pray to God. Does he not know where we are? Does he not wear my same Shackles?

There is no God! I tell him. There is only Whip!

He brings us our pain! He writes our laws! He brings us our Justice!

Both I and this priest, our fates defined by the crash of the Gavel.

But he has not lost his gods, he has not yet become his Crime.

We were men of action. Our deeds, our lies did not become us.

We are our Crimes We are animals. Herded. Fed. Broken.

We were men of God. We were masters of our own destiny.

The definer of our fate now is the Gavel.

We were men who built.

We now carry the pain of our past in our Shackles.

We were men of the law. We are shown otherwise by Justice.

We were men. Now we are only slaves to the Whip.

The man in the metal box beside mine, he does not pray to the Whip.

He is not yet his Crime The man in the metal box beside mine, he still believes in Justice.

He still prays to God The man in the metal box beside mine, does not carry the weight of the world in his Shackles.

His fate is not defined by the Gavel I do not know whether to pity or hate or love the priest, this man who does not carry his Shackles, nor Believe in the Whip.

This man who still has faith in Justice, who still prays to God who is not what his Crime has decided, who is not defined by the Gavel.

He is who we were.

As the gridiron games begin The woman sings her song, A tribute to those who cannot watch.

We fail to focus on these words.

We gaze at the golden beer Or the pretty woman in section 32 Whether our faces are golden and green Or black and bright yellow, We are oblivious to our true team.

For our teammates away needing our help Fight for the average Packer or Steeler, Our teammates who wear the red, white, and blue.

Neil Stechschulte - Our National Anthem

17

18

Jack Hennessy - I Wish

I wish you’d see How much you mean to me.

We’re perfect together But we don’t always get along, I ask you what’s wrong You say we don’t belong.

I know we do and you should too, my love for you... is impossible to undo.

19

Oh Calmly Man of rage so Pitiful Cover yourself in blindness Dig with gold pins until you find your light Dig to the bone to no longer look upon your life, your evil Dig until you find your light Oh Calmly Man on the Run left to wander nowhere Exodus through the seven gates of your past Oh Man of Misery of Agony of Ache You will wander nowhere You will walk until the skin peels off your body to reveal what sickness that lies to your core Oh Calmly Man of Misery of Destiny Distraught Oblivion is your blessing a blessing it would be to wall yourself up to block of your perfect Ears oh to be blind to the sounds of life to live in a world away from pain would be your Oblivion would be your Blessing

Miguel Rivera - Oh Calmly

Oh Calmly Man of Misery of Agony of Pain your friends have left You in the dark swirling of your own fate there is no more calm whispering in your ears to bring you such compassion such compassion was left swinging back and forth back and forth

20

Nicholas Phipps-Evans - The Turban

Gate C-5 called now to the line.

The loudspeaker screamed senselessly the sign of progress. But I must digress, for I spot stress ahead of the pack. A turban knot moves with haste to the line.

I’ve got your back, got mine?

A fellow passenger cracks, noticing the turban ahead of the pack.

A smirk, nothing more, for I knew my fear is real or if it isn’t, I sure did fool myself.

Time to go.

I hate to dig my own grave but…wait…why AM i so prejudiced?

9/11 opened one eye to the “world”, and closed one to my ideals.

A ton of hope diminished…WOAH! The guy from the airport!

A gun? But where is his turban?

Wait that’s the guy who cracked on Mr. Turban.

He led me to believe he was for peace!

I guess this is what he meant. I can’t have his back.

Gasp….that had to hurt.

Turban tackled terrorist.

My eyes are open again.

C a n ‘t miss the text!

You wouldn’t want your “friends” out of

the loop, unable to

dissect your life under

a microscope through

a series of concrete

status updates via mobile

device. Quick! Please profess

your every move at

each hour of the day

in a continuous effort

to be recognized.

Chris Schule - Cellphone

21

22

Miguel Rivera - The Roads Ahead

We left our homes.

They came from the North.

Like a breaker, they tore their way across cities.

They will be here soon.

Black crosses riding in on thunder rolling, signs of peace twisted into hate.

Dual bolts of lightning crested upon the beasts that hunt us.

They came from the North, they will be here soon.

We must leave now, the road is far but we must go on.

Dual bolts of lightning crested upon the beasts that hunt us.

When will we see again the light of dawn?

We must leave now, the road is far but we must go on.

Our entire lives packed into one case.

When will we see again the light of dawn?

Packed into the crowded hell sailing westward, we flee from the mace.

Our entire lives packed into one case.

Purgatory on the high sea.

Packed into the crowded hell sailing westward, we flee from the mace.

Only one of many, waiting for the dawn.

Waiting to be free.

Reality fades as the bus nears the stop The watch is fixed upon your wrist A distinctive scuff mark sits below the ten Smooth and elegant, the design compliments its value Cobalt numbers induce seas of thought The driver’s lips are moving, but you’re not listening You’re lost, lost in the clockwork of fractured memories Scarcely does time fly like this Your eyes are fixed on the watch You look up; the bus is gone

John Morabito - Bus Stop

23

24

Nicholas Phipps-Evans - Meet Jack

Jack had thoughts.

His thoughts belonged to him.

Whether or not he believed it, wanted to believe it, or dismissed even the fact that he had a thought in the first place, he owned them.

Darkness consumed his existence.

Yearnings for screams of the human.

Loving the mix of blood and tears and sweat as it trickles down fleshsores and bruises.

But this is Jack.

The same Jack, who but only 8 years ago held a diploma with pride.

Everyone loved Jack.

So what happened to Jack?

Did his mind leave him?

Or is it that he lost his ability to reason.

No matter what, Jack now stands in jail.

Looking at the past, he curses his present, and with no future, his throat‌ tied in a bow‌ gave in.

25 Concrete tree lines surround flashing traffic lights, as Congress breaks for caucus.

Manhole covers clank and steam rises from steel-grid heaters.

In Washington, dead leaf layers fall to the incline gutters.

Winter clouds white window panes, as fierce snow blankets sleeping cars.

Yule log burning drum barrels warm broken gloves, and wreaths of old tires find their way past twisted mistletoe barb.

Black and gray barnacle snow clings to bus lanes paving walkways for hurried pedestrians.

Rain falls like power wash fluid, erasing the city’s zombie grime.

Suddenly, sun rays and spring sweat sweep starch collared necks.

Fresh spray paint odor snakes along blank billboards and electrical boxes.

These city-flowers line tree planters, mirroring what has been replaced with what is.

Tourists flock with bent metro-money, they march to tell of the Tidal Basin.

Broken halls collect retired brick crumbs: school bells bend the air.

Summer heat beats the drum of long black nights that stink with beer.

Spent soles recline, Fourth of July, and hot dogs.

The endless Mall absorbs.

Daniel Sweet - District

Melancholy mounds of green soda bottles shimmer; snowflakes crust their curves.

26

Tyler Jones - Carpe Diem

The grass is green, The sun is shining, It’s a beautiful scene The bugs are whining.

The trees are tall, The birds are singing, I love the fall!

Church bells are ringing.

I’ve run about, Til I am wheezing, Finally, A day worth seizing!

So sweet a joy that cookie caters to my soul. bite by bite, licking the sweet sugary sensation that Damned icing provides. the moist goodness erodes On my tongue, filling my skin with chills that sprint stupidly around raging thoughts of pleasure from this‌ cookie. this I know sounds Lovely and nice and gives me the title Of a king.

Vivid memories of the exotic icing covered cookie. then my rush Ends. and i am sleepy. shit Hit me harder than i could imagine. the high leaves me. the Excitement ends, Rendering me a mess and in hatred of the one, the one who provided me with this... cookie. that leaves me to question‌?

Nicholas Phipps-Evans - I Am Addicted

27

28

Miguel Rivera - Fragmentos Celestes Y Blancos

Cómo puedo encontrar las palabras Para decir lo que siento Cuando cada gota de lluvia Contiene un mar adentro, Y cada corazón late Con la pasión de una patria unida.

Mira cómo miro esos otros intentos.

En prosa, en canción, en imagen. |Sonrío a su fantasía de captar Las Pampas, La sensación de Unidad inamovible, Los Andes distantes La Esperanza del inmigrante La mesa de amigos, Que desde la niñez Toman yerba mate Hablando del día Una y otra vez Desde que tienen memoria.

Cómo pudieron pensar Que un fragmento exprese Todo lo que es Este mosaico magnífico Celeste y Blanco.

Como puedo hacer que vean Que cada artista creando con su brocha Que cada poeta escribiendo con su lápiz Que cada tenor cantando con su voz Son esos mismos fragmentos Cada uno con el alma pintada Un amor Celeste y Blanco.

29

Sunny Miami in the winter is a smiling, smooth face.

The season of music arrives, rejoice!

The sound of BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Ordinary as air.

A DJ’s cobalt vinyl teases us incessantly, drop the beat already!

The blast of fuchsia glow with crisp heavy smoke sparks a raging chaos.

Is it anarchy?

No, it’s staggering joy, ecstasy, an abstract satisfaction.

Scarce is the man with a frown on his face, But such things are easy to erase.

We all feel connected, through the deep, resonating beats.

We must, for music without love, is a kaleidoscope without color.

We become one, momentarily united, through the ministry of sound.

Anonymous - Louder than Words

Hear all: ear Fracturing beats as they pulsate perfectly, House-heads struggling to scuff across the floor,

30

Nicholas Phipps-Evans - Book

The book on my desk looked out my window. Awaiting my arrival, it listened to the radio; a radio that mapped the blue realities of life.

My book waited and waited.

Night falls.

Still no sign of me, where could I be?

Have I abandoned this book into deep waters of oblivion?

What love was once concrete has cracked, shattered, splattered, whatever you may call it.

Memories haunted this book as it looked at my toybox.

The broken toy, hanging out the box, lingering above my floor, reminded this book of the times I would throw my toys in the box and pick it up.

Now my book looked at the diploma on my wall.

Torn apart, the book stayed in place.

Stayed because I left it there, and left it.

But where did I go?

Dust builds on this book.

The wind opens its pages, and the sound cries for it misses me.

31

I’ve never seen such behavior From someone dressed as nicely It’s as if a formal ball Was crossed with a Kindergarten recess.

Tyler Jones - Penguins

They are like a bunch of butlers Who are partying on the weekend They must be the most merry animals That’s why I wish I were a penguin.

32

John O’Neill - Haiku

Today I got jug I really wish I hadn’t that would have been swell

I go to the store I put all my food in the refrigerator

I stand in the rain I want to stand in the sun then I won’t be sad

Limericks are hard they are not very easy I hate writer’s block

The Phoenix is cool it is our magazine for literature

My dog is Misty she is a labradoodle a labradoodle

33

It feels like true love never stays And the words I love you are just a phrase But in this world the best player plays And second never steps foot on the stage.

Since “I Love You” is but a phrase I guess love is but a stage Hate may lead to rage In which they put you in a cage.

But I’ve lived life long enough to know its time to turn the page.

They tell me wisdom decides your age.

If so some of you haven’t yet been made Because your still acting like kids that can’t seem to find his right shade.

Its like once the brain has been dismayed it may forever be afraid.

Max Hills - That Love Phrase

You’ve got me in this daze Trying to find your love in this maze But this is only a phase And I will search for all of my days Because your beauty’s not of this world And something I must gaze.

34

Tyler Jones - The Ballad of the Titanic

“Oh Captain, Captain, it’s a beautiful night, And I want to thank you for the ride.

To sail aboard the unsinkable ship, Does fill my heart with pride.”

“Oh Captain, Captain, what was that lurch, It seems as if the ship has struck, And as for a peaceful ride we had, I think we are out of luck.”

“Oh Captain, Captain, this is a problem, I hope the hull didn’t bust.

And as for the unsinkable ship, This is a vessel I no longer trust.”

“Oh Captain, Captain, what are we to do?

The disaster is already here, Lifeboats are few and the ship is sinking, And Captain, it is death that I fear.”

35

All the places you will go Be the road fast or slow.

Even if you have been there before, Frankly, you will always find more.

Good will happen when you pray, However many rocks are in your way.

It may mean that you may stumble.

Journeys can cause you to fumble.

Know that you always have to remain tough, Life may sometimes get rough.

Many different things will appear, Never let them bring fear.

Only one more thing to say, Possibilities are endless every day.

Kieran Hutson - The Journey

Challenges come from everywhere, Do not forget to be aware.

36

Max Planning - Preparation

No one is speaking, silence fills the room…

Just the thought of victory or doom.

The pads are put on, the cleats are tied…

At the end of four quarters last year, the players cried.

The captain stands up, looks at every single one…

They’re all thinking about when the game is done.

The enemy thinks the battle will be light…

But the Eagles know, they won’t go down without a fight.

Everyone stands up and gathers in the middle…

Each one knows that their love for each other is never too little.

With their arms clenched they get down on one knee…

Praying to come out on top, they say a Glory Be. When Amen is said, they form a line…

And the locker room is opened.

It’s time to shine!

37 Look there! Tackle for a loss? Again?

That’s not right, not tonight under the lights.

through each play, like I have been since the first day.

Don’t let me down.

The sidelines are holding me back to prevent that quarterback sack.

My heart pounding, sweat, coldly scales my skin.

The toss…I can’t breathe.

How many seconds has it been since he threw the pigskin?

Time slowed, back to reality.

Clip…the ball stuck like glue to the receiver’s hands.

TOUCHDOWN! Sweet breath returns. Good game.

Celebration time.

But not too much, next week we start over.

Play one.

Nicholas Phipps-Evans - At the Game

Come on guys, you out there, me here, but there with you

38

Kevin O’Boyle - This is What I Get for Meditating

That silent soliloquy of self-obsessed wonder Or regret Laying on the floor Staring at the ceiling Or into space These upside down reflections Showing me around this world Cannot see what is Inside my head Or heart While dreams are reality Seen only Through the looking glass Or down a rabbit hole Where Newton’s laws do not apply Solitary moments so appreciated, More by those not with you Than yourself Where peace and silence embrace Only to repel Where the fine line between sanity And mad hatter Thins To allow for…

Some mingling Sleep is for Weak People That are afraid Of their own minds’ Capability

39

The guitar sings a melody, And then the rest join in, All the instruments play their part, in the joyful din.

Finally, the song has come to an end, each instrument’s work is done, And I hope that you all now know, Music is really fun!

Tyler Jones - The Band

The snare drum claps a beat While the others play along, The bass hums a walking tune, They give a spine to the song.

40

Kevin O’Boyle - Black Stars

What if the stars were black Would they shine Would they twinkle Would they shoot Would they be wishable Would they be stars

41

The first soft snow Falls to the ground, So pure and clean, It makes no sound.

The news announces, The kids rejoice And shout, “No school!”

In a loud, happy voice.

A fluffy flake Glides down like a feather, No school, snowballs, sledding …Gosh!

I love this weather!

Tyler Jones - Snow Day

And, one by one, The children rise They run down the stairs, And look to the skies.

42

Nicholas Phipps-Evans - My Love...Just Take It

Hello my dear who smells of roses pure, freshly picked out from my garden at home.

It is hard for me to see and endure the fact that I want you but you won’t come.

My love for you shines brighter than the light that radiates the moon at night and I know that you will put up a fight alright, but I surrender now for love won my

heart a long time ago. Please take my hand in yours and I will be your guy for life.

And on the beach we walk kicking up sand, and I’ll be happy to call you my wife.

So what do you think of that my beloved?

Do you think you can let me be loved?

43

I let it work just to be defused.

I gave you my love but you refused.

So in this story its being abused.

But I told myself not to give in Because then that means you’re the reasons For why my heart has been excused.

I am not fake but live my life in two’s I take one step at a time in my one pair of shoes.

The only way to answer your heart I will have to need its Q’s.

If only you given me one clue I could tell you what your heart should do But until then it will be a mystery like why’s the sky blue.

Max Hills - Mystery

Though I have important news It’s only to be shared with a few Because if all were to hear it they may not have a mind to lose.

A wise man once told me not to pick and choose Because then you shorten down your friends and everyone needs their crews.

44

Eddie Sloan - America’s Hypocrisy

Its American hypocrisy that the divas who are famous who shall remain nameless are only celebrities only because they have tapes and promote hate and their intake of alcohol is atrocious as the braggadocios rappers are just wanna be bangers and drug slangers who are now the ideal of society.

Its cool to rap about drugs as the slugs we used to kill our brethren have little respect.

I am an outcast to this society because writing poetry is the solution to my disconnect.

See its so odd to me in our odyssey that honesty is honestly the rarest thing upon us its astonishing as society is constantly demolishing our sense of faith as a life of excess keeps us far from grace.

Ignorance breeds belligerence and insignificance is our fate.

Man I feel so sorry for the new generation of the American race.

45

This life happens once, can’t relive it So here is my love, to you I give it But when I asked for yours you said you hid it That you don’t remember where you put it So I guess we can’t go find it So I split up half of mine and said you could have it Use it as your own, and then you grabbed it If you only knew I would feel it when you stabbed it How I felt it, oh how I felt it After that my half had melted It’s like you didn’t care as you began to pelt it Oh the pain you had dealt it If only from the start I had attached a safety belt to it.

Max Hills - Life’s Miseries

They used to tell me I’m a downer, how pathetic They said I’m a loser, non- athletic They said that my brain should see a medic But my friends told me just don’t sweat it I promised them one day they regret it So I kept it inside to never let you see it

46

Max Hills - GFR ‘11

Put the team on my back Carry the slack of the pack No time to stop for a snack I’ve got to defend us from this attack I’ve Blazed a New Trail and picked up everyone on this track As you can see, my emotions have been hacked But I guess that’s no excuse for me to fall back Emotionless is where I stand When my feet get weary, I stand on my hands Walking from land to land Carrying everyone’s problems in my hands I disband from my clan Because I can’t bear the site of others falling while I’m crying in the sand But all this time I haven’t realized those trying to lend a helping hand I withstood the pain but couldn’t withstand the fire But now my brothers have come to help me get through this life I call a liar They came to me when I was down to help me inflate my tire I am inspired to help and inquired the will to succeed With my brothers by my side there is no way I can’t survive and achieve I used to believe that no one could help me as long as i cried and plead One day I knew what pain was when my tears began to bleed But I learned that if I kept it inside my soul would never be freed I used to want what I didn’t need and seek what couldn’t be found But I see now that sometimes you find what you want if you just turn around I’m glad to say I’m no longer down in the dumps I picked myself up to solid ground.

I got to school early today, the hallways were deserted.

I looked for someone I knew but found no one.

I was alone...But not really I went through the day tired and feeling distant, almost lonely...But not really The final bell rang and I walked out down North Capital Street with classmates; I then boarded the metro and was alone...

But not really I reached home and found a note from my mom telling me that she would be home soon, I thought I was alone...But I wasn’t really.

Then I realized that I am never alone!

There was someone in the hallway, someone there throughout the school day, someone beside me on the metro, someone waiting for me when I got home, It was my amazing, all-loving friend, my God, Jesus Christ.

Ian Harkes - Not Alone...Not Really

47

48

Miguel Rivera - Protege

Is it right for one’s protégé to surpass him behind his back?

Or is it natural?

Just the way things play out, just the way they’re meant to unfold.

But I feel as if the mentor, in the end now, has learned more from the student than the latter has from the former.

Perhaps it is distraction that kept the mentor preoccupied while the student tore through the pages of books and documents left in disuse by the mentor.

Every now and then the mentor would spy on the student, ignoring the mentor from the corner of his eye, and see the student reading with such fervor And immediately think, “Oh, I read that one ages ago.”

But the unknown and unfortunate reality was that the student was, in his few years, already far surpassing the mentor.

One day you find yourself transcribing a poem to send to a potential lover when a pile of papers bound in a leather covering slams on your desk.

The dust settles and reveals the leather bound mystery.

Without looking up, you proceed to examine it.

The doors to your study slam shut.

Behind the leather cover, the first page reads in freshly written ink: Bullets of Lemon, Arrows of Lime.

At the bottom reads the name of the author, the boy, a boy no longer, whom you once called your Protégé.

49

Literature

Michael Ledecky - State of the Union 2176

50 Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, Members of Congress, distinguished guests, representatives of Halliburton, and fellow citizens: on the eve of this nation’s tercentennial, we face some of our greatest challenges.

When Emperor Mark Zuckerberg III seized control of Scandinavia and the Low Countries at the turn of the twenty-first century, there were promises of an entirely new way of life, one of friendship among all peoples, of economic liberty and sobriety, of five-way chats and cooperative FarmVilles. Today, we bear witness to the deceptive and evil nature of these promises.

Poverty plagues the lives of seventy-four percent of Facebookopians, twenty-five percent of whom still rely on dial-up. Nearly half of the empire’s GDP is invested in intangible virtual products, and workers can merely earn “credits” to purchase goods from the many stores under the Emperor’s control. Facebookopians can suspend their citizenship, but they can never truly avoid the shackles of their oppressive government. Surely you know one of the eight hundred fifty million people who have colonized Facebookopia, only to become trapped within a virtual reality from which there is no escape. I myself have not seen my niece and nephew in two years, and I have not heard a word from my grandmother since 2158.

As international protectors of democracy, liberty, and the free market, America and her Chinese allies shall remove the spiritual and economic shackles that have been imposed on Belgium, Holland, and Denmark, on Norway, Finland, and Sweden!

Now, despite the enthusiasm expressed in these Chambers, I understand that many Americans possess concerns regarding foreign intervention in another state’s affairs. In certain regions of this country, the idea of war is less popular than a Filet-OFishTM sandwich in July. To these cynics, I must point out that history has repeatedly revealed the success of the American military in such conflicts.

Furthermore, if Facebookopia remains unchecked, a domino effect will likely force other nations to adopt similar virtualist regimes. In recent elections, virtualist operatives made significant gains in France, Austria, and Great Britain. I thus call upon

51 all Americans to contribute to the coming struggle and bring an end to tyranny! We must unite before our time is past! America and China must squeeze Facebookopia like two slices of whole-grain bread sandwiching a juicy Angus beef McDoubleTM! Yes, the specter of global conflict looms before us, but we possess hope for the future. This past July, as the Eagle touched down on McMuffin CraterTM and the United States became the fourth country to plant its flag on the Martian surface, I witnessed the very ideals upon which this nation was founded: liberty, adventure, and brotherhood. As the Chinese welcomed our explorers and helped establish our prefabricated SpaceCampsTM, I remembered Sacajawea, the courageous Native American woman who guided Lewis and Clark through the American wilderness. Today, we find a new corner of our universe open to settlement.

During the last four years, Congress has passed legislation that has improved America’s reputation abroad and solidified its status as a leading world power. Through tactful alliances with private corporations, the federal government shall not only fund the coming war but also pay off the national debt by the year 2190. For hundreds of years, the government of the United States has rescued such companies during times of economic hardship. A new era dawns today as hundreds of corporations sponsor the government.

Quite frankly, I’m lovin’ it!TM As our capitalist economy continues to experience a renaissance, our welfare system becomes more efficient. I am proud to report that, since its founding twenty years ago, the Groupon welfare system has successfully distributed billions of dollars in goods at reduced prices to needy American families. Groupon has perfected the highest utilitarian principle; it mathematically ensures the greatest good for the greatest number.

The state of our nation’s educational system has never been stronger. When I was first sworn into this Office, one-third of American teenagers could neither read nor write. Thanks to the Literacy Act of 2172, that number has been slashed in half. Even the most underprivileged students now have access to the works of Mark Twain, John Steinbeck, Stephen King, John Grisham, and other venerable American writers. Also, our public schools have

52 succeeded in raising the texting speed of our nation’s youth. No longer do we lag behind other developed countries in instantaneous cellular communication.

Never have our young people been so prepared to confront such a great foe. I wish to articulate my gratitude to our servicemen and women stationed across the world. You serve as the gatekeepers to the destiny of America and the free world. If I had a Happy MealTM for every individual dutifully protecting the interests of the United States at home and abroad, I would be a very fat man.

Our founding fathers may never have dreamed that our Constitution would survive four-tenths of a millennium. Could they have possibly imagined the strong and self-sustaining spirit that would come to characterize America? I have no doubt that this country will prosper for another four hundred years, but as the United States enters the greatest conflict of this generation, I urge all Americans to heed the words of the great Benjamin Franklin: “We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately!”

Thank you. As you drive home tonight, remember that McDonald’s will begin serving free breakfast burritos at 5 A.M. tomorrow morning! May God bless you, and may God bless America!

Their feet would occasionally brush under the table; it was summer, both had their sandals off and were blindly exploring the world under the table. Each time the edge of his toes grazed the side of her foot, he felt an animal desire to wrap his toes around her foot as if they were fingers. It felt like a privilege to briefly trade warmth with her under the table.

She wasn’t just looking at him, she was staring, admiring even. He could see it so vividly in the deepness of her eyes, and the subtle way she smiled. Her full-moon brown eyes seemed locked adoringly on him. Her lips were slightly parted insinuating an innocently lustful smile. A passer-by probably would not have noticed anything spectacular about her look, but he was studying her without even really realizing it. He was barely even listening to what he himself was saying anymore; in fact, he imagined she was not even really listening at this point either.

He could see it so heavily in her face, how much she loved him.

He wondered if she could tell how greatly he shared that feeling with her. He wondered if somewhere in his green eyes or in his constantly shifting facial expressions, she may have discovered this. He so badly wanted to touch her, to be closer to her. To simply take her hand would not be enough; though he would treasure her hand in his, he wanted to feel her. He wanted to engulf her in his arms, and feel hers around him. The very thought of such contact made him feel limp. Her skin looked so inviting, so tender. Her perfection made him feel like some

Will Speros - The Table In the Corner

53 The table was tiny, barely capable of fitting much on it. It was one of those “wooden” tables with the glaze over it to make it softer; this made it rather sticky to touch. It was pushed right up against the wall, right near the side entrance. It was somewhat overcast out, but there still seemed to be a great deal of grey light pouring through the windows. He sat on one end, she of course sat on the other. He had a small bowl of chicken soup in front of him, and she had nothing. Her elbows rested on the table, and her hands were clasped near her face. Some of her nail polish was chipping; it was either black or purple. Either way, it suited her. He felt somewhat awkward carefully trying to enjoy his soup while she sat gracefully with nothing in front of her. “I’m not hungry,” she had warmly insisted.

54 hulking, tall thing. He felt so terribly awkward when he was near her. He was trying hard to maintain his composure, although he believed he was failing and only appearing more awkward.

Simply put, he was so glad to have her in his presence again. He had missed her so much, thought of her smile everyday in fact. The reunion seemed entirely too perfect to be real.

Then he woke up.

Sitting in the cubicle farms has made him what modern medicine now calls “overweight. He’s fat.

He’s clicks away on a laptop; the buttons are too small for his sausage fingers. They’re all bright pink. Except for one, a circular band of white runs around one.

John takes up almost two seats on the seven o’clock train to Sarratoga. He shuffles in his seats, and thinks of the children he never had. And how he would take them on vacation to the coast of Maine. And catch the white snowflakes on his tongue while they ran around him.

On this particular day, that was otherwise of no importance to anyone, a young woman wearing bell bottom jeans and a thin sweater that matched the winter storm outside got on the train.

She was a walking nineteen seventy six.

She leaned on the opposite side of the windowpane John usually leans his head against. It would seem as a transparent piece of plastic was the only thing that separates the two.

She flips through the pages of a magazine while John tries to type on a laptop. He tries not to remember her.

But he glances though the clear windowpane every now and then, but quickly goes back to staring at the blank screen.

John tries not to remember her. How they met, barefoot, running along the white coast of Maine. How they would dance in music stores, until the people faded away and the lights turned off.

John tries not to remember how his dream girl left one night The young woman John saw through the clear plastic windowpane was everything she was and everything she was not.

Miguel Rivera - Dream Girl Saratoga Fade Away in White

55 Meet John. He’s on the seven o’clock train headed for Sarratoga.

56 At the age of fifteen, the young woman sat in bed and watched cartoons. She sat in a hospital cot. White bandages ran around her pale wrists.

At the age of nineteen, tears ran down her face. She and John had just gotten married under the light of a street lamp. Tears ran down the young woman’s face after her boyfriend broke up with her.

One day the young woman got on a Greyhound bus destined to Maine. One night she took a stroll into town, and walked into the road. Before she departed, the last thing she saw were the red raindrops that slid down the mosaic on the front of a bus; the warm asphalt caressed the back of her neck as she closed her eyes, red lights flashing all around her in the night.

John remembers how he lowered her into a snowy grave, disappearing into the white covered earth. But just before she vanished, he grabbed one of his fingers and slid off a gold ring, and placed it on top of the snow covered casket. The train pulls into the station.

The young woman puts her magazine into a purse, and gets up from the clear plastic windowpane and steps in front of the double doors leading to the white storm outside. John sits up in his seat, his moist oxford shirt slowly peels away from the leather coverings. The double doors slide open and Johns eyes follow his walking nineteen sixty seven out, her slim physique gliding and leading John’s following eyes into the open and then suddenly disappearing into the blistering wind. Her thin white sweater flowed behind her, leaving but a trail of memories for John to try to hold on to.

The double doors close and all is once again as it was for John.

He stares back into the blank screen on his laptop and relaxes again in his seats, his moist oxford shirt slowly sticking to the leather covering on the seats. John then scratches an itch on his ear with one of his many sausage fingers. But on this particular day, that would have been of no importance to anyone otherwise, while he stares at the blank screen on his laptop, on one of his sausage fingers, the circular band of white quickly begins to fade.

57 “They say the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. I say the darker the flesh, then the deeper the roots. I give a holler to my sisters on welfare. Tupac cares if don’t nobody else care.”

Tupac Amaru Shakur was born in East Harlem on June 16, 1971. When he was 15 his family moved to Baltimore, Maryland where he enrolled at the Baltimore School of Arts and studied poetry, jazz, ballet, and acting. He participated in and won nearly every rap competition the area had to offer. 2 years later his family moved to California where he continued studies in poetry and joined an up and coming rap group. In November of 1991 the face of the rap game was forever changed when he dropped his debut album “2Pacalypse Now”. He went on to release 5 more albums, 4 of them platinum, one of them gold….

It is said that Tupac was murdered in a drive by shooting in Las Vegas on September 7, 1996. Some people say his label boss Suge Knight set up the murder, others say Biggie Smalls had a hand in organizing the crime. Around Gonzaga there is a local legend that Mofo Man was in fact the shooter. But really, none of these people killed Pac.

Tupac Shakur is still alive.

The facts surrounding the rapper’s supposed murder are fishier than the cod nuggets Sage serves on Fridays during lent.

First of all there were never any photos released of Tupac in the hospital, even though he was there for a week. An autopsy report was never released, which is something that is required in the case of a homicide in the state of Nevada. Tupac’s funeral was cancelled for unknown reasons. According to a statement Pac made before the Las Vegas incident, there is a 72 million dollar

Griffin Jones - Tupac

These are thirty-seven words that every rap enthusiast knows. They make up the masterfully crafted first stanza of Tupac Shakur’s classic song, “Keep Your Head Up.” Many agree that Tupac Shakur was the best rapper who ever lived. Being an avid Tupac fan, I have seen every TV show and read every article about the rapper. I have watched his interviews and listened to his songs. So for those of you who don’t know the legend of ‘Pac, let me summarize.

58 life insurance policy on him, which has yet to be cashed.

In many of his songs, Pac talks about being buried; however he was supposedly cremated the day after he was pronounced dead. It just doesn’t add up.

What does this all mean though?

Well Tupac often called himself Makaveli, taking his name from the famous Italian thinker Machiavelli. Machiavelli advocated staging ones own death to gain power and get away from enemies. So the answer is simple: feeling pressure from his opponents and fed up with the weight of maintaining his career and putting the entire rap game on his back, Tupac Shakur faked his own death to get away from it all.

In his song “Million Dollar Spot,” Tupac states, “Fans can’t understand my ghetto slang, so I evade and plot and plan a life of better things...”

Maybe Tupac is dead. Maybe all the conspiracies surrounding his death have simply been created and fueled by his own label “Death Row Records” in order to keep his name in the media and his album sales up posthumously. Maybe his devoted fans are just not ready to let go, so they hype up irrelevant facts and blow them out of proportion in order to give themselves hope that the rapper is alive. Maybe Tupac Amaru Shakur really is six feet under right now.

However, even if that is so, Pac lives on.

In a recent survey, 83% of Tupac fans said they believed the rapper could still be alive. The beauty of this is that if they believe he’s alive, he is as good as alive. There’s no difference between him hiding away in some mansion in South America and him being dead.

The levels of contact in these cases are exactly the same. None. No contact. We can’t know if he is dead or alive for sure. Thus if one holds it to be true that Pac lives, Pac lives. Perception is reality.

To his fans, he will live on forever through his music. Tupac is still today, fifteen years after the incident in Las Vegas, a notable influence on his listeners. This is because Tupac wrote, rapped, and rhymed about real life problems that affect us all. He wasn’t a gangster rapper talking about how many “brews” he “capped” or how

59 many “whips” he “copped” or how many “bottles of bub” he had “in the club”. No. Tupac was instead a poet.

I’d like to finish with an excerpt from Tupac’s book “The Rose That Grew From Concrete,” a collection of nearly 200 poems and essays written by the 19-year-old Tupac, before his rise to fame.

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete?

Proving nature’s law is wrong it learned to walk with out having feet.

Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else ever cared.

Tupac was that rose that grew from concrete. From the cold harsh streets of Harlem, he grew to change lives, to rap about the teen violence, racism, poverty and hardship neglected inter city Americans face, and to inspire the masses to make a change.

Tupac Shakur was not the best rapper who ever lived. He is the best rapper alive.

George Lee - Pet Peeve

60 A few days ago, someone told me to “grab the bull by the horns.” I don’t remember anything else that was said because I was trying to hold back my annoyance.

Of all the idiotic, hackneyed expressions that pass for wisdom, this is my least favorite. It’s a phrase lazy people pull out of a can. The speaker usually wants someone to confront and overcome an obstacle (the bull), but the comparison is a lousy one.

Nobody I know of can stop a charging bull bare-handed; they’d all be popped and smeared across the ground, a kind of human jelly. Bullfighters jump out of the bull’s way. Trying to grab its horns is like trying to grab the windshield wipers of a speeding bus—both attempts are going to fail.

Someone could reasonably replace the phrase about the bull with the command “jump in front of the bus,” which does not sound encouraging at all.

I have a better piece of advice: when something very large and very angry tries to kill you, dodge it.

My days were routine. First, smelling the pancakes of my mother, I would wake up and get dressed. Dependant on how quickly I got down to the kitchen, my whole family would be there, enjoying a simple feast of pancakes and blueberries. My sisters would have already been shoveling in my mother’s legendary buttermilk pancakes. We would drown her breakfast treats in a blueberry-syrup concoction that seemed like true ambrosia. The flavor clung to your mouth like the sticky syrupy mess that is was, and you never wanted the flavor to let go. Soon after breakfast, I would enjoy a game, whether it was Hearts or Rummy, and my parents would show us the old way of having fun with one’s family. We would jokingly play with each other, discuss how the Redskins were looking this summer, and reminisce about how quickly we kids were growing up. They always told us how lucky we were; we never listened. They would complain of how their parents never let them do anything at our age, and how we were spoiled. I would ignore the comments, never letting the words truly sink in, never appreciating what they were trying to do for me. The freedom my parents allowed us to have in those days was a result of one thing, the seclusion of this small Angel Wing lane residence from the outside world. We were allowed to be children, and children we were.

At this point, my sisters and I would usually split up. They would go off with my mother somewhere, maybe to go shopping or swimming, and my day would really begin; I was now

Andrew Ravenscroft - Summers Gone

61 At my old house up in Frederick, my family and I spent our long, summer days. The house was simple enough, black shutters, red door, stained porch, with a driveway leading up to our trim yet flourishing garden. The bees would buzz around our forsythia with the dulcet hum of nature at work; the only thing that seemed to work on these care-free days of leisure. The children’s shouts and the tunes streaming from a neighbor’s radio made one feel part of something bigger; something we could appreciate. One could only feel optimistic, smelling the backyard barbeques and freshly trimmed grass. The grasshoppers were freely jumping, children were idly playing, and the entire neighborhood had unlimited possibilities in those never-ending lazy summer days.

62 free. I would meet up with my friends, and we were unleashed upon the neighborhood. We played everything, went everywhere, did everything. Our sneakers pounded on asphalt, running in games of kickball, street hockey, and football. The woods behind my house held untold stories about the mysteries of wilderness. We did not get bored; there was always something bigger and better to do.

Whether it was lifting up the fence so we could retrieve our football from the power generator, or crawling under a crawlspace to find the believed woodchuck den under my neighbor’s house, we were occupied.

As the afternoon carried on to evening, we carried on playing.

Time was not an obstacle for us. We continued to bother our neighbors with our childish antics and whimsical sayings, not always understanding exactly what they meant, desperately attempting to appear older. We were cool; we could play all night long into tomorrow like the older kids, the kids who came out at night. We had to be around for them. We would all meet on the lot next to my house and crack mysterious jokes, misunderstand their girl-related humor, and discover the limit of my knowledge on “older” subjects.

The thought of appearing naïve to these infallible teenagers was worse than death.

These were some of the happiest times of my childhood. Now, the summer days have an end. After moving to Washington, my summers consist of working long hours during the day, baking in the afternoon humid air of the District, and cooling off with my friends at night. My mom still makes her blueberry-syrup potion, but it no longer has the same effect. The privileges of older life have come with the burdens of growing responsibility. The giddy readiness of an unknown summer adventure is no longer a feeling of mine. My neighborhood friends were never replaced, even though our house was, and I don’t know what became of any of them. I am now one of the older kids; I see the young faces of temporary youths, desperately trying to seem cool. I wish I could reach out and tell those kids to enjoy it while it lasts, but I cannot. Like the spiraling lawn sprinklers, like the smell of torn earth, like the laughter enjoyed between young friends, I realize now that these memories are both a burden and a gift, forever reminding me of the carelessness enjoyed in those summers gone.

I have gone to visit my mother’s family in Texas at least once a year since I was in my mother’s womb. We stay with her younger brother, my Uncle Eric, at his house in a suburb just outside downtown Austin. Despite my family being spread all over Texas, for the couple weeks we come down my grandparents, other aunts, uncles, and cousins come to Uncle Eric’s house. We never stay in a hotel. No matter how many people come, my Uncle Eric will host us all. It is usually a two-week period where I seldom sleep in a bed. Couches and air mattresses are my typical quarters of slumber.

I can never sleep the night before I go. I get so excited about the good times I am certain I will have. I never know what I will be doing, but I know I will be having the time of my life. One of my favorite sounds is hearing the airplane’s wheels hit the ground after a 3 ½ to 4-hour flight. To me, even the airport is better there. I know I am in Texas by the way the airport staff and other locals carry themselves. They seem to have a more pleasant and serene demeanor. If you make eye contact with anyone in the airport (or Texas for that matter) for more than two seconds, they will surely smile if not ask how you are doing.

Many people are hesitant or have preconceived notions about the Texas heat. However, I love stepping out of the air conditioned airport and getting hit with my first gust of the thick, humid Texas air. What people do not know is that, despite it being brutal in the sun, being outside in the shade is actually much more pleasant there than it is in Washington, DC. Usually my uncle will come receive us at the airport himself, and we will all pile into his pickup truck. The ride from the airport is always loud with conversation. As we roll down the highway, my uncle is always smiling behind a pair of big Oakley sunglasses and laughing and talking with excitement. He seems equally enthusi-

Cayman Sotudeh - Yes Ma’am

63 I remember my mother asking me a question. It was a simple inquiry, the response being either a yes or no. “Yes Ma’am” I responded without even thinking. My mother shot me a perplexed yet pleasantly surprised expression. “Excuse me?” she exclaimed, “Since when do you talk like that? Did Texas rub off on you?” I began to mull that over and asked the question “Did Texas really rub off on me?”

64 astic to host us as we are to be his guests.

My uncle’s home always has the same feel. The walls of the house are adorned with pictures of our family at all ages and generations. My uncle is always eager to show us the renovations and projects he is working on for the house. If not at the airport, we are usually greeted at the door by my two cousins. Our arrival is always a big event with Uncle Eric and my cousins running all over the house. My uncle will bark numerous orders and inquiries to them saying, “Take your Aunt’s suitcase upstairs for her. Did y’all feed the dog? How about cleaning up your rooms? Did your mom say what to do for dinner?” No matter how many questions he would ask, my cousins would either respond with a “yes sir”, or “no sir”.

This use of “sir” did not only occur in the house, but when running normal errands. It did not matter whether they were speaking to an authority figure or placing an order with a fast food attendant, my cousins would always answer questions with a pleasant yet reverent “sir” or a “ma’am”. Just before departing they would smile and add a “Thank you, ma’am”. Whenever they would do it in front of my parents, my mother would shoot me a glance that insinuated, “Now why can’t you talk like that?, as opposed to my normal responses of “yeah” or just a grunt.

In the past it would annoy me, and I would think my cousins were doing it spitefully to show off their superiority in manners.

However, I noticed they never made a big deal of it, nor did it seem like a burden or task. It was just a part of them. As I began to listen, I noticed that nearly all young people there would address adults by “sir” or “ma’am” and I began to appreciate it.

The couple weeks we are in Texas are pure bliss. It usually consists of trips to amusement parks and other planned day trips and events. However, my fondest memories are of my family relaxing at the house or by the pool and telling stories, jokes, listening to the adults debate both serious and ridiculous topics, and of course lots of fine Texas barbeque. Uncle Eric never misses an opportunity to throw a party. However, all good things come to an end and eventually we must return home to DC. I always go through something I call “Texas withdrawal” when I come home. It mostly consists of feeling almost depressed and missing all the things that are not in DC and only in TX. I notice that people do not smile as much,

65 nor ask how you are doing. I notice that adolescents do not speak to adults with the same tone of respect, and almost never use the terms “sir” and “ma’am”. Also, I notice how everyone seems to be rushing by in contrast to the more relaxed attitude of Texas. Even the most miniscule things I enjoyed in Texas have a magnified absence.

I do not think I ever made a conscious decision to start, but I began to talk like my uncle and cousins during my stay in Austin this summer. I began using the 2nd person plural pronoun, “y’all”, and using the reverent terms, “sir” and “ma’am”, when speaking to adults. Upon my return home, I found that my “Texas withdrawal” was not quite as bad when I continued to incorporate the Texan style of speech into my own. In just a few weeks I had so heavily integrated the use of “sir” and “ma’am” into my normal conversations that I did not even think about it when I answered my mother’s original question. So I looked at her and said, “I guess it has kind of rubbed off on me.” She gave a motherly, and content smile and replied, “That’s my boy”, with a grin. Just after that my father called from the other room “Cayman, can you please come in here and help me move this?” Without thinking I responded, “Yes sir, I’m coming.”

Christian Salcedo - Getting Lost

66 My favorite place to get lost is my cousin’s house. I remember playing Hide-and-Go-Seek there quite often over the summer. I would memorize every detail of the house, every corner, and in effect would perfect my strategy for hiding and seeking. I would rule Hide-and-Go-Seek during the day.

But at night the house took on a completely different form.

When the moon was out and all the lights were off, shadows crept off of all the statues, and the darkness hinted to secret beings hiding in them, ready to take any kid who was off his guard.

This was my favorite part because the house evolved, and became something else entirely. I was never prepared because each night the moon would shine differently or not at all. At times, there was plenty of moonlight, and the house became a game of hiding in the shadows. But when the moon was completely covered and there was only darkness, it was a game of running silently, adjusting one’s eyes to the darkness, and moving as quickly as possible.

And so, every night, I would get lost. I would not know where to go. I would not know where anything was. It was as if the tables moved on there own. Rooms would suddenly switch places, and the parents would suddenly disappear. All the lights would be off, but it was not fear that overcame me. Rather, my senses would go on overdrive. I would imagine myself being a ninja, being aware of everything, not knowing where I was going, but not afraid either because it was I who was lurking in the shadows ready to strike.

I remember seeing the sun go down and the moon go up. I remember counting “48…49…50!” And opening my eyes to a new place, a new world, I would smile as I faded into the darkness. I loved getting lost there.

Around this same time in 1978, my father received a rejection letter from Gonzaga. I considered my father to be my role model and often asked questions about his adolescence, so I could know the right path to follow. However, I could not comprehend how he was rejected from his first choice high school, or anything for that matter.

Growing up with divorced parents, my father moved constantly, sometimes going to three different schools in one year. However, he spent most of his younger years in a project home in southwest D.C., mainly living with my grandmother.

He would often fend for himself against the bullies in his inner-city neighborhood. Being mugged several times, he lived in a constant state of fear; his application to Gonzaga was an application to a better life.

Xander Seton - Acceptance

67 The golden sculpture of a majestic eagle in the lobby of my apartment building was something that always caught my eye whenever I walked passed. It had begun to tarnish, yet somehow, that made it look stronger, as if it had experienced trauma and survived. One spring afternoon, I sat on the bench across from the statue staring intensely into the eagle’s eyes, reflecting on different parts of my young, thirteen-year old life.

With my palms sweaty and an uneasy stomach tingling, my entire body jolted up as soon as I saw the mailman. After he put the mail for room #308 in the box, I rushed over and brought all the mail upstairs.

Throwing all the mail on the ground, my hands found the thick envelope with the purple Gonzaga seal on the upper left corner. Heart racing, I savagely tore open the entire package, and read the first sentence of the front paper. My stomach dropped. I felt a strong, experienced hand on my shoulder.

“Congratulations Alexander. I am so proud of you. You have already accomplished more than I did at your age.” I turned around and stared directly into my father’s eyes with a concerned look. His statement was kind, but was it true? I had worked hard in academics, music, and extracurricular activities to get into Gonzaga, but had I really accomplished more than my father?

68 Achieving a decent grade point average, my father was one of the brightest in his eighth grade class. Thus, his rejection from Gonzaga was inconceivable to him. He too had waited outside his home for the mailman, and he was equally excited to open his letter from Gonzaga. Upon reading the paper inside the thin envelope, no firm hand grasped his shoulder. It was only he–all alone in his house.

I pondered on my acceptance for the next several days. How had I surpassed the one person I held so high? Was I smarter?

Better? More deserving? One evening, as these thoughts filled my head, my father came home from work. He was now a successful attorney and worked very hard, just as he had done all his life. As he came through the door, I looked into peaceful eyes that belied a quiet strength. Immediately, my entire body relaxed. I suddenly felt secure and safe. I embraced him, praying that it would never end.

69

Art & Photography

70

Robert Skonberg

James Doyle

71

72

Jordan Wallace

John Morabito

73

74

Nick Vitale

75

Nick Vitale

76

Nick Vitale

Zach Olmstead

77

78

Jordan Person

Jordan Person

79

80

Jordan Person

81

Jordan Person

82

Jordan Person

Jordan Person

83

84

Jordan Person

Will Speros

85

86

Rafi Moreno

Rafi Moreno

87

88

Chris Brown

89

Chris Brown

90

Robert McHugh

91

Isaiah Battle

92

Peter Benzinger

93

Peter Benzinger

94

Andrew Robinson

Andrew Robinson

95

96

Christian Forte

Christian Forte

97

98

Christian Forte

Christian Forte

99

100

Anthony Dahut

101

Isaiah Battle

102

Peter Benzinger

103

Peter Benzinger

104

Christian Forte

Christian Forte

105

106

Christian Forte

Christian Forte

107

108

Christian Forte

Christian Forte

109

110

Christian Forte

Chris Brown

111

112

Chris Brown

Nate Flagg

113

114

Will Speros

Will Speros

115

116

Cooper D’Anton

117

Cooper D’Anton

118

Anthony Dahut

Anthony Dahut

119

120

Tom Robertson

Tom Robertson

121

122

Tom Robertson

Tom Robertson

123

124

Jordan Person

Jordan Person

125

126

Jordan Person

Jordan Person

127

128

Jordan Person

Jordan Person

129

130

Jordan Person

Jordan Person

131

132

Jordan Person

Jordan Person

133

134

Jordan Person

Jordan Person

135

136

Jordan Person

Jordan Person

137

138

Jordan Person

Jordan Person

139

140

Alex Panzarella

David MacNamee

141

142

James Doyle

143

Jasper Evans

144

Roberto Gorostieta

145

Jack Caudle

146

Matt Kreil

147

Nick Vitale

148

Zach Olmstead

149

Andrew Robinson

150

Pancho Rothwell

151

Pancho Rothwell

152

Wyatt Dillon

Nick Thunman

153

154

Marc Ray

155

Marc Ray

156

Dillon Rudnicki

157

Jordan Wallace

158

Brian Ott

John Morbito

159

As this year’s Phoenix comes to an end, I ask you to keep the people of Alabama and the American south in your prayers. Our community has recently been shaken by tornadoes and severe weather. This has been a challenging time for the University of Alabama and our neighbors. But the stones will be gathered. We will rebuild. We will act as men and women for others.

Matt Weider ’10, Editor-in-Chief , The Phoenix XXV

160