The Phoenix, 2023

The Phoenix 2023

Roses

- Nick Gaston ‘23, Editor-in-Chief

are red, Violets are blue, and from the Ashes, the Phoenix rises anew

The Phoenix

2023 - Volume XXXVIII

EDITOR IN CHIEF

Nick Gaston

EDITORIAL COMMITTEE

Anderson Bishop, Hayden Burnside, Tobin Choquette, Abram Cutler, Teddy Friesz, JP Loyko, Jack Scandling, James White

PRODUCTION COMMITTEE

Enzo Bunag, Joey Bunag, Lucas Rohde, Ryan Scott

MODERATOR

Dr. Harry Rissetto

SPECIAL THANKS

Mr. Joe Ross, Mr. Matt Duffy, Mrs. Shelly Farace, Mr. Ciaran Freeman, Mr. Steve Beaulieu, Mr. Andrew Bevilacqua, Ms. Kathleen Clark, Mrs. Helen Free, Mrs. Teresa Jackson, Ms. Mary Kate Kimiecik, Mr. Bill Pierce, Ms. Kylee Piper, Mr. Joe Sampugnaro, Ms. Sarah Strohecker, Mr. Randy Trivers, Mr. Patrick Welch, Mr. Ian Wertz, Ms. Shannen Milletary, Ms. Emily Murray, Peter Mildrew ‘22, Liam Downing ‘21, Michael Kennedy ‘20, Henry Sullivan ‘20, Lucas Scheider Galiñanes ‘19, Ethan Tobey ‘19, Alex Gomez ‘18, Rylan Madison ‘18, Tommy Boyce ‘17, Quinn Aitchison ‘17, Luke Allen ‘16, Holden Madison, ‘16, Chris Hrdy ‘15, Kevon Turner ‘15, Matt Buckley ‘14, Joe Dahut ‘14, Christian Forte ‘14, Matt Druckenbrod ‘13, Dominic Plantamura ‘13, Andrew Richard ‘13, John Morabito ‘12, Aaron Clark ‘12, Daniel Sweet ‘12, Tom Robertson ‘11, Matt Weider ‘10, Johannes Schmidt ‘09, Will Felker ‘08, and all students who submitted art and literature for consideration.

Cover Art: The Gonzaga Community, Gonzagafest S’22

Dedication

The 2023 edition of The Phoenix is dedicated to Gonzaga’s outstanding teacher of AP Literature and Composition, Mr. Steve Beaulieu - a.k.a. “Mr. B.” Whether he is inspiring the next generation of poets and writers or crushing his students in chess without mercy, Mr. B’s presence on Eye Street is as welcome as the International Food Fair. While, if pressed, we might actually admit that we missed him when he was out for the majority of the second semester, we are sincere in our desire to honor him forever in the pages of Gonzaga’s premiere literary and fine arts magazine, which surely must be the greatest thing to happen to him this year. Congratulations to Mr. B (and his growing family)!

L I T

The Wall: Mexico Markeith Hogan

The line between right and wrong what divides me from you is the destination

Where I work with my hands and feet, moving the earth, beating metal, and cleaning your mess.

But you work in luxury, office space at your disposal, freedom by law. One false claim and the law turns the other cheek.

Not for me though, for me it’s running through Hell’s obstacle course every day where one distorted move could send me back to the beginning where it all began.

The wall as my cloak, a chance to hide my old self to freshen their view,

where the well of opportunity is full and the likelihood to evolve is infinite

2022 LANGSTON HUGHES POETRY PRIZE WINNER

Voices

Richard Scott

For Adnan Syed who was wrongly convicted for murder in 1999

Lift every voice and sing The praises of a hopeless justice system?

For those who will hug and kiss him till Earth and Heaven ring

Ring with the harmonies of Liberty ironically sung by a jury with a flawed conclusion

And since his culpability isn’t proven let our rejoicing rise

High as the listening skies that he was only able to see when permitted

And the screams of jubilation that he was acquitted let them resound loud as the rolling sea

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us and one that we shamefully still have not learned from

At least he was given another chance although it is too late for some so let us sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us

Facing the rising sun of our new day begun a day for Adnan that finally won’t start in a cell

And since there is another invalid case and heartbreaking story to tell let us march on till victory is won

2022 LANGSTON HUGHES POETRY PRIZE WINNER

We Markeith Hogan After Gwendolyn Brooks

We real cool. We march around, our collars popped, too cold for the world. We Left school. We gather near the park. Where we share the earth and the knowledge of what it takes to grow nonwhite. We

Lurk late. We stay till the sun is gone, till the bugs chirp and the street lights turn on. We Strike straight. The dawn of our generation cursed and our cry’s course yet, the only voice heard is the echos,

our own. We Sing sin. Watched through a third eye, how am I viewed?

Am I admired, glorified, honored? We Thin gin.

Dreaming of a world where reality is what we make it, to celebrate what could be. We

Jazz June.

Till the new day dawns, the pressure of duty dazed, till the hourglass of our existence expires. We

Die soon.

Anxious Voices Hayden Burnside

My voice bellows loud, louder than the trumpets from on high My voice screeches high, higher than clouds at their apex in the sky. Yet, why does my voice get suffocated in the endless ocean waves crashing on the jagged coast of chatter.

When my voice yells out, but nobody listens, did it even happen? Did my point matter, and if my point doesn’t matter, do I even matter?

Can anyone hear me, or do they even want to?

When no one wants to hear me, my thoughts, words and body become useless. Only a slave to the people that know, because they scream the loudest, they control my past, present, and future

The voice is strong, strong enough to move mountains, yet my voice, my weak-bodied voice, scratches only the tiniest pebbles

Why is my voice not heard?

Ode to Immigrants Hector Reyes

Tired of suffering, wanting a new lifestyle. Brave enough to break the laws. Courageous enough to take that risk. Fearless of the consequences.

Walking through the desert. Swimming through bodies of water. Praying they won’t be caught. All for an opportunity for change.

Coming to a place you would never imagine being. Attempting to create a better future for your descendants. Leaving home at the risk of never finding home again.

Having the courage to close a door, to open a new one. Some welcome you, others want you out.

Following the wise words of Emma Lazarus, we should all “lift our lamps beside the golden door.”

The Whisperer at My Door

Michael McKnight, Jr

WHO knocks at my door when all hope is lost?

Oh is it you? Reaper, whisperer of the night

when night falls, you become my friend when the sun lays waste you become my protector when it’s my time to ascend to the heavens, you become my guide

your Blade as sharp as tungsten needles our Aura as dark as a midnight sky

the warmth of your hands as warm as cold night Your darkness beats louder than a body’s beating heart

flowers sink in the presence of your smiles eyes roll in the absence your growls

your skulled face sings Melodies stronger than the midnight blues

I tremble in joy waiting for the good news

when I hear the knock at my door I look out of the shallow shell and I say to myself

Who knocks at my door?

Oh whisperer, oh reaper, I’ve come to accept your crimson love and hear your darkened roar

I praise you as the one I seek the whisperer at my door

They’re all Warriors

Richard Scott

I’m from?

More so what made me.

Who made me?

What helped me blossom from that bushy-haired baby?

I, once, was asked: “Who are the warriors in your family?” I instinctively responded: “They’re all warriors.”

My last name flooded the Post after Friday Nights in the Fall. 18 was the life limit for my father and his cousins. But this presumed guarantee transfigured into triumph and prosperity. A certain respect gravitated through Barry Farms earned by my Grandfather. The example set by Rip, a pillar in his community.

The Brown and Simpson side was more “Yes sir”, “No ma’am”. The military routine and culture coursed through their veins, which created generations full of those who embody discipline and love. But even this fierce family enhanced the tradition-rich pews that resided on East Capitol St. A regime built on Tennessee Avenue.

What made me?

The guidance of those who came before me and those who did everything they weren’t supposed to.

Who made me?

Grace-filled Gifts from God that appeared in the form of family.

What helped me blossom from that bushy-haired baby? Learning how to give back what they gave me.

Don’t call me African American It doesn’t represent me

You have 23 and Me and Ancestry but I can’t trace my history past the bloody seas that brought slavery

You erased my language my religion my food

my music

You erased me and created something different

a new man

One with rich culture

One who works twice as hard

One who laughs at adversity and strives for their vanguard

So although you changed me, I can’t be plowed I am not African

I am a black American and I am proud

My Time Hayden Wierzba

I stare, awake but not aware

Focused, but not obsessed

Waiting for my time, My moment, My purpose

Will I have the courage to fly, far away from sanctuary to a paradise unknown?

I will try, yes, I will try

And in my moment of greatest strife, I will rise, no, I will thrive

My time is coming, awake and focused I’ll be

For when my time comes, I will not flee

Collision

Mekhi Spriggs

Cheers to me not understanding why why I came from the depths of separation, a separation of two worlds as if they had no relation, drifting apart slowly, fading away into the distance, me not knowing if they’ll ever find each other in this instance.

Cheers to me not understanding why, these two worlds collided in unison, bringing the best out of each other, forming a bond one like no other, showing me what family really meant imperfect yet so harmonic so

Cheers to me not understanding why.

A dream Jalen Bogues

In accord to Harlem By

Langston Hughes

When the dream drys up Do you pour water on it to see if it can grow and touch the heavens like it once did?

When the dream festers are you consistently putting neospirin even though you know it won’t help because this sore is deeper than just the surface?

When the dream stinks and rotts do you remember those boiling mornings at the crack of dawn when you great grandmother is teaching you how to hand wash clothes? The afternoons

your great grandmother boasting to her friends about how you dream because they could not

When the dream crusts over do you throw it away? or

do you put it in the microwave to salvage the sweet sugary greatness that is the dream?

When the dream sags do you sling it over your shoulder look in the eyes of the oppressor and say no more and continue to climb the hill?

When the dream is deferred is it an internal or external explosion?

Chocolate City

Richard Scott

A sacred city built on the backs of Go-Go and the Chili Bowl A place where many found peace when savagery rained down on them The capital that has as much culture and tradition as a country

The Chocolate City

Gunshots and screams fill its Northwest streets

Sprinting civilians flash by my glaring eyes

A mutilated metropolis, unfolds before me

Is this Chocolate less sweet?

Teens with destructive intentions and the tools to execute The absence of guidance results in sobbing Mothers and balloon-filled skies

A solemn sanctuary mutates into a battlefield

How sweet can chocolate be if it is covered in blood?

An Ode to My Airpods

Axel Chicas

Music flows out the small white pod enhancing the feeling within my heart.

My music on blast the noise around me drifts away

The world becomes my own.

The small white case that holds my peace my body drifting out of this world I begin to feel euphoric.

Both pods in my ear every word and beat flowing through my soul never leaving anywhere without them

My music binds with me to silence out this loud world I walk in. An everyday praise of a metal pod.

The stress I carry drops.

The music infuses into my soul.

My AirPods green light blinking once again, ready for another day of use.

The Bed Kai Jones

Our first-world slumber. Their tabo pleasure.

My first friend and last venue. His star-crossed luxury. That black man’s bed was made of metro tiles and chick fil a toilet paper.

Yet his bricked back was more grateful than my pillowed body.

And when I saw him curl up at the metros feet Like a child in his cradle, I remembered his paradise lost. His childhood gone and his now-hood poisoned. But he still smiled in sleeps arms. He still smiled on his maroon bricks. So how did I frown?

And why didn’t I smile.

Death Parade Michael McKnight

war is a parade we live to love and we fight to die painlessly. in the end, blood shed shall remain the battlefield is cold not the cold that sweeps the crystal arctic regions in the north the cold that scorches the earth with terror

war is a parade that watches grass burned to its final breath only a memory is left of its lush green color

human limbs scattered across the field with the skulls of forgotten men as they lay on wooden pikes so sharp you could see the reflection of the bullet that pierced its darkened hole

crippling men with sweat and blood illuminating their veins mothers drenched in tears so salty, they could fill the entire sea

pain and sorrow as families watch their loved ones burn so dark their ashes give off both a sweet and charcoal filled smell

only to be used as gunpowder to light up the battlefield like fireflies passing by

guns raised to the heads of man as they plead for mercy as they stare their perpetrators in their sky blue eyes filled with a hatred as crimson as a red moon

children seeing true terrors come upon them

smiles as good as frowns widen as a bullet and gun clicking to the beat of fear galloping down their throats their spines shatter and ripen in the battlefield as a dandelion that was.

heads exploding like puzzle pieces falling on the floor as the remains are wiped off the smile of this devil

as its disfigured body punctures the wounds of man’s flesh turning it inside out and shoving it in a casket deeper than the earth’s mantle

and finally. the red beating heart comes to its last beat.

that demon living inside of us it will never know peace.

The Toughest Hill We Must Climb Hayden Burnside

We thought today would be different. We thought today We would love our body; love the brown chocolate chip freckles that dotted our face like the stars

We thought today our hair, our long wilting hair, would fall right into its place. But…

Those were only thoughts made muddier by competing words ever present in my mind,

We thought today, of all days, would be different. We needed today to be different.

It was a challenging day. It crashed with moments conflicting like color. We needed to be okay. We thought it was okay.

What is wrong with us?

This day was no different. Just like any other

A day when the curtains never opened. A day when our Floors were the hottest sidewalks. A day not daring us to tackle it; not allowing me to step out and face it.

Why did We get to think today would be different

Our days are always the same. But We thought if We wished extra hard, today would be different

Two Souls Kobi Sana

The first soul is selfless. always putting others above itself

The first soul is loving. always forgiving others, even to a fault.

The first soul is optimistic always looking at the sun in a pitch black night

The second soul is diligent always working to improve the life it lives

The second soul is unwavering always standing by it’s convictions, unmoved.

The second soul is spiritual always looking to enhance both body and mind

Both souls combined to make me I wonder how my soul will turn out.

A Sinner’s Wish Kai

Jones

Ever since I heard the song of sentience, And my brain partnered with my ear to acknowledge colorful sounds,

I have been told that for my life to have meaning, I must labor. I must work.

This brick value was built into my brain. forced onto me, as a mother shoves spoonfuls of thick red medicine into an unwilling child’s mouth. Against its will.

Except I was never sick.

Still, I swallowed. Medicine turned to poison. boy turned to slave.

Both traitors of nature.

So now,

With caffeinated veins and hanging eyes, I stumble through my existence. I fill my days and stretch my “to do” list. I let school devour me, chew me up, swirl me around in its abusive mouth.

I’ve substituted the memory of grandpa’s voice with the quadratic equation.

I’ve traded the feeling of velvet carpet under my tiny leather feet on a Sunday morning, for the names of each of Henry the 8th’s wives. I no longer remember how it felt to sprint around grandma’s doll house,

To spin and fly, To feel her vulnerable skin.

So for one minute. Just one.

(60 seconds in case you dared to forget) Let me exist. Would that be such a sin?

Today was Different Mark Jungers

The Winter breeze felt like a tsunami smashing against my face

My body was numb from head to toe

I Normally walked by the signs of desperation on the sidewalk

But today was different

I started to sympathize with them I took a look in my wallet and saw no money Normally I would keep walking

But today was different

Even in the worst conditions

People are fighting just to survive I kept walking and eventually found a shelter Normally I would keep walking

But today was different

I chose to enter the shelter on foot

Because today was different

War For Eternity

Asa Mayo

Inspired by Kadir Nelson’s “American Uprising”

We are in this war for eternity. Yet we keep our fists held high, We can’t breathe. But we still sing our song.

We suffocate as tear gas infiltrates our nostrils as we go down in flames, as we scream but aren’t heard, like we’re stuck underwater.

We’ve cried on our sharp knees praying for a breath from this war, while cops use their knees to rob the breath we pray for.

We still can’t breathe. But we are in this war for eternity, So the fight never ends.

Remembrance Markeith Hogan

To my late grandfather Whose words hardly caressed me

A hollowing hole, lacking your presence, embraces my body

the father of my mother, the only world you knew were the streets of Yokohama

Only once your life was made past tense did your story enlighten me

To you, I share my thoughts the incense we burn and the offerings we bring

The sound of the standing bell shimmers in my spirit

I wish I was there across the sea

Instead, left clueless where water separates the connection of kin, the connection of blood

Sometimes Markeith Hogan

After “The Way Life Goes” by Lil Uzi Vert

Goals fade dedication disappears intentions turn thoughts

I know it hurts sometimes while commitment slowly corrodes into a broken promise but you’ll get over it

It may be difficult at first to watch yourself lose passion where you once found rhapsodies of elation, but you’ll find another life to live

The torture of your heart gradually burns as you pump every ounce of golden crimson through your factory of bones and veins I swear you’ll get over it

We create delusions convincing ourselves raw emotion should be hidden

locked in the forgotten archives of your optimistic desires, I know.

You’ve got nothing left to give nothing but shame and dissatisfaction about what could have been what should have been if one detail changed

I was idle dull fruitless defined me stuck with me I was chained to the static sounds of my thoughts eyes staring at its brother brick wall

boredom engulfed me with fear of time lost convicted of treason by my labels I embark on an adventure in search of a new identity goodbye.

The Noisy Tide Aidan McGee

The pills slide down my throat, A bitter taste, a sinking note. Depression, they say, it’ll cure, But my mind still churns, unsure.

I’m drowning in the noise, A chaos of thoughts, no poise. The sea is rough, my mind the tide, And I cannot stop it, I cannot decide.

My thoughts are broken splinters. Stop! Stop cutting me. Imagery of a stormy polluted sea, A tempest that is consuming me.

This cure is not right, so wrong. I do everything I can to be strong. Medicine that is not the cure, A treatment that is not secure.

My mind’s a beast, a wild mistake. I fight the animal to stay awake. It is tearing me apart, limb from limb, My body and thoughts, it is taking in.

The medication is not the key, The noise of my own mind, me. But for now, I’ll keep on trying, And hope my mind will stop flying.

Camera’s on Me Axel Chicas

Dios, Union, Libertad flowing through my veins Representing the country that cared for my parents for 30 years.

Here I am finding my reason to keep pushing Traveling and making friends finding serenity just in the touch of a ball.

Watching my little brother grow to be equally as passionate, admiring him wanting to be just like me Engaging myself into responsibility, caring for a boy who was just like me.

Growing everyday eighteen years of age learning new lessons along the way And improving in areas I know can change.

A Beginner’s Guide to Being Black in America

Richard Scott

1.

Keep your hood down, so your candy and iced tea aren’t weaponized. Give them no reason to see you as more of a threat than what they already believe you to be.

2.

Don’t play with a toy gun in public. Even though six years later your counterparts freely kill with real ones. Leave your toy gun at home. You will become the target even if they know it’s a toy

3.

Don’t look suspicious while driving. Even if you didn’t perform that robbery,you did. Don’t you dare reach for your license. A wallet looks too much like a gun in your hands. Your word means nothing. your skin tells the whole story.

4.

Never jog outside. Your strides can be your demise. No, of course you didn’t do anything wrong but your complexion has never been seen as right. Even if you’ve never, burglarized you’re a burglar. Your melanin is suspicious enough.

5.

Never defend yourself in your own home. I know it sounds crazy but your self-defense is illegal and is reason enough to fire 32 rounds in your home. Even if you were preparing to work the frontlines of a pandemic; your skin is still a disease.

6.

Keep your hands at ten and two and follow the speed limit. A traffic stop can become your execution. Yes, the plague has spread. All skin folk ain’t kinfolk. Keep your expectations low because your own brothers don’t want to support your highs.

7.

All you can really do is pray to your Higher Power. Our lives are more so in their hands than ours.

I grieve for you Hayden

Burnside

Today was a tough day they officially no longer would come over And my room feels so quiet, echoing my intrusive thoughts There are so many holes where things used to be holes that pierce my heart to peer through Because, for some reason, I don’t want to relive better days And even when I’m not looking at them Everything in my room reminds me Reminds me of their grey Nike sweatshirt the card I bought them for Christmas the memories washing down my eyes like rain through a gutter

Drip, drip, shatter.

Being in my room feels very weird. Because for as long as I can remember, they’ve never not been there. They’ve never not been there for me. but now they’re gone, gone for good

We crafted this room together

Created the love and destroyed it like broken plates And I keep thinking about the first night you crashed into my life how you slept on the soggy mattress which was more Springs than bed

Now my room is filled with more furniture, but yet it feels so empty

And I feel a whole new level of aloneness

A level so deep that I’m begging to get out

But Hey, I usually like to stay alone except for this, loneliness is different

I’m grieving this chapter of My Life that no longer exists.

I’m grieving for someone who is very much alive but yet I’m not grieving for myself

I grieve for them.

January’s Misted Night

Kai Jones

I felt joy when I saw the mist

The petrichor smell over an inky sky

The stars blotted out

The sun overthrown by her pale sister.

People are rarely ever left to think. There’s just not enough time.

Sand moves too quickly in glass. And our senses suppress thought. But there are no senses in the fog.

Eyes are blind.

Ears are deaf.

Mouths are dry.

Skin is stale.

And your cortex is left in its shell.

Alone.

A pearl of humanity.

So I felt joy when I saw the fog.

Because its droplets made me a 16 minute. superhero. One that mocked Father Time. And fractured the clock.

Lost and Alone

Brayden DeVaul

Oh life, how you have changed my perspective. How fast I have been locked away at home like a lonely rat with no objective. For I am left alone, not free to roam.

I spend my days recalling memories. Alone in my cold dark room, feeling lost, pictures play like a documentary. For in-person meetings come at a cost.

The active kid I once was has vanished. A lost soul in a smashed society. The lively boy has left feeling banished. Alone with nothing but anxiety.

Feeling astray, I resort to my mind.

Reminding me everything will be fine.

Our World Johnny Broome

Our word is broken; in a downward spiral

Nobody cares about anything unless it goes viral

People get all their opinions from the internet

And every other teen it seems is smoking cigarettes

No one cares about anyone else

Looking out for not a soul except for themselves

Nowadays anything could offend someone

And people can be in jail for doing nothing wrong

No one seems to think at all; humans have turned to bots

Personal morality is tied up all in knots

I think it’s time we made a change

Altered our way of life

Tried some things that may seem strange

But might just stop our strife

We all need to join together

To make this whole thing work

If we want to be happy forever

We have to clear the murk

We have to wake up at long last

Just like a springtime tree

We have to move on from the past

And look to what the future could be

Baths

Edward Malley

Baths are cool

The outside world vanishes into the background

And for a moment, we’re just a child

The water’s calm, the tub is still We sink back into a moment of peace

Baths let us reminisce of simpler times

Where baths were seen as cruel

But the toys drown out our whines

The scents of soap serve as reminders Of our remaining innocence

In the warm water

We lounge in memories

The good and bad of baths

When we submerge, The memories surround us

The reminder of our internal juvenile

Baths are cool

Baths are fun

We take baths to feel young

To be transported into simpler days

The Nameless Kobi Sana

my eyes open to a midnight room I call to my body, my body does not answer my mind races as my body remains still, frozen, afraid.

I only have power over my eyes. that power looks to the corner of the room. there stands a figure, bland and lacking a name, yet unforgettable I stare at the figure. without eyes, the figure stares back the Nameless writhes toward my bed, reaching out for my name. it gets closer and closer. so close my name is almost taken.

Hayden Wierzba

Waiting, yearning, anticipating Am I waiting for someone? Something? Surrounded by support but feeling nothing Is it me? Am I still waiting for me? Do I know myself, know who I want to be? Am I worthy of my privilege, my position, my status?

Am I a humble man living amongst gods, the smartest, the fastest?

I am me, an idea constantly changing time and time again An idea, so pivotal and important it shows itself differently, an infinite amount to choose from Eight billion ideas, that’s what me means to me.

Acne Nicholas Rodriguez

My Mother says the acne on my face looks rough, just like my older brother’s. The acne on my forehead, while not a whole lot, is still quite noticeable. My Mother says that I should do something about it, but I don’t want to, because I am fine with it. Maybe that’s because it’s kind of like my personality. On the outside I can look a little rough and jaded, but on the inside I’m soft and smooth. She wants me to change how I look, but that’s not me, I may be a little rough on the edges, but that is who I am, and I wouldn’t change it for anything.

Omission Ryan Paxton

Through the park the boy was walking, His mom and pop were just behind. Although it seems like they were talking They had something else on their mind.

As the boy walked into the dark Mom and pop could not be seen. And then, a sound, a Bark! But what could that mean?

The boy had tried to run. If only mom and pop were there. He tripped, he fell, the boy had spun And still mom and pop were not aware

The air became thin and the wind whistled A dark cloud appeared and it started to drizzle Mom and pop had finally seen, That their lovely boy was not around. They looked everywhere: behind trees and on the ground. And then they saw it, the deep ravine.

The boy was there, At the bottom. It was not fair. They had forgotten.

A circle of lips, coated in a glossy layer of saliva the volume ricochets off the walls filling my ears

I sit there tapping my fingers on the hairs of my legs, pondering. An open door. I step my muscles loosen, I release the tension in my jaw I freeze–

I’m stopped.

The adhesive from their breath leaves me, still I step down from the pedestal hoping for another opportunity, Their eyes move forward never turning back

For The Judge, Jury and Executioner

Noah Moody

After the murder of George Floyd

For the man who elected himself Judge Jury and Executioner on the date May 25, 2020

For the man who deemed a human life equivalent to $20 and decided his judgment would be final

And for the murderer of 46 year old black man George Floyd

May your lungs become empty and the breath that you stole be returned to its rightful owner

May you feel the weight of the pain and hatred you’ve caused like a knee on your neck

One can often feel

Lost

Unaware

Or even

Overwhelmed

Where to start?

So many paths, Outcomes,

Too many decisions, Too many possibilities, Im puzzled!

What choice is right?

Wrong? Both? Neither.

I ache with every new hypothetical, Turning to actuality,

It goes on

An endless stream, Miles upon miles, What feels like an eternity

Becomes days

Time feels tedious

Yet rapid

Wasted

Yet diminished

What am I to do?

I feel heavy

My brain spirals

To an oblivion

Hopeless Lost

Hard Work, Dirty Hands, and a Cup of Water

Brian Rubio

It’s not easy being Latin-American in a racist society

You get heckled and get called slurs by people with no sobriety

A family of hard workers, built from the ground up

Paid minimum wage, barely enough for water in a cup

A people who strive for a better life

But I guess all people do is see us in the darkness of night

I try so hard to embrace my culture, my familia

Yet the racial stereotypes just have to get matched,

I’m just trying to live my own life

Just go along with the waves and tide

Yet those slurs and stereotypes have to slip out right?

Cause I guess you have to start a racial fight

A fight of injustice, a fight with no moral light

Because being Latino’s a bad reality in the medias sight,

The world can try and cover up the history

But I know what happened the our vast majority

My people

Your people?

No our people

Died creating this land that people call America

This so called “land of the free and home of the brave”

Looking back, we were some of the bravest

Yet we’re the prisoners in this country broken by racism

We all worked hard to get here

The history covered up and smeared

Every single one of us has to live in fear

That we’ll get shot or we’ll get deported, No matter what, we’ll come back, we’ll stand up

Whether we have or do not have enough money for this water in a cup

A well constructed duo Qualities combined become qualities that shine and come full circle like an end to a rhyme

There’s no one, without the other No other, without the one To choose one parent to write about would’ve been egregious To describe my appreciation I am left speechless

Both inspire in different ways

By example or by words, either way I take notice

Even silence is heard

Green Kai Jones

I was cool and breezy, worry-less and blissful. Then it happened.

Fire started to eat away at my heart, my judgment became unstable and my breath

un-even.

My eyes painted with a wash of hate. green hate.

My blood boiled.

Too hot for camomile tea.

Too hot for bathing.

Too hot.

Then I became green

A pitiful emerald

Forbidden.

Every atom in my body began to stab and pull and tear. I began to leak

Poisonous smoke.

My tongue a venomous snake.

Lethal.

Toxic.

Deadly.

Run.

For Jealousy is a deadly sin

A long journey is like a winding path Curving here and there With no end in sight

Seeming to stretch on for all eternity

Journeys lead to places unknown Off the beaten path, away from familiarity Which can be an uncomfortable feeling For, as humans, we crave certainty

Journeys always lead you in a different direction To a place where one hasn’t been before Our instinct might be to turn back, to give up But then you miss the thrill

For journeys change each individual Whether in big ways or small If one just opens their mind

To the possibilities of a new adventure

Even though a journey is full of twists and turns as well as ups and downs

One should not be afraid to take a leap of faith

Because, who knows, your life might just flip upside down

Sweet Childhood

Asa Mayo

After Get Ready - Rod Wave ft. Kodak Black

Oh sweet childhood, you’ll be missed dearly, yearly, a new identity is established and this year I say goodbye.

Oh joyful childhood, there was a time when I remember when I did not know any pain, when happiness flooded my brain.

Oh playful childhood, now that you’re leaving me, I look back.

I have regrets and made mistakes they’re all memories made.

Oh cheerful childhood, I look forward to the upcoming days, you made me, me.

I thank you for everything, and I’ll always hold you in my heart, however, now you say goodbye.

Oh sweet childhood, I’ve had a lot of sleepless nights, a lot of grinding, I was going to say this took forever, but this is perfect timing.

Discipline

Axel Chicas

Inside your heart

I know

you don’t want to finish this last assignment this last rep this last shift.

Tired Unmotivated Impatient yet you still finish everything.

Heavily rubbing your eyes as you slowly stare into the soul of the floor knowing you have to do everything all over again yet you still do it.

Embarking on the constant cycle of pain, regret, fear knowing you could quit at any moment.

Thank you for pushing yourself for this is how you practice discipline.

Ode to My Squirrels

Canfield Lee Whiddon

To my four legged Apostles, Who spread my gospel through feces.

To my furred Paladins, Who prune my bark and ingest its invaders.

To my tailed Crusaders, Who rest from your battles under my vibrant umbrellas.

To my buck-toothed Zealots, Who I gift my fruit and entrust my future.

Thank you Friends.

With Sincerity and Love - Your Oak, Your Tree.

Companionship

John Siemietkowski-Needham

When I’m alone during the day I long to hear your voice I wish my feelings would go away But it seems I have no choice

All the fun we had I wish it could just stay But I can’t be sad

Like a bird I long to fly away It does no good, Dwelling in the past Although misunderstood Our time has ended at last

I have a dog and two crazy cats

One constantly barking and two acrobats

Like a circus where performers run around, With some on the tightrope, and on the floor a clown

I still have scratch marks from petting Jojo the cat, While Mayzie the dog would always allow that.

One of them bangs on the blinds to wake me up, And when walking the other no time is freed up, Yes with all of their barking, meowing, eating, and scratching, Their shaking their tails and squirrels they are catching, Yes, it is impossible but sometimes I wish, How simple life would be if I only had a fish.

A Joyful Melody

Andrew Kalitka

The sun beamed down like a fresh summer’s day, From New York to Paris, To Tokyo, to Montego Bay, The moon shined its light as bright as a new sense of hope, From Canada to Spain, To India, to France’s slopes Everyone appreciated the beauty of the earth, They cherished the birds and the waves, And treasured everything from south to north

By the Words of Others

Markeith Hogan

After Childish Gambino’s Redbone

We rise to Daylight, submerged in the thick unloving thoughts of the world we wake up feeling life is scripted manifested the words of other’s ring in our hollow shells

Like our lives won’t play right, I used to know, hope-filled existences worth more than a dime Yet my mind gets persuaded, the words of others rattle within the deepening walls in my head, and that don’t feel right

We dedicate moon cycles to acknowledge our scrutinized skin, but It makes me put away my pride

Do we only mask ourselves and pretend?

One month a year to “embrace” our past, to forgive our foe to pay the long unfulfilled debts to our ancestors

So long you make us wait, so long You

Love For My Neighborhood

Canfield Lee Whiddon

When I wake up to prepare, for my voyage to the second-rate super market.

When I commence my journey, and am saluted by my elders roosted upon their porches.

When I’m well on my trek, and the scent of age restricted plants pierces My chest.

When I’m approaching my landing, and I am greeted by purring cats, and the singing birds they dance with.

When I arrive at my port of call, and I hear the sounds of shots from curled hopeful hands, pleading for a seven.

When I retrieve my bounty and commence my voyage home,

I Feel Love.

Am You Mekhi Spriggs

Congratulations, you finally made it becoming who you aspired to be though it took time i’m glad you waited

molded by your environment forged by trial & error

the fear of not knowing what’s in store the sickening feeling of wanting more

seeing your future a thousand times clearer you, the mute in the back of the class seen but never heard you, lurking with your head held down look up you made it we made it

i am you and you were me

I

Judgment

Charles Jay “C.J” Dunbar Wagner The 1st

There was a man named Jeff, with brown hair and blue eyes

Average looking guy, 10 and half shoe size, Six Foot one, maybe add a half there as well

Pretty average, and his greatest accomplishment was visiting the philly bell

Jeff felt dizzy one day, so he decided to take a nap on the beach shore

He did, for about 5 hours, and then some more, and then some more

Until Jeff decided that he was just going to leave his life behind.

Go somewhere new, something new maybe he’ll find

So he got up and left, flew from country to city

Hoping to find something that would keep him busy

Although the entire time, his heart just felt annoyed

Like there was an eternal gap, like there was a great black void

Jeff got older and older and older

Until he couldn’t care for himself, back about as stiff as a boulder

So Jeff gave up, after 80 great years

Decided to not indulge in any more tears

But then Jeff woke up, but he wasn’t at home.

There was a bright light, so brightly it shone

The source of the light was a giant man on a throne

Jeff thought “well certainly I am not at home”

The man on the throne intimidated Jeff

Yet also gave off a sense of love that poured out of his breath

Yet as Jeff tried to stand up, and figure out what was going on

The throne cried out, it left Jeff crying for his Mom

“Jeffery Richardonaldsmithson, as I look through your life,

I see nothing but hatred, anger, and causing others strife Taking the money so others had to lie in the sludge

Did I not tell you, judge and you will be judged?

I said again and again, without any fault or abhor, ‘Sell everything and give it to the poor’

My child, did you not listen, not do as I asked?

No, you were greedy, took all the money you could into your grasp.

So now, in your final moments before everything ends, Think about all the wrongs you did to your ‘friends’

Because in your life your soul to sin you did sell, So begone, my child, vanquished to the gates of hell.”

Jeffery woke up, flat on his bed.

Drenched in sweat, with an awful pain in his head. He got up, thought, and looked in the mirror, Still six foot one and a half, to him it was never clearer He looked at himself and his surroundings

Considered his money, his relationships, his anger, all of his boundings

As he thought about this dream and whether it was real or not, He quickly remembered that the gates of hell are hot.

A Letter to Words

Hayden Burnside

W-o-r-d-s

Our greatest invention Worlds colliding together with new commonalities.

W-o-r-d-s talk about me like they know me they lie pushing my apparently obtuse feelings aside.

W-o-r-d-s tell me I will get better and that everything is great

W-o-r-d-s

Your letters long enough to pierce my heart long enough to always tell me I don’t matter

W-o-r-d-s

You inspire all tragedies You crack, divide, fracture, and break us down.

Words, your sharp jagged needle of messages Hurt

La Frontera Hector Reyes

Tired of hearing people say, things will change with time, things will get better. Fed up with it.

My parents wanted a new lifestyle, so they took it.

From milking cows, to put food on the table, to building structures.

From washing dishes and selling fruits on the street, to helping others become citizens. Dedication. Hard work.

You may speak Spanish, but you’re not like me. Different.

Like my mother always told me, “Don’t wait for tomorrow, do it today, If tomorrow doesn’t come, you won’t regret a day.

The Delicious Lemon Grass Hugged my Face. Hayden Burnside

I was home

Home in the wind that licked my lips and felt me gently

Home in the comforting weighted blanket of warm winter time baths

Home in the dew-stained grass and green beating lights

Home in the lacquer-coated steps stooped a mountain high

Home in the house that was all my own All my own, and it was home. For the first time I could call something my own; Finally All mine. It was my home alone.

Yet walk two moons before me; The home was a star-filled sky dream. So distant in the night sky, almost gone, yet still twinkling bright.

A dream crushed, eaten up by the hard truth of an EBT. And by the kids wondering glumly, waiting to be fed While a brother on southeast madison street is shot dead by the fed.

The yellow tape and stapled door notice: a reminder of how far there is still left to run. When progress is blindfolded and tied up. It is hard to move anywhere, be different and change.

A dream A wish A though A need Seemed to fall outpaced most realities

So yeah, this house means a little more than a lot. A home with four walls, a place to prove I won. It is all mine.

But I say poverty only runs so fast Run faster and father to escape

To a new home on the warm lemon grass

A home all your own

i open my mouth and then close it again, i open it again but nothing comes out i’m like a fish dumbly blowing bubbles so many words to say knocking on the inside of my brain so many confessions, declarations, questions i take a step forward, then retreat the fury of awkwardness plays at the strings of my vocal cords

i want to spit it out, that lump inside my throat but the air around me stays empty, as quiet as the night

My 4th Birthday Nicholas Rodriguez

I walk down the stairs, my hand slowly dragging along the cold faded black railing. I wonder why the railing is peeling; it was painted recently, but I guess that’s a mystery for another day.

“Happy birthday mi nino bonito!” loudly yells Tia Patty. She seems to be in a good mood today. I also notice that she is holding something small in her hand, which looks kind of like a small milk carton. Maybe it could be for me; that would be pretty cool.

“Thanks Tia Patty, what are you holding in your hand?” I ask rather curiously.

She tells me, “it’s a little milk shaped eraser that I got for you.”

Despite the fact I have nothing to erase, I am still very excited about the eraser. I wonder if she got it for me because of how much I like milk. Probably.

Wow! Mom sure did a good job with the minion decorations. I gently brush against some bright yellow hanging streamers.

Now it’s time to sing the “Happy Birthday”song; everyone’s eyes are on me like hawks watching prey. I’m not sure why I don’t like it, but I just don’t because it sort of scares me and makes me feel anxious.

“Come on Nico, time for happy birthday!” Mom yells in an excited voice.

As everyone gathers around me, I start to feel anxious like something is building up inside of me.

“This can’t be good,” I think to myself. Once everyone starts singing, I begin to bawl. My mom quickly tries to comfort me and get the crying to stop, but I am like a man on a mission, and my mission is to ruin that perfect Facebook photo.

In the end I calmed down, and we just ate some of the carvel chocolate cake with extra crunchies and I opened up some of my presents, but I could tell my mom was still upset about my breakdown. However, to me the only thing that matters right now is the Transformers toy that I just got. The

plastic on the side of the two is bright red with accents of blue and silver. It sure is awesome I think as I activate the blasters on the side of it, shooting out two little plastic bolts.

“Thanks Mom, thanks Dad!” I say eyes wide, and excitement practically seeping out of my face.

Just as I thought things couldn’t get any better, I opened my gift from Abuela, and suffice to say, things became better. As my hand gently peels back the silver crinkly paper, I saw the words Imaginext and lost it. It is the Batcave playset, with a mini Batmobile that I have been asking for for months. That’s kind of weird, the plastic has a strange smell, it’s kind of hard to describe, but it almost reminds me of Abuela’s house. But whatever, I think of it as I go back to rolling the wheels of the batmobile across the fuzzy shag carpet.

After playing with the Batmobile for a while, everything sort of just turns into a fuzz, a fuzz filled with joy, sadness, excitement, and innocence.

Do it again Jalen Bogues

The hot summer heat is beating my back leaving my skin boiling as if I was making a cup of noodles

Yet I would do it all over again

The lack of the feeling of family the hours given into a place that I did not know of until my eighth grade year this burn will forever stain me and my soul as I have seen the relationship between me and my sisters crumble as if it was the twin towers on that horrible day

Yet I would do it all over again

The lingering pain of watching your peers succeed but you have to hide this anger no

you have to hide this sadness with a mask of smile yes

you are happy for them but why not you? What are you not doing? as you sit in the shower and cry until there is no tears only the sound of breathing heavy

Yet I would still do it again

The process is different for everybody I know and mine has been a long and hard one

Yet I would still do it again

Essay Mekhi Spriggs

Who am I? Do I belong here? These are questions I asked myself the day I stepped onto Gonzaga’s campus. When I walked up the stairs and through the double doors of the administrative building, I felt something was off. A chapel stared right at me. I stared back. I then asked myself, “What did I get myself into?”

Little did I know this moment would ignite a spark. It posed a question: “Does being a Christian or a Catholic truly define me?”

Growing up, I went to church with my family. Never keen on actually attending Church, I didn’t understand why I was there. I didn’t understand why my mom dragged me and my older brother every Sunday. But now as I look back, maybe I knew all along that I saw nothing inherently special about being Christian or Catholic.

During my junior year, I did a lot of soul-searching. Because I wasn’t Christian or Catholic, my school submerged me in a religious environment. I wanted to truly understand where I stood amongst my peers. A vast majority of them were Christian or Catholic, but what’s the significance of their religion?

That same year, I took American History. My teacher took pride in ensuring his students knew the real, raw, unfiltered truth about America’s history. That was most important to me, knowing the true history of the religion. I vividly remember a unit where we discussed slaves and their roles within religion. We discussed the Jesuits’ role in slavery, specifically the slavery relevant to my high school, Gonzaga. I learned that without the work of the enslaved people, Gonzaga would not be the school it is today. Furthermore, Christianity would not be what it is today without enslaved people too.

The Jesuits, who profited from slavery, are a religious order in the Catholic Church that is supposedly built on human dignity. This led me to wonder how one could be a person of God but still own slaves. The Catholic Church also teaches that all humanity is equal because, according to the

Bible, we were all created in the image and likeness of God. Although that may be true, it’s certainly not evident today. In 2022 America, my people, Black people, continue to get slaughtered like animals. This led me to understand we need to spread love amongst my community. What I have noticed is that the youth in my community need role models to represent how we should treat others. I want to show and reassure them that every being matters, even if the world doesn’t display that.

Furthermore, even without being a Catholic or Christian, I know I am doing my due diligence within my community and I have realized that’s what matters to me. I have learned that religion does not necessarily define me. I’ve determined I am defined by the way I treat and interact with others. With that being the case, one could read the Bible and other religious doctrines consistently and still live an unfulfilling life.

Nevertheless, Gonzaga continues to help me find myself and grow into the person I am becoming. It continues to give me glimpses of what the real world will be like and how I can exist within it. It has taught me that the world will be full of people who place religion above all else, all the while, dismissing the way we treat each other. Moreover, it taught me there will be people who will judge you for just being you. Additionally, it teaches me that it’s possible to lose yourself if you simply conform to societal norms.

Ultimately, I learned that religion alone does not make you a good person, your heart and intentions do. So, does being Christian or Catholic truly define me? I think not.

Gonzaga Colin Phoel

In the halls of Gonzaga, so grand, Lies a brotherhood that will always stand, Where God and knowledge are the call, And Ignatius’ teachings never fall.

With each step on Eye Street, History whispers with people to meet those who walked before and paved the way, Of those who inspired and made us stay.

The campus echoes with the roar of the crowd, As Eagles soar high above the shroud, And victories are etched in every heart, As bonds of brotherhood never depart.

Gonzaga, a place of strength and might, Where courage and wisdom take flight, And every boy who enters its gate, Through their brotherhood becomes great.

So let us stand with pride and might, As we soar to new and greater heights, For the students that attend Gonzaga is a home away from home, without end.

Black Girl Magic Jalen Bogues

Beat down over and over again but I will rise

The men that are supposed to be lifting you are up

Constantly tear you down and throw you into the paper shredder talk down on you in podcasts to praise skinny white women as if they are not praised enough as if they are not responsible for Emmitt Till

But I have this little thing in my back pocket a little magic whenever times get rough

Called Forgive and Forget

I will always be here Us black women will be our brothers keeper even if our keeper is not our brother

thank you?

Sam Ewald

you didn’t know me, now, you do. but, with time

I realized how I felt is no more. those feelings. rooted in the ground drifting I’m weightless. you didn’t know me, now, you do.

Our fingers tapping on our small screens Communicating with no vision I didn’t need eyes to see my obsession those feelings. A relic aging with each moment passing I realized

You infatuated me. Now, we share casual conversation

You didn’t know me. Now you do.

Home Hayden Burnside

Why am I the arch

Pushed in from all angles

Burdened and strained with emotions seemingly endless The pressure is suffocating, like the weight of a mortgage.

It’s all placed on me

Crumbling under a weak structure

Built on lies and supported by indifference

The mortar of love is cracking

Brick By Brick

With an eroded foundation No insurance would cover this house

Ramshackle and feeble, we lay Desolate, waiting to split The arch can only keep our home together so long before The break

Screams of fright within the walls, violins humming in the halls, clicking footsteps on the floor, hinges creak while opening the door, costumed creatures fill the room, ready to send a man to his doom, then suddenly, they stop.

The lights come on and the creatures cease, and the director says “Run it again, please!”

you mean Mexican you mean alien or the drug dealer or the dude in the corner of the drugstore that’s what some people think but we aren’t what they say we are we are a diverse community searching for a better… Opportunity we ask for this privilege

many die in the process of arriving at this…

“Free Country” the one where we are caged in detention centers no access to medicine but we strive

Our ancestors have taught us to be brave to face any challenge on our face

HISPANIC

it’s more than just a race

We are the people who make it special We inspire change for the next generation We represent our community

We are Hispanics

Hispanic Francisco Gonzalez

an elegy for mr. man

Kobi Sana

hey mr. man i never met you you don’t know i exist but im thankful for you you were the tree that planted its roots in trinidad a tree that begot a son a son that missed the guidance of a father a son of purple who broke the chains of the streets a man who forged a beautiful night sky and a once bright star so mr. man i never met you you don’t know i exist but i’m thankful for you

A R T

Samuel Terry

Patrick Dunigan

Francisco Gonzalez

Jake Gupton

Mikey Williams

Joey Greenhaus

Luca Rosa

Joey Greenhaus

Luca Rosa

Joey Bunag

James White

Luca Rosa

Jack Slater

Alex Johnston

Alex Johnston

Alex Johnston

James White

James White

Daniel Bollman

Luca Rosa

Webb Hayes

Peter Mildrew ‘22, Editor-in-Chief, Phoenix 2022

Mission

The Phoenix, established in 1979, serves as an annual collection showcasing student artistic and literary works.

Policy

The Phoenix is an after-school extracurricular activity that works independently from other school programs. All student content is welcomed and considered for publication. Throughout the year works of art and lit are submitted by our 940-member student body and selected for publication by editorial staff members. 1050 copies are produced and distributed to students, faculty, and staff.

Collophon

The Phoenix is printed by Graphic Visions in Gaithersburg, MD. The cover is 80# gloss white, #1 sheet, aqueous coated, prnted 4/4. Text is #70 gloss GV house brand. Binding is glue perfect. The staff used Adobe InDesign and Photoshop. Typefaces include Palatino Linotype for body text; Minion Pro for artists names and pagination.