Montage 2018

montage

2018

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montage

2018

volume 58 Greenhill School

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Table of Contents [Haikus] 4

[Prose]

[Poetry]

Michelle Lee June Turbeville Ava Markhovsky Finn Johnson

8 10 12 14 16

Fairy Dust Grace Doyle Pages Brian Zhou Redefining Pakistan Sofia Babool Theory Tej Dhingra The Bisecting Orb Scott Wang

20 65 Questions You’ve Never Heard Before Anonymous 22 Shelter from the Raging Sea Luke Contreras 24 Body Horror Sudeep Bhargava 26 Don’t Forget Noah Grimsley 28 Knocked Down Anonymous 30 The Wind Rises Isabella Haid 30 Warehouse/Hospice Isabella Haid 32 Dedicated Mantra Sudeep Bhargava 37 A Woman of God Caroline Sasso 38 MRIPSA Scottie Pearson-Thompson 40 One Day (There Will Be A Part of Me) Becca Hain 42 Monotonous Rochita Chatterjee 44 Train Becca Hain 45 Hospital Room Elizabeth Nuth 46 December First, 2017 Sam Bovard 48 Façade Sheena Kwan 50 The Stranger Sofia Babool 52 Selva de Feliz y Amor Siri Ketha 54 Nevertheless We Persist Megan Olomu 55 Prelude Isabella Haid 56 A Call to Those Who Are Wild Caroline Sasso 59 April 19 Sam Bovard 60 Culmination of Contemplation Kiara Ford 63 I and We Veda Velmuri 64 Translucent Anonymous

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[Film] 70 Betty Sam Bovard 71 French Fry Fist Fight Amy Yang 72 Torn Alexa Sorokwasz 73 Hair Grace Doyle 74 Retribution Ariana Carr 75 The Night I Lost My Favorite Jacket Jenna Krumerman 76 Moonchild Jaclyn Goldstein 78 Staff Bios 81 Colophon

[Imagery] Drake Heptig Pen and Gouache Sophia Martin Oil on Canvasboard Kylie Quinn Mixed Media Megan Benz Graphite and Prismacolor Amy Yang Digital Art Isabella Haid Prismacolor Sophia Babool Digital Photos Sophia Martin Mixed Media Matthew Zweig Found Object Sculpture Scott Wang Prismacolor Cate Baker Multi-Negative Sabattier Arfa Chowdhary Digital Photograph Drake Heptig Pen and Gouache Arfa Chowdhary Digital Photographs Alex Rose Pinhole Photographs Scott Wang Mixed Media Anais Zhang Oil on Canvas Sudeep Bhargava Digital Photograph Megan Benz Mixed Media Sophia Martin Pen on Wood Panel Emily Budarapu Digital Photograph Erin Puckett Double Exposed Polaroid Print Amy Yang Digital Art Michelle Malenfant Digital Collage Adam Mehdi Digital Photographs Meredith Rogers Digital Art

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Sudeep Bhargava Digital Photograph Talia Klein Gelatin Silver Print Daniel Brickman Polaroid Katie Bendalin Digital Photograph Zeenya Meherally Polaroid Prints Sonali Malik Mixed Media Sudeep Bhargava Silver Gelatin Print June Turbeville Gouache on Paper Sam Cooper Mixd Media Rithu Sreenath Digital Photograph Ariana Luterman Sabattier Print Maddy Arroyo Polaroid Sam Cooper Mixed Media Drake Heptig Pen and Gouache Rithu Sreenath Digital Image Scott Wang Mixed Media Grace Doyle Digital Art Chelsea Puckett Gelatin Silver Print Sloan Touchet Gelatin Silver Print Sam Cooper Mixed Media Sudeep Bhargava Film Stills Amy Yang Digital Art Jake Webster Linocut Print Kelsey Roberts Solargraph Jaclyn Goldstein Digital Photograph

[Four Haikus]

Up to the tee box I stick the tee in the grass Breathe, my driver strikes Michelle Lee

It’s kinda the worst No matter what I say it’s Teen angst anyway June Turbeville

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We’re the silly kids With the protests and the signs But we are what’s next Ava Markhovsky

I trip on a mound It flows violently outward Ants now know chaos Finn Johnson

Kylie Quinn Mixed Media

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Megan Benz Graphite and Prismacolor 6

prose

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They lay in earth as red as their sunburned cheeks. Overhead the sun is so bright and all encompassing that it dissipates any chance of a shadow. It leaves the landscape looking unfinished, crude. Jess sprinkles the sand where her shirt has ridden up over her stomach, watches it spill down her sides and fill her belly button.

“I don’t think I’m ever gonna leave. I’ll just settle. Marry one of the boys.”

Behind her Carrie is silent, but Jess knows she’s listening, she always does.

“Jim’ll go into oil, Harry too. Hell half them will,” she continues, “and the others cotton. If I get an oil boy, they’ll be some money. Maybe even get me one of those fast cars, a Stingray. On these roads I bet I could push 120.”

“You gotta get a fuckin’ license first.”

Jess tilts her head back over her shoulder. Eyes closed, face bathed in the summer light Carrie looks almost ethereal, like an angel. She has a piece of gypsum in her hands, flipping it around to find the angle it’ll break from. It reminds Jess of when they were little girls; when they’d tear big hunks of it off the rock face and crush it, sprinkle it over each other’s heads like it was the fairy dust from Peter Pan.

“I will. I turn eighteen in June. I’ll do it then.”

“Good. Then maybe I won’t have haul your ass everywhere.” She says it with a smile.

Jess falters. Carrie isn’t gonna settle, Jess knows she won’t. She’s applied to all those fancy expensive schools, ones that have dark rooms, and photo labs, and’ll pay for you to study in Spain or China.

They can pay for it too. Her dad’s got two oilrigs up it Quitaque. Big ones. Carrie doesn’t open her eyes, but she knows Jess is staring, she always does.

“You settle with your Jim. Get your fast car. I’ll visit.”

Jess knows when Carrie is lying. Not for the first time in her life Jess wishes their fairy dust were real. That she could sprinkle it on her hair and float up, up and away, far from the cattle ranches and combines, from the red sand and winds, to a school that has a photo lab and dark room, and that’ll pay for you to study in Spain or China.

“You bet your ass you will.”

Grace Doyle

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Amy Yang Digital Art 9

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Pages You’ve been spending all too much time with that fake metal slab. Staring into her pure white display mirrored by peppered black keys. We know love when we see it, but we also know imitation when we feel it. Ain’t nothing honest about monotone cursive script, nothing real about reading from a screen.

Feels like you used us, betrayed us, cast us aside.

We remember when your whole childhood relied on everything we did for you. We raised you on words and pictures, stoked the flames of your creativity, and gifted you with the ability to think through worlds of possibility. Gave you your imaginary friends and a playground next to Clifford’s big doghouse. ≠Guided you down the Yellow Brick Road, through Narnia, and back to Mount Olympus.

Sure, we’ll confess, we didn’t always give you what you wanted. But we gave you what you needed. Showed you how to deal with puberty when your momma wouldn’t say the word “sex”, let alone look at the coming-ofage tales you’d been hiding. Taught you how to flirt with Sarah when you grew up in a Catholic school, even though we felt your arms cringe reading those cheesy romances.

Just don’t forget that. Because we still remember when you begged your parents so you could come visit our home. When you would burst in, all wide-eyed, staring at our cousins and uncles and aunts and nephews and nieces, generation upon generation, all lined up in neat rows to welcome you.

Thought those moments, those invitations to join our shared family of curiosity and intellect, would keep us in your heart.

Isabella Haid Prismacolor

But nah, you’re all grown up now. Too cool for us old-fashioned folks. Gotta keep up with all your friends, lugging around their own metal slabs—lifeless machinations devoid of any and all creative tradition. If you had stuck with us, we could’ve saved your chemistry grade and chased Percy Jackson while we were at it. But we know you’ve moved on.

Just know that we haven’t.

Brian Zhou 11

Redefining Pakistan Cultural preservation. Natural beauty. Advanced medicinal technology. Are these the words that come into your mind when you think of Pakistan?

Before I went this summer to Pakistan for a monthlong camp, I was entangled with an innate fear of visiting my mother’s home country. Never having visited before, my family members quite often exaggerated the need to remain cautious of my surroundings, and to never be seen or left alone.

Having had no experience in embroidery before, my chosen cultural workshop was an embroidery enterprise that three women had maintained for multiple years. In Northern Pakistan, women used their domestic skills to begin individual initiatives that would then provide a steady source of income for their families. A founder of the embroidery initiative claimed that “the Aga Khan services helped [her] to follow a passion that I thought was limited to my home.�

Leaving DFW with an anxious heart and mind, little did I know that I would have an experience that would transform my perspective of Pakistan, and my religion into one of powerful peace.

I was in Pakistan for a month-long camp known as Global Encounters, an international programme for adolescent Ismaili Muslim youth focused on service, leadership development, culture, and global citizenship. While we were stationed in the Aga Khan University and Hospital in Karachi, our global group of students was divided into various service sites located in the local colonies in the city.

Trekking in Northern Pakistan was no short of an illusory fantasy, embellished by fresh apricots, and Masala Chai, or Indian spiced tea. After trekking towards the glacier that we had initially come to see, various locals from diverse backgrounds graciously told me stories of their adventurous childhood days on the mountains, and through the bustling bazaars filled with incense and luscious dried fruits. The immense peace and security of the Gilgit region was one that was beautifully complemented with the busyness of handmade, lucrative product selling, many of which are founded by women.

Allowing access to tele-medicine clinic facilities, patient care and mannequin simulators, as well as various other nursing and dentistry conveniences, the state-of-the-art Aga Khan University and Hospital is considered to be one of the most advanced hospitals in Asia.

No country is completely void of political, social and economic unrest, yet, Pakistan is too often looked upon a country of helplessness and chaos. However, among this chaos lie stories of adventure, entrepreneurship and scientific enterprise. Allowing these stories to create a unique image of Pakistan is the sole necessity for an increasingly cosmopolitan world.

Is that what you think of when you think of Pakistan? ***

Is this what you think about when you think of Pakistan?

Sofia Babool

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Sofia Babool Digital Photos 13

Theory Concentrated rays of sunlight beat down on my worn-out blazer. I stagger and trudge around shops that surrounded the marketplace, gazing longingly at the window advertisement for an ice-cold fresh strawberry smoothie. My mouth waters and the sunlight becomes evidently harsher. As I turn the corner, an elderly gray-haired woman catches my eye. Protected from the malicious sun by a large, circular hat, she circles around the melting cobblestone streets, near the lamppost that stood near the crepe stand opposite the marketplace. She slinks around the lamppost in small, cautious, almost anxious steps, centimeter after centimeter after centimeter, as if there is a trap hole lying somewhere in the cobbled streets. She is so high-strung it is almost as if she is so scared of failure that she deems it safer to not try anything out of the ordinary at all.

As I squint my eyes, and look closer at her, I notice that every so often she goes through the same, almost mechanical routine. To start, she completes a slow 360 degree turn, before tilting her charcoalhaired head down by just a microscopic fraction to check her brass watch. She must be waiting for someone.This routine is repeated over and over again, much like the dull bronze hand on her analog watch goes ‘round and ‘round. Every tick and tock occurring in flawless synchronization with the appropriate amount of time between each rotation.

Well, she doesn’t seem very human-like to me now, as the woman that stands before me doesn’t do anything even slightly out of routine, just step after step after step. The toot of a car horn shakes me out of this intense analysis, and I pivot around and continue walking forwards. Step after step after step.

Tej Dhingra

Sofia Martin Mixed Media 14

Sam Cooper Mixed Media

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The Bisecting

Orb

he concierge calls it the “magical orb”. I am T informed that the orb determines people’s true internal self. The concierge says that only people with a solid blue hue will be allowed to stay for the night. I glance at all my friends in the lobby. We each take turns, passing the glowing orb to each other. The orb glows a pale blue as each of my friends holds it. I am the last one to touch the orb, and I reluctantly reach for the orb as my friend passes it to me.

blue and pink. I reach for the orb and see a face. It isn’t my reflection... it’s one of my friends. I see him laughing as he eats dinner at the hotel with the rest of his friends and the concierge.

I defeatedly ask, “Why do I have to face this kind of discrimination? It’s awful.” He replies, “You can just ignore people like that concierge. Many people accept you.” I sob and say, “If you accept me, then why did you let the concierge throw me out into the freezing rain? Why did you not stand up for me?”

He responds, “Just accept yourself the way you are. If the concierge is being prejudicial to you, why don’t you just ignore it? Why does discrimination make you feel so terrible?”

In a fit of anger, I smash the orb onto the cold concrete and watch the two magical colors dissipate into the foggy landscape ahead of me. How more ludicrous could that question be? I realize to myself that accepting is not understanding. Some feelings cannot be put into words. Privileged people have the easy part to say “I accept you.” Minorities are

My hands are shaking as all eyes stare at me. And as I hold it in both of my hands, a second hue sprouts brilliantly from one pole of the orb. It is a pink hue, and it engulfs the blue hue quickly. The crowd gasps when they see a polarized orb with two colors on two hemispheres. Some smile at me, some grimace at me with disgust, and others continue staring at me with open jaws.

The concierge firmly grasps both of my shoulders and pushes me out the front door. He throws me down onto the cold wet concrete outside the hotel, shuts the door behind him, and locks it.

I shiver on the wet concrete as the freezing rain stabs me. I reach for the handles and tug as hard as I can. And I weep alone in the rainy night, feeling unloved and isolated.

Then suddenly I see something glow beside me shoes: it’s the magical orb, and it continues to glow

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the ones who are obligated to face the hard part: discrimination. The people who “accept” me do not understand what a discriminatory experience is like. People who blindly accept me but cannot relate to me are not my kind of people. As I come to this realization, I let me face press hard onto the cold concrete and I weep... because I’m alone in my emotions. I weep as the freezing rain continues to stab me hard... because nobody stood up for me in the lobby. I shiver in the cold night and I continue to weep. ut suddenly, another thought comes to my B mind. Perhaps I wasn’t surrounding myself with the right people. Perhaps there are people

who can relate to me. Perhaps there are people who cannot relate to me but stand up for me. Where are those people? I look out into the stormy night with a foggy landscape. Immediately, I have the urge to find the promised land. I need to move on. I cannot stay outside this hotel with these narrow-minded people who claim to be my “friends”. This hotel is my past and I must look ahead at a different place.

I get up from the cold concrete and I step onto the muddy field and begin walking. And as I walk, I begin to dream about my destination. I dream that one day, I’ll be in a time and place where the landscape is not foggy or endless, where the sun shines brightly, where I’ll be in a lobby around many other people holding glowing orbs, where everyone respects each other whether the orb glows solid blue, solid pink, a mixture of different hues, or a full rainbow. I dream that I will one day hold my orb high up in the air and let my true colors shine brilliantly with passion, where fear and judgment do not hold me back, where people do not throw me out in the rain for being unique and special. As I continue to walk, I involuntarily raise my chin while holding onto this promising dream.

There is nobody by my side. The mud attempts to push me back. The freezing rain continues to stab me.

The foggy endless landscape holds an unclear future.

I keep walking.

Scott Wang

Scott Wang Prismacolor 17

Cate Baker Multi-Negative Sabattier 18

poetry

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what if I cut all of my blonde hair short and let the tresses fall down the drain never to be seen again and dyed the remaining tufts black as the night that would eventually wash away leaving me grey and lonely again until the day the old strands of my blonde hair grew back up the drain the vineyard of my heartbreak reaching out and to suffocate and pull me back into the ground to the place where I again see your eyes inviting me to swim in the golden brown glaze over your soul maybe then would you love me what if I spent all the hours of the night teaching myself to play the guitar until my fingers crusted over with dried blood and the remnants of old band aids or I used the ink from every pen in my house but only the calligraphic ones until the ink seeped into my skin and bones only to write for you one love song maybe then would you love me because my whole life I have been a magician able not to fake the appearance of birds but the appearance of my emotion convincing even the best of human lie detectors into loving me in order to reap the validation of their devotion now this makes me nothing short of the worst kind of person if I were you I would not love me either however you are one of the few living creatures able to peel me until you reach the pathetic truth of my core for the charge of such a crime of making me truly love you back I pushed you away I hurt you so you would hate me and I could draw back to the comfort of a love that didn’t scare me I watched as you to grew out of your childish crush into her arms knowing full well that she was incapable of loving you the way I do so I will keep my mouth shut and bruise my knees praying that she will give you what I will never be able to because maybe then you will love me again Anonymous

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Arfa Chowdhary Digital Photograph

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Shelter from the Raging Sea The waves roll up onto the shore––

But a moment

then come more

Glistening in the summer sun––

Shining like

Each other one

I see the vastness of the sea––

Too big to comprehend

For me

Its surface feels smooth and cold––

Eroded and weather’d

Since days of old

The gentle scene that moves for me––

Will then

Resume tranquility

I take it in my hands to keep––

Before it’s gone

To ocean deep

The sand beneath my human feet––

Warms my skin

With natural heat

Its only chance to stay on land––

To find a way

Into my hand

The water, cold, that comes in waves––

Adjusts to how

The wind behaves

If not, then back to the unknown––

Just one shell

In seas of stones

A foaming surf rolls in my view––

To wash my feet

Completely new

But the seashell found the beach––

A place

It almost barely reached

A seashell washes to the sand––

And falls directly

To my hand

It came this far to be with me––

For shelter from the raging sea

For shelter from the raging sea Luke Contreras

Drake Heptig Pen and Gouache 23

Body Horror Everyone plays games with me And I never seem to be winning And I think maybe this game is rigged The second I became aware of my skin color and its affinity To bullets and slurs and antiquated stereotypes I began a new game.

Keep your head down, mouth shut Be their model minority Forgo your mental health and self-worth if they even exist at this point The objective is to win, to win is to stay alive But the umpire keeps making up rules as I go And everyone is telling me how to play My friends say to take retribution in the form of words and protests My parents say don’t stir up trouble cause this world hasn’t been safe for a while Becky from across the street says shut up no one wants to hear you

Simon says right arm up Simon says fingers clenched Simon says pull the trigger And if you don’t you’re out Simon says my skin’s too dark I ask him if I should bathe in bleach to be the pristine he wants Simon tells me to be his fetish And I ask him if he can fetishize the pins and needles sticking out of my lungs Because my lungs have been telling me they’re tired of breathing at gunpoint My chest has been swung wide open and all you can see Is a rotting freakshow in place of a heart So I ask the umpire for an exorcism Cause Becky is stuck in my throat And Simon is pinning me down But who would’ve guessed The rules weren’t written thinking I could win

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I call this game my body horror The worst nightmares of black and brown And every shade between come to life Except this isn’t a dream My ancestry was torn from me, 8000 miles away from me I feel like an outsider in my own home, a rainbow with no color My heart rate rises every time I see a cop, Or my school dean

This body is a Caucasian’s worst nightmare They keep telling me to give up and just be their model minority But this body ain’t posing for no one This game isn’t for me I was never meant to win But you damn well be sure that I ain’t giving up Sudeep Bhargava

This is body horror and this body is Anti-white, alt-right don’t like the sight Of resilience or how I win every battle with my blade Every scrimmage with suicide

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Arfa Chowdhary Digital Photographs

Don’t Forget He wakes up early, This is his normal routine,

He listens to the radio

Watches the TV

Goes to lunch The sky is clear, A woman comes and introduces herself as Meadow,

He notices her deep sorrow within her eyes

They seem to be scarred with horrified feelings As she leaves, She kisses him on the cheek;

See you again tomorrow.

He wakes up early, This is his normal routine,

He listens to the radio

Watches the TV

Goes to lunch It looks quite windy outside, A visitor came named Meadow,

She looks unhappy

She looks heartbroken

She looks bereaved As she leaves, She kisses him on each cheek; Goodbye.

He wakes up early, This is his normal routine,

He listens to the radio

Watches the TV

Goes to lunch Today it is sunny, A woman comes and says she is named Meadow,

She looks sad or even depressed

She tells him about how she lost her family

He reminds her of the dad she used to have As she leaves, She kisses him on the cheek;

See you again tomorrow.

He wakes up early, This is his normal routine,

He listens to the radio

Watches the TV

Goes to lunch It is dark and rainy outside, No one came today,

This was common

He never got visitors for all the time he

could remember; A young man whispers goodnight and turns off the light.

He wakes up early, This is his normal routine,

He listens to the radio

Watches the TV

Goes to lunch It is foggy today, As he returns to his room from lunch he sees a vase filled with flowers, The note reads

Sorry I missed you today

Things have been hard

Love Meadow; PS See you again tomorrow.

He wakes up early, This was his normal routine,

He listens to the radio

Watches the TV

Goes to lunch The sun seems to be hiding today, A man is here today,

He told a sad story

A young woman died

He did not know why the man was telling

him this As he leaves he says

I’m sorry for your loss; His routine ended the next day.

Noah Grimsley

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Alex Rose Pinhole Photographs

Scott Wang Mixed media

Knocked Down My knees fall onto earth, pigeon toed and covered in dirt from the garden of my neighbors filled with flowers and cherry tomatoes.

Absorbing the impact of every day leather skin from all the play.

The motion never pounds Rubbing against old navy jeans Not till I pass out on the ground In her car pouring out beans Where I lose my vision and my sound And my knees get knocked down.

Anonymous

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Anais Zhang Oil on Canvas

The Wind Rises I found that picture of you From when you first moved, Standing in front of your First apartment here Your hair wildly thrashed Your face, making you Almost unrecognizable Your hair is pulled back now By the unrelenting winds of guilt They obstruct your path But you don’t live in That apartment any more

Warehouse/ Hospice I followed a failed messiah A little girl’s big adventure Only stops on his accord I’m not the only one here But it seems he Made us mute Meet me on the moon It’s only an arm’s Length away Isabella Haid

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Sudeep Bhargava Digital Photograph 31

A Dedicated Mantra My grandmother died four years ago.

A List of Things That Aren’t Real: Time Death Selfishness Ownership

I

Yesterday floats through the window.

It smells like fresh puri and aloo ki subji. It smells like breakfast on the terrace.

Her cooking used to wake me up from daydreams spent picking flowers. We didn’t know we were killing them.

I can remember the sheets blowing in the wind, the one that wafted nostalgia. The minty whites and chemical greens imprint into memories. Her perfume mixed with the scent of soap fly up your nostrils and you wonder if you’ll ever be as beautiful as she is.

Your handprint was hidden on the wood underneath the bed. I remember we were playing hide and seek.

I remember we dropped all those potatoes and cried five-second rule. I remember time wasn’t something to consider. Time wasn’t real to us.

Bedtime was optional when summer came around.

We probably couldn’t sleep anyway. Taxi and ricksha honks at 3 in the morning, and fried aroma of samosas coming from the bottom floor.

My memory is populated with a number of names belonging to different people and streets and places and…What was her name? What was yours? Do you remember mine? I hope not.

II

Humidity finds its way out of a hot shower, a breeze through my open window reminds me of home.

For a second.

The ravens sound like cars if you tilt your head right. Look, like this.

The cacophony of cars sounded more like a symphony there. Here, it’s just a fistfight, or nails on a chalkboard.

Hot water was a luxury four years ago. Now it’s a commodity. Everything’s different here, you say. No one honks here, you say. I can’t sleep here, it’s too hot here, you say.

Acclimating to a climate like this is difficult. Find a way to make it easy, you say.

Repeat her name, her hometown. Make everything about her life your mantra and fall in love with the sound of every syllable.

Let her memories be your muse.

Think about hide and seek and fitting into childrensized cabinets.

Pretend you’re still a child.

I want to forget.

I think about visiting that house in my dreams, hearing all the memories at once, but I am afraid that it won’t help me let go. I am afraid I will grow even more attached.

We still visit her, but for shorter and shorter amounts each time. And more time between. You will become busy with your new life, you will forget about hers.

Megan Benz Mixed Media 32

Sofia Martin Pen on Wood Panel

III

Ohio isn’t India I wonder if she can stand it here. I wonder if the green here is too bright. I wonder if she misses the smog, the way it filtered morning light.

I wonder if she remembers that morning light.

The windows here only lead to forest. Once, I saw a doe, wandering through the trees. She looked lost.

In November, I’ll learn what Alzheimer’s is. I’ll know why she keeps forgetting my name. I’ll know why she gets frustrated when she can’t remember where the light switch is. I’ll know why numbers will start to control her behavior.

I won’t know that she can’t get better. I’ll keep on hoping.

She started to dream in technicolor, her colors were beautiful if delusional.

Being like this is seeing three people inside one, each fighting for dominance. It’s like seeing four outcomes ahead. It’s preparing for whatever could

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happen.

But you never saw this coming.

You’ll all fly to Philadelphia.

They’ll say two weeks. You won’t know what that means. Again, time isn’t real.

You’ll be back four years later, you’ll think about your aunt, wonder how she can stand to live in that house.

But for the moment, you’re back in that room. Your sister is standing beside the bed. Your mom has already left in tears. Everyone will be crying, you won’t know how to.

IV

Regret is the sound of the flight attendant announcing your flight has been cancelled.

We had been waiting in the terminal for six hours.

The sun, once right above us, had set long ago. I watched as it died into the horizon, and I wondered.

Did you know that was the last time you’d see her?

Did you know that last game of hide and seek would burn into the side of your brain? Have you felt your handprint grabbing you by both lags and pulling you into that memory over and over again?

I say this poem’s for her.

But I broke her memories and drank her liquor.

See, selfish isn’t real to me.

I can’t understand why I couldn’t see it coming.

Perspective is a good indicator of logic. Nothing was real. Nothing had such a gravity as it does now.

I missed the funeral. I missed seeing her just one last time, knowing it’d be the last time. Death isn’t real to me, and I have been blaming that on an airline rather than my own delusions.

She had a name, I know. I just can’t remember what it sounded like.

I can’t remember what she sounded like.

V

Ghosts have a way of reappearing in my life. They think they can do whatever they want because they’re dead. You’re usually told to respect them. I tell myself to not be selfish, to share their memory with everyone, but no one seems to care about her as much as me. Maybe they’re scared, maybe they’ve forgotten.

She comes around once a year and opens all our windows. I saw her once, sitting, staring. She likes to pretend 8,000 miles is 10 paces, that she can see her home out your window.

Nothing hurts as much as a temporary solution. You pretend its permanent. You pretend she never died, that she made it back ok. You pretend you made it to her funeral, that she meant something, anything to you.

I am too afraid to admit her memory is fading I am too afraid to admit I was too young.

What will stay of me once I leave? Will my voice carry you out of some reverie? The touch of my hands the texture of my fingers, I want you to remember my name.

Let her memory be your muse.

When I think about her, all my senses tend to blend, I am not the owner of my body or my mind or anything I can believe in. I like to believe this could happen to anyone, that this happened to anyone else. Maybe you could be me and I could be her.

I keep her window open and hope she could make it back ok.

She is the cigarettes you wish you weren’t addicted to. But withdrawal hurts more than the burning in my lungs and you can’t bear to let me go.

Sudeep Bhargava

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Emily Budarapu Digital Photograph 35

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Erin Puckett Double Exposed Polaroid Print

a

W O M A N

o f

G O D

She is the dancer of some divine being. And after years of training her body to be nothing, she is something to watch. I am in love with the curves of her papaya sweet hips.

That being said, I know nothing of love but much of cats, being one myself.

I know nothing of salt but much of pepper, being a lesbian.

This hallway is the God that I do not believe in. What, is the floor beneath my feet hell? Then I may say whatever I want.

But back to the woman. A woman of upright lavender, too lost in worship to love me.

Caroline Sasso

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MRIPSA Mom, why does your license plate say Mr. Ipsa? Who’s that?”

“No,” She sighs. “It says MRIPSA. It means mariposa. That’s butterfly in Spanish.”

The black butterfly Mercedes-Benz. A beautiful, black, new Mercedes-Benz. She drove it all around town the second my dad got it for her.

Drove it all over him and reversed it too, just to make sure.

And, God, those tire skids left streaks on my father’s skin and left holes in his heart that took him years to fill back up.

Tire skids in the tears coming down his face. In the words that hurt him for years. In all the numbers in his head trying to figure out how to keep on. In all the what ifs.

That beautiful, black Mercedes-Benz ran perfectly. Started every time. Drove so smoothly.

But under the hood, Those gears spun tirelessly to shield the kids from the horrors of a separation. The belts ran a mile a minute to keep everything secure. The tires sprinted to reach some escape from this.

The engine chugged and trudged because we have to, we have to do it for the kids.

I sat in the seats of MRIPSA listening to words that cut like knives but not hard enough to slash the leather.

“Scottie, I’m going to be dating again. If I’m ever with a guy and you don’t like him or he does something that you really don’t like, you just tell me and he’ll be gone in an instant. Okay?”

I did. I followed those directions, I followed them like religion when I really needed to.

And I have tire skids on my skin and my gears are slowing down.

Scottie Pearson-Thompson

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Amy Yang Digital Art

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Michelle Malenfant Digital Collage

One Day (There Will Be a Part of Me You Haven’t Touched) You’re like a child when you laugh, Throwing your head back, wild; Your eyes were dark but I saw the light in them, Hoping you’d see the stars in me.

And I’m not a fan of metaphors, but When you told me I was beautiful, It was like all the planets aligned, And my senses were on fire.

It’s a pity that my beauty Meant more to you than my words; My endless string of nos Bouncing right off you.

We could have been beautiful together, But you took all I had to offer And claimed it as your own.

But one day there will be a part of me you haven’t touched.

Becca Hain

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Adam Mehdi Digital Photographs 41

Monotonous Push down on the strings of your thoughts The uniqueness of your mind will ring And a chord that is pretty to you will echo across the streets Driving out those with other notes Pulling in the ones who agree Are the thoughts of your mind really unique?

Day and night you only hear this one chord We only hear this one chord The same string, the same strum, the same sound Day in and day out And times come when an outsider begins to critique Trying to push a new string Urging us to play a new chord But everyone around will cover their ears in pain You refuse to hear anything else We refuse to hear anything else The same string, the same strum, the same sound Day in and day out Falling back into your rhythm Falling back into our rhythm Our one monotonous chord Rochita Chatterjee

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Meredith Rogers Digital Art

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Train You aren’t the “bring home to mother” type, Your edges are jagged from years of abuse; As if you thought breaking over and over, Would somehow complete you.

Some days you get the light at the end of the tunnel, And some days you get the train; Nevertheless, you hold on, Waiting for what’s yet to be.

You say I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you, Because I’ve been giving you pieces of myself; And one day you’ll be as good as new, And I’ll be as good as dead.

Becca Hain

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Sudeep Bhargava Digital Photograph

Hospital Room Two identical beds.

Two identical cabinets.

Two identical lights.

Two identical windows, Letting the moonlight shine in.

On the left, a quiet girl Unaware of what was happening On the other side of the room.

Thoughts going through her head, Of the worst possible scenario, Of how her life could end.

On the right, a crying girl Lying restlessly on her side.

She attempts to control the tears, Her tears falling, Stinging her porcelain skin

Two identical beds.

Two identical cabinets.

Two identical lights.

Two different stories.

Elizabeth Nuth

Talia Klein Gelatin Silver Black and White 45

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Fi r 2017

46

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n unexplainable Attracted every day. irres istable

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o reason.

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ai

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p du e ’ f boy you got me Sam Bovard

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FaÇaDE I hate People who act Like they are better Than everyone else.

What gives you the right To gossip and Degrade and Torment?

Backstabber.

Brutus is snickering In his grave.

Aren’t you tired Of this?

The utter disregard Of feeling.

The utter lack Of perspective Of eloquence Of humanity.

I thought I liked drama But not the kind That makes me want to scream.

And you might have well Murdered someone The way they judge you.

Sheena Kwon

Daniel Brickman Color Manipulated Polaroid 48

Katie Bendalin Digital Photograph

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The Stranger

Hope for that which reality turns its back on.

Hope for that which never reveals its struggles.

Nothing is greater than the hope you feel.

Hope is our purpose.

Doctor or engineer?

The expectations were forming into never ending whispers.

But I have made my decision, Artist.

Whisper that which cannot be heard.

Whisper that which cannot be understood.

Whisper in her ear the desires she seeks.

Whisper and never let go.

The blackness covered my face as I ran, The shadow chased me down, gaining in distance I ran far, but never far enough.

I then woke up, and found the fear I had been chasing.

Failure surrounded all that I could see Tribulation became my reality But as I stared at struggle, I found hope.

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God is that which I see all around, Yet never find.

He is that which is never present, Yet always sitting by me.

As I sat amongst nature, She whispered to me, In the form of sunlight, and the chirping of the nightingale at my shoulder.

“Your purpose… is to encapsulate happiness.”

Time, my partner in crime.

Time, the mystery never solved.

Time, the inevitable prison we will never break.

Time, a precious pearl, we must protect.

As he leaned in, The glacial eyes peered through my iris, His pain was mine, his ecstasy was mine.

Want and desire…exploded within.

The blanket of snow covered the tombstone, Death had entered his home, Without ringing the doorbell, And now I stared at it.

Sofia Babool

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Zeenya Meherally Polaroid Prints

Selva de Feliz y Amor ¿Qué existe en tu selva? ¿Qué hay allí? ¿Quién está contigo? ¿Qué cosas y pasatiempos lo llaman hogar? ¿Está cerca de ti o muy lejos? ¿Hay agujeros donde las personas solían ser? ¿Lo que llena el espacio vacio? ¿Está todo enredado o dividido en hileras? ¿Está creciendo o disminuyendo? ¿Cambia a menudo o es siempre la misma? ¿Están los ríos rebosantes o secos? ¿Está lleno de sol o luz de luna? ¿Tiene un latido? ¿Hay partes de la tierra virgen que se han olvidado de? ¿Estás contento o insatisfecho con la selva? ¿Es lo que esperabas? ¿Es lo que quieres? ¿Es lo que necesitas? ¿Con quién lo compartes? ¿Está terminado? ¿Es infinito? ¿Visitas a menudo? ¿Eres la reina de la jungla?

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Jungle of Happiness and Love What exists in your jungle?

What is in there?

Who is with you?

What things and pastimes call it home?

Is it close to you or far away?

Are there holes where people used to be?

What fills the empty space?

Is everything tangled together or divided into rows?

Is it growing or decreasing?

Does it change often or is it always the same?

Are the rivers overflowing or dry?

Is it full of sunshine or moonlight?

Does it have a heartbeat?

Are there parts of the wilderness you have forgotten about?

Are you happy or unhappy with the jungle?

Is that what you expected?

Is that what you want?

Is that what you need?

Who do you share it with?

Is it finished?

Is it infinite?

Do you visit often?

Are you the Queen?

Siri Ketha

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Sonali Malik Mixed Media

Nevertheless We Persist We’ve been prosecuted twice, For being of color and a woman.

Double jeopardy for us, Piercing through like a bullet.

Our skin’s not bright like day, But filled with tones of hardened night.

Streams of media reveal that, Society prefers us nice and bright.

Born ten steps behind, Woman and of color.

But in the end, we thrive, Though we’re always made smaller.

Through oppression, we infiltrate, Carving out our own space.

We roar through clouds of injustice, Shifting the world with our waves.

We are the unseen backbone Of a society that that has no spine.

Whether we are together, or alone, We fight in the front line.

Our strength remains a constant, Even with the prejudice we live amidst.

For nothing can stop a woman like us, Because nevertheless, we persist.

Megan Olomu

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Prelude

God, am I your God? If I were a nameless flower blooming In a field of grass Destined for the hogs And their unsightly feast Assured destruction Would man, savage, and slave Join hands?

Communion begets victory But who is content with merely Escaping extinction?

Apathy is the antagonist as we Contend the uncertain tempers of the Metamorphosis Isabella Haid Sudeep Bhargava Silver Gelatin Print 55

A Call To Those who are wild My body is made of bird songs I fly to a dirty airport on an airplane made of discarded lace She licked the blood off my scalp and her tongue was cool, like a kitten I think being in love gave me some issues, some poetic issues I fight in a boxing ring with seventeen fuchsia monkeys I’m the oldest, I’ve been living myself to sleep the longest You are a bracelet made of snake teeth and I wear on my upper thigh How can I learn to love you when your heart is sunglasses and a Star Wars t-shirt?

It’s vindictive, almost, When sixteen mini donuts became the symbol of our love When sixteen mini donuts became fireworks coming out of our conjoined throat.

I extend my arms and scream you a love song I extend my bellybutton and stop writing poetry I extend my inner-ear and become a pasty peanut I extend you, I love you I look down on the bruise on the tip of my larynx (I think it’s growing) I bought six gold buttons and gave none of them to you I bought the colour purple and painted stripes onto my knuckles I carved your initials into my skin and gave you the blood in twenty-seven different vials I tire of you too, I hope you know that.

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My first job was piercing belly buttons I loved the skin of it all.

It’s always good to carry a pair of hyper-stylized, black booties in the gaps where your wisdom teeth should be We were a purposeful overdose on laughing gas, and I loved it.

You told me that I could find you with Those Who Are Wild, I told you I didn’t know where that was.

You told me it was the smudge of orange lipstick on my hand, I told you I still didn’t know where that was.

You sighed, West Virginia.

Caroline Sasso June Turbeville Gouache on Paper 57

Matthew Zweig Found Object Sculptures 58

April 19th Rithu Sreenath Digital Photograph

i dig my fingers into the rich earth the dirt stains my hands a deep brown i pull out bulbous organs, with roots of veins and arteries still pumping blood all over me each one i eat raw, each one a plentiful harvest mother earth bore us in her womb for millennia shaping and evolving, became what we needed of course earth is a woman no man has to put up with this shit Sam Bovard

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Culmination of Contemplation Inner comfortability and certainty; luxuries I’ve only encountered at a distance.

You tell me of their contingency But lately I’ve struggled to believe in Ideas that aren’t accompanied by tangible proof.

You have no idea what it feels like to be this lost inside yourself.

The petals continue to fall, And I shrink while you laugh at how I crouch underneath them, My palms cupped, Prepared to collect all the pieces of my shattered sincerity.

Or, maybe you do. You tend to hide your emotions better than me.

I’m feeling faintly disconnected now.

This is the evolution of love; Quite possibly, the evolution of self.

I keep wondering if this is all I have left.

For the past few years I’ve been swallowing all my painful experiences.

What remains in the absence of these vices?

My pillow of bad habits allow me to Revel in this feeling of chaotic gyration.

I can’t remember what to tell myself, To make this all seem okay.

But they’re building up.

Everything you show me about yourself, Makes you seem less realistic.

The lies on this paper, are so convincing.

Tell me, what lingers between them?

I’m choking on them now.

Kiara Ford

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Ariana Luterman Cross Toned Sabattier Print

Maddy Arroyo Color Manipulated Polaroid 61

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I and We I find it hard to believe, That the world spins in the same direction, For if it did, Then wouldn’t the people spin in the same direction?

Would they not, I mean?

If we call ourselves by one name, If we call ourselves by one entity, Would we not agree That we need peace not war That we need love not hate That we need equality not separation But we are okay that it doesn’t happen because it’s normal, These things we find loyal to ourselves are not loyal at all, We are glimpsing into our imaginations, To perceive a dream unseen by us all, About justice, happiness, freedom We hope and we fight and we pray, To have beauty in the world tomorrow, Yet we do nothing to solve the problems, That collapse what is so little of the foundation that holds Our torn up, ripped up, shredded country together, In times like these, We forget what it is meant to be, A daughter, a mother, A father, a son, We forget what it means to be human, We forget about this entity, this humanity, And when we look into this mirror, To find faith in this unspoken word that is humanity, We find an unaltered world filled with pain, torture, malice, We hold it to others to be the spark to start the fire to start The rallies for the good, the better, the best, But, we seem to have lost a sighting within our own point of views, We seem to have been caught up in our own thoughts and words, Isolated on our own tranquil island where nothing can be heard, For the outside world could be looking, But all they can do is stare, At the shells of the humans, That entity that was once there.

Veda Velamuri

Rithu Sreenath Digital Photograph 63

Tr a n s l u c e n t She was every girl I’ve ever liked but I’d never met her before.

I yearned to reach out and touch her face Caress her jawline Her smile sunshine, the radiating warmth on her face melted my soul.

I averted my face when she undressed but my eyes devoured every visible inch of her skin as she leaped Over the railing and into the dazzlingly clear blue water below and when I look down I’m dizzied by both the height of the jump and her beauty Her hair swirling, suspended in the water But I’m terrified to jump and As she glances up at me Her eyes meet mine The fear goes away I jump.

The crystalline water slams into my body but now the liquid becomes as murky as my own desires I can’t tell which way is up I don’t know how to breathe Eventually I give in.

I take in a deep breath, inhaling water And everything is clear again.

Anonymous

Scott Wang Mixed Media 64

Grace Doyle Digital Art 65

Chelsea Puckett Multi-Exposure Gelatin Silver Print

Sloan Touchet Long Exposure Gelatin Silver Print 66

Sam Cooper Mixed Mediant

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Sudeep Bhargava Film Stills 68

film

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Betty

a film by Sam Bovard What does the film mean to you?

Betty to me is a persona that I’ve been playing around with for a while, and a character I wanted to bring to life on screen. As my biggest film of the year, it came from a singular moment that really happened to me, and then I built the rest of the story around that. I felt like I brought my vision from pitching and script to the visuals in way I hadn’t done before.

Give a 40-word synopsis of your film.

Sitting in a parked car, Betty tells her friend about a wild night, gets interrupted, and may or may not have pubic lice. As the esteemed philosopher Paris Hilton once said, “Some girls are just born with glitter in their veins.”

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French Fry Fist Fight a film by Amy Yang

Give a 40-word synopsis of your film.

You know how when your sibling and you get into a fight over something real dumb like the last french fry in a bag and you tussle it out right then and there? That’s it.

That’s the film.

What was something cool you got to do while making your film?

I learned how to do fight choreography, which is crazy fun to do. You mess with camera angles and positions to make it seem as if the blows landed on someone and to keep the action exciting. The actors and I also learned how to fake fall (except for Frances who really took ten for the team), and I learned that you can still get bruises from fake falling.

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Torn

a film by Alexa Sorokwasz What does the film mean to you?

Torn gave me a chance to share my story with people who I would not typically be open with. The process was long and arduous, but I experienced a lot of personal growth throughout the months that it took to create this film. I hope that other people may find fragments that they can relate to.

Give me a 40-word synopsis of your film.

A girl struggles with the concept of femininity and how she can navigate through the world at peace with herself.

What was something cool you got to do while making your film?

I had a lot of fun experimenting with objects such as clear cups and mirrors in front of my lens to manipulate the shots and give them more emotion.

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Hair

a film by Grace Doyle What does the film mean to you?

This film means making fun things with fun people. It means creating with the awesomely talented and hilarious Jaclyn Goldstein, Meredith Roberts, Jennie Ross, Jessica Herlitz, Ava Aidala, and Jenna Krummerman while also learning cool new skills like 2D animation.

Give me a 40-word synopsis of your film.

Hair is a “hair-raising� live action and 24fps animated short about a pageant gone wrong.

What was something cool you got to do while making your film?

We got to learn how to animate through a computer, which was super interesting. (Also, does patience count? Because gosh darn we learned a great deal about patience through animating.)

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Retribution

a film by Ariana Carr

Give a 40-word synopsis of your film.

A girl is unwillingly brought from the comforts of her own home to the dark underworld by the one who she has wronged. There are no morals here, nor reasoning, only death. Here she faces her fate, retribution is the only justice.

What was something cool you got to do while making your film?

One cool thing I got to do was give purpose to something that was destined to be destroyed. My parents had recently remodeled their bathroom, and had gotten rid of their old victorian bathtub. They were going to send it off to the dump because no one had wanted to buy it, but I thought it would be a really cool focal point for a film. So I based my story around the bathtub and everything else followed.

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The Night I Lost My Favorite Jacket

a film by Jenna Krummerman

What does this film mean to you?

The film I made is a lot of things. It is a day-in-the-life coming of age with disturbing details, ignorant remarks, and brutal honesty with a great deal of heartwarming and comedic moments, at least that’s what I think. At the end of the day, it’s commentary on what kids do for fun today and what’s normal and what’s weird. It’s fun to point out these wacky, naughty things people do at such a sheltered school, these things that aren’t talked about much, for good or for bad.

Give a 40-word synopsis of your film.

“The Night I Lost My Favorite Jacket” tells the story of a day in the life of a teenage girl on a Saturday night. She loses her jacket and a little of herself while meeting new characters and trying to get by.

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Moonchild

a film by Jaclyn Goldstein

Give a 40-word synopsis of your film.

Moonchild worked to visualize a sense of independence that comes from lonliness What was something cool you got to do while making your film?

Whenever we were shooting, Jennie would be joking around with everyone on set and would be part of the jest of the scene, but then as soon as the camera started rolling I had to tell her to not react to anything that anybody was saying. That was funny for Jennie to have to hold a straight face while my friends were messing around with sugar packets.

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Film Posters Senior Spotlight on Amy Yang

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Staff Bios SAM

Editor in Chief

Sam Bovard is a junior at Greenhill. His favorite subjects are English and Latin. He spends his time reading, illustrating poems, filmmaking, and acting. He wants to start a cult around serif fonts and if he were not lactose intolerant, brie with jam would be his favorite type of cheese. His nickname of choice is Psychic Mango.

SUDEEP

Production and Editorial Contributor

Sudeep Bhargava is a senior at Greenhill. He will be attending University of Pennsylvania in the fall and he enjoys filmaking, writing and perfoming slam poetry, and photography. He would rather fight one hundred ducksized horses than one horse-sized duck because he’s scared of big things, and if he were one of the seven dwarfs it would be Sleepy. His favorite mythical creature is himself.

CAROLINE

Production and Editorial Contributor

Caroline Sasso is a sophomore at Greenhill. She loves all forms of creative writing, but her favorite is poetry. She is involved in theatre and is in the improv troupe. Her friends have decided she is one of three theatre kids likely to survive the Hungers Games and she can quote the 2017 movie adaptation of Stephen King’s It start to finish, an ability that she is far too proud of.

ANAIS

Production and Editorial Contributor

Anais Zhang is a sophomore at Greenhill. Her favorite subject is English and she enjoys participating in debate and theatre. She loves putting pineapple on pizza, and her favorite childhood book is The Giving Tree. Her favorite conspiracy theory is that global warming was invented to take down the US government.

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Author Credit Artist Credit Medium

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Jake Webster Linocut Print

Kelsey Roberts Solargraph 80

Colophon Montage is a collection of truths. We showcase written and visual creativity of all types from our Upper School student body. Throughout the year we collect submissions from students and carefully curate a book out of them. This year we had a strong staff of four dedicated artists and writers. Montage is as much about the process as the product, and to see the growth as we built this issue is astounding.

This is our love letter to the writers, poets, painters, photographers, filmmakers, and anyone else who expresses themselves through words and pictures.

Montage is typeset in Cochin 10.5 pt, with all bylines in Cochin Italic 10.5, and printed on FSC-Certified Cougar Opaque Stock.

Thank you first of all, to everyone who submitted work this year, you are the ones who make this happen. Thank you to the ever patient and ever guiding Mrs. Wilson and Ms. Rucker. Thank you to those who showed up to the club meetings at my pleadings including Siri Ketha, Amy Yang, Jaclyn Goldstein, and anyone who came to even one meeting. Thank you to the Class of 2018. We are going to miss all of you and your talent next year. Thank you to the staff of Montage this year, Sam Bovard, Sudeep Bhargava, Caroline Sasso, and Anais Zhang.

This year was incredible and we did it!

Jaclyn Golstein Digital Photograph 81

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