The Vision 2021

THE TEAM CO-EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Allie Oh ’21 Charlie Rudge ’21 Eki Uzamere ’21

STAFF Megan Chin ’22 Clare Didden ’22 Sarah Malach ’23 Charlotte Molinoff ’22 Camille Ngbokoli ’21 Destiny Stephen ’22 Hudson Warm ’23

THE READERS Submissions to The Vision are chosen by volunteer peer readers who judge each piece without knowledge of the author’s identity. All students are encouraged to submit work, and all are invited to participate as readers.

Thank you to the members of the Hackley Upper School student body who supported our efforts.

Kiki Abbey ’21 Taylor Brown ’21 Odessa Buell ’21 Kiri Fitzpatrick ’21 Isabel Frances ’21 Cate Goodwin-Pierce ’21 Mackenzie Jones ’21 Nick Khoo ’21 Lily Napach ’21 Will Rifkin ’21 Mary Rotenberg ’21 Olivia Rowbottom ’21 Louisa Thompson ’21

Francesca Auricchio ’22 Henry Beyrich ’22 Jason Campbell ’22 Catherine Lapey ’22 Maxwel Lee ’22 Maren McCrossan ’22 Phoebe Naughton ’22 Molly Reinmann ’22 Emily Rossman ’22 Skyler Safriet ’22 Jessye Salmon ’22 Mayyada Shair ’22 Mira Zaslow ’22

Jennifer Allan ’23 Nailah Archer ’23 Callie Duggan ’23 Akshi Khowala ’23 Ava Lattimore ’23 Fritz Lauerwald ’23 Willow Quattrone ’23 Grace Rainero ’23 Bella Wasserman ’23 Tibet Yakut ’23

Phoebe Abrahms ’24 Allison Chin ’24 Cydnee Copeland ’24 Ashley Currie ’24 Sofia DeSpirito ’24 Sophia Kliatchko ’24 Cassandra Lopez ’24 Tess McCaffery ’24 Kylie Oh ’24 Cole Silpe ’24 Annika Terezakis ’24 Talia Tirschwell ’24

Hackley School • 293 Benedict Avenue • Tarrytown, NY • 10591 Volume XXXII • Published Annually • © Hackley School 2021

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Table of Contents Personal Narrative and Short Fiction “Zaheer” by Will Kneisley ’21 ................................................................................................................... page 24 “Fear and Pride” by Ella Rodriguez ’23 ................................................................................................... page 38 “An Authoritative List of Billy Joel’s Top Songs” by Charlie Rudge ’21 ............................................... page 42 “Memories of an artifact” by Alex Elwell ’23 .......................................................................................... page 64 “Hater’s Guide to the Hamptons” by a Dissatisfied Hamptonite .......................................................... page 66 Poetry “Siren of Sight” by Nick Khoo ’21 .............................................................................................................. page 6 “Writers of the West” by David Bernstein ’21........................................................................................... page 7 “Eternal Memories” by David Bernstein ’21 ............................................................................................. page 9 “The Fruit’s In” by Ava Roberts ’21 .......................................................................................................... page 10 “Gatsby and Coronavirus” by Sophie Thomas ’21 ................................................................................. page 13 “Afterlife Experiment 4” by Hadassah Henderson ’21 ........................................................................... page 15 “Masks of MMXX” by Hudson Warm ’23............................................................................................... page 16 “Blade” by Hudson Warm ’23 ................................................................................................................... page 17 “What is Writing to Me” by Allie Oh ’21 ................................................................................................. page 18 “Unstuck Pages” by Ava Roberts ’21 ........................................................................................................ page 20 “Warped Perception” by Akshi Khowala ’23........................................................................................... page 21 “The Fish” by Afsana Dhali ’23 ................................................................................................................. page 23 “she was in love” by Destiny Stephen ’22................................................................................................. page 27 “This is what it feels like” by Eki Uzamere ’21 ........................................................................................ page 28 “Church Hands” by Eki Uzamere ’21 ....................................................................................................... page 29 “Scour the Menu” by Alex Elwell ’23 ....................................................................................................... page 30 “Things that don’t go together” by Catherine Lapey ’22 ....................................................................... page 30 “Ode to Freshman Hallway” by Clare Didden ’22 ................................................................................ page 33 “Between Men” by Iheukwumere Marcus ’22......................................................................................... page 34 “A Holocaust Perspective (hatred)” by Cole Silpe ’24 ............................................................................ page 36 “Phantasm” by Sophie Miller ’22 .............................................................................................................. page 40 “Celestial Winter” by David Bernstein ’21 .............................................................................................. page 41 “Cast from Heaven spat ashore” by Bella Wasserman ’23 ..................................................................... page 45 “The Art of Letting Go” by Camille Ngbokoli ’21 .................................................................................. page 46 “Mirage” by Afsana Dhali ’23 .................................................................................................................... page 49 “The Theory of Relativity” by Afsana Dhali ’23...................................................................................... page 50 “The Theory of Relativity” by Afsana Dhali ’23...................................................................................... page 50

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“The Raven” by Ben Kirsch ’21 ................................................................................................................. page 52 “Soulmate” by Hadassah Henderson ’21 ................................................................................................. page 54 “Shadow Shelf ” by Hadassah Henderson ’21 ......................................................................................... page 56 “They never told me” by Anonymous ...................................................................................................... page 58 “Emptiness in the Peak” by Advith Sharma ’23 ...................................................................................... page 60 “The Voice Memo” by Charlie Rudge ’21 ................................................................................................ page 61 “Randomity 2 : The Sequel” by Sid Shah ’22 ........................................................................................... page 62 “Vimisutolongverbum” by Michael Lee ’22 ............................................................................................ page 63 “The Rain Sails” by Daniel Cai ’22 ........................................................................................................... page 69 “Questions of Youth” by Hadassah Henderson ’21 ................................................................................ page 71 “To My 3:30 Alarm Clock” by Hadassah Henderson ’21 ...................................................................... page 72 Dedication .................................................................................................................................Inside Back Cover Drawing “Purple Tech” by Sophia Kliatchko ’24 .................................................................................................... page 15 “Icicles” by Sophie Miller ’22 .................................................................................................................... page 20 “The Fish” by Hannah Leighton ’21 ......................................................................................................... page 22 “Cups” by Hannah Leighton ’21 ............................................................................................................... page 31 “Galactic” by Hannah Leighton ’21 (Ocean Saric?) ............................................................................... page 62 Photography “Emily” by Sarah Malach ’23........................................................................................................................Cover “Ray’s” by Charlotte Molinoff ’22 .............................................................................................................. page ??

“Sam” by Sophie Thomas ’21 ....................................................................................................................... page 8 “Fruits” by Kami Lim ’22 ........................................................................................................................... page 10 “Count On Us” by Charlotte Molinoff ’22 ............................................................................................... page 12 “Purple Saturation” by Camille Ngbokoli ’21 ......................................................................................... page 14 “Summer” by Megan Chin ’22 .................................................................................................................. page 18 “Frozen Leaves” by Kami Lim’22 .............................................................................................................. page 21 “Boat at Beach” by Megan Chin ’22 ......................................................................................................... page 24 “Hannah” by Sophie Thomas ’21 .............................................................................................................. page 26 “The Cops” by Charlotte Molinoff ’22 ..................................................................................................... page 28 “Dark Library” by Luke Yerkes ’22 ........................................................................................................... page 32 “Basketball” by Charlotte Molinoff ’22 .................................................................................................... page 34 “Roses” by Iheukwumere Marcus ’22 ...................................................................................................... page 36 “Elizabeth” by Charlotte Molinoff ’22 ...................................................................................................... page 38

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“Snowflakes” by Campell Johnson ’22 ..................................................................................................... page 40 “Blue” by Iheukwumere Marcus ’22 ......................................................................................................... page 41 “City Reflection” by Megan Chin ’22 ....................................................................................................... page 42 “Brookstone Mill” by Luke Yerkes ’22...................................................................................................... page 46 “Allie” by Sophie Thomas ’21 .................................................................................................................... page 48 “Hackley” by Iheukwumere Marcus ’22 .................................................................................................. page 53 “Silhouette Sunset” by Iheukwumere Marcus ’22 .................................................................................. page 54 “Museum Shadows” by Camille Ngbokoli ’21 ........................................................................................ page 56 “Friend group” by Charlotte Molinoff ’22 ............................................................................................... page 59 “Pink and Orange” by Megan Chin ’22 ................................................................................................... page 64 “Beach Sunset” by Megan Chin ’22 .......................................................................................................... page 66 “Retrieval” by Winslow Griffen ’21 .......................................................................................................... page 68 “Dark Street” by Luke Yerkes ’22 .............................................................................................................. page 72 Painting “Boats” by Sarah Malach ’23 ..................................................................................................................Staff Page “Meadow Lake” by Mason Chapman ’21 .................................................................................................. page 6 “Beach Lot” by Sarah Malach ’23 ...........................................................................................Inside Back Cover Digital Art “Shattered” by Sophia Kliatchko ’24 ........................................................................................................ page 16 “The Approach” by Charlie Rudge ’21 ..................................................................................................... page 44 “Time” by Allison Chin ’24 ....................................................................................................................... page 51 “Mountain” by Mateen Nassipour ’23 ...................................................................................................... page 60 Mixed Media “In Pieces” by Kylie Oh ’24 ........................................................................................................................ page 70

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Siren of Sight

by Nick Khoo ’21

Shrouded sun rays submerge the pier-mountain with a supernatural violet-orange filter; I pass the hill-gates between this unwarranted gem and a road of incalculability.

Recollections of childhood’s oceans, lakes, and tranquility are lifted into the river’s wind, I feel the waves pass through the dirt under my feet as they crash into the fenced rocks.

The riptides of desperation flow through bends and narrow to a sense of surrender, Golden evening’s zephyr weighs on my shoulder as her hair rewraps my neck.

Hollow hands grip mine to submission, we march to the absence of accountability.

Spearing waves swirl timeless identity’s prints to a shell of adjacence, A residue of fiction is comforting when the pier’s fingers reach into the water.

Through blue skies, she glances, a Siren of Sight— Still luring with chances, tender is the night.

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Writers of the West

by David Bernstein ’21

The only question in life I search for Is why does not this country have an end? Is it because of the oath that I swore That I protect the riven laws they penned. For I am but a sheriff in the West, Watching over the lawless who destroy.

But the writers don’t follow like the rest, For they are the lawless who act so coy.

I stand at my post observing the town, But how can I if I’m the Apollo Enforcing their laws that give them a frown. Asking, Why do they write but not follow? I look out east and see the wind coming; The writers are the only ones humming.

And then the desert sands started to fall, The horses and saloons were now hidden.

It was just then that I heard a loud call, I looked their way and saw the forbidden; Out of the dust I could barely see them, Shadows of two children dressed in black smoke It was just then that my body went numb As the voice of a child said to me, quote: “You are not the man who you claim to be, We have seen your true colours and they’re bleak. We have come here to take you back to He, For you are the writer that cheats the weak” The two children lifted me up above I looked up and saw one thing missing; love I start to hum my love-less western song, Now asking myself why I am taken When writers have no sense of right and wrong. Only I now know what is forsaken.

While I am the one receiving no love, The writers provide pain to the masses.

So I ask the children who lift above, Why am I here when writers dump ashes?

They laughed like the little children they are, Grinning at the sight of my thoroughbred.

They shed a tear on the last morning star, Looked into my lifeless cold eyes and said; “The writers will always lie to us youth, Hiding from what is blatantly the truth”; You don’t have to be a writer to write, Mason Chapman ’21, painting

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Eternal Memories

By David Bernstein ’21

Parade noises And live toys it Gave me the feeling Of flying in between The real and not Of escaping with thought The high up balloons And the old-time saloons The march of the soldiers And the rocky boulders The childhood dreams To the midnight scenes I gave thanks for them On the day of the gem For the gem inside Of my newfound mind Brings me back To the time I lack To the parade noises And the crazy mug cozies If only it would last One moment to pass The day they sat At the tablemats And they would laugh It would end so fast But the memory Of the temporary The infinite signal Of the lasting jingle Is the future of a memory That’s not so temporary

Sophie Thomas ’21, Photography Charlotte Molinoff ’22, Photography

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The Fruit’s In “The orange pumpkins have no eyes” By the time we reach the eleventh month.

They have rotted away along with the leftover skin that was left empty when I used its insides to make pumpkin-oat pancakes.

November made me need those floury disks more than ever.

I needed the blueberry-fig compote I drizzled on top with a flick of the wrist and a fork I needed to taste the spongy, fluffy, pan fried dough Made sweeter, Made chewier by the pumpkin.

I needed the leftover sense of the long past seasons Where I consumed the same fruit but this time, it was ripe I’d think how the fruit’s in season 10

Here Instead those blueberries were not wild, were not tame, they were imported From somewhere warmer, somewhere more forgiving, from somewhere Where I could keep growing too.

What is the soul of November?

If it makes it so my breakfast becomes a false sense of security If my father has to buy herbs at the store, because I cannot take them from the pot right outside my swinging kitchen door that lies behind the bug screen with the holes in it If when I look to see my little garden, I only see a meandering bee on its last legs, frigid,trying so hard to fly, but he can’t anymore, so he just falls into the porch stones below the door.

By Ava Roberts ’21 Kami Lim ’22, photography

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Gatsby and Coronavirus

by Sophie Thomas ’21

Lifestyles of the Rich and Reckless: Posh Pandemic Parties Silence echoes off the white marble floors and towering golden pillars Emptiness fills each room, finding its way into even the most stubborn corners and hidden crevices The champagne glasses long for that refreshing fill and the floor aches for the dancing footsteps The walls craving the awkward laughter between two unfamiliar strangers, the steps missing the drunken sway of light feet following an unforgettable night What has happened here? Where did the glamour of the West Egg sneak away to?

Where have all of these party-hungry guests gone?

The radio says it happened like some sort of invisible sickness passed through the air Slowly infecting the minds and hearts of the wealthy partygoers Making them afraid, out of touch All cause for reunion has been labeled dangerous, the warm embrace of two old friends, a joyous performance by the orchestra, a secret love affair But don’t believe everything you hear, ole sport These people would never miss out on the chance to be drunk on life, soothed by the calm of a warm summer night and kissed by their privilege The rubes and the deniers, with so little regard for science, who were unwilling to sacrifice, for the collective good, the pleasures of a Miller Lite consumed at a floating cocktail table (NYT) They have simply moved on to a new house They have found a new sport

Charlotte Molinoff ’22, Photography

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Camille Ngbokoli ’21, Photography

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Afterlife Experiment 4 By: Hadassah Henderson

I made it a tradition A couple of years ago To acknowledge my maker.

It was a venomous success, At the cost of my future.

On my tongue, I can taste The lavish time I spent which was forever lost to The heavens undone.

Myself, a cosmic mistake.

Help me cheat my fate.

I will be brought to death By tomorrow at dusk.

The clock will say to me Time is up.

Do you have any dreams?

I can only laugh My demise on the horizon.

The twinkle of angels far and few between, I kill my will to feel pain.

I’ve gone from the unconscious now, To the unknown future.

Sophia Kliatchko ’23, Digital Art 15

Masks of MMXX

By Hudson Warm ’23

popcorn and spinach and poppy seeds in teeth no longer matter he might have fangs or cavities I’d prefer the latter her face is utterly muted absent of emotion, apathetic and devoid seemingly suffering from alexithymia can hardly tell if she’s annoyed a stranger that might have yellow teeth or perhaps shining pearly whites herpes in her bottom lip or yellow spots, what a fright! his nose may be a hook or flat or round or slim but either way just from his eyes I see half of him a million strangers swarm the halls they all seem just fine I lower my mask for just a moment to sip water of ph8 alkaline suddenly I am self-conscious of my nose and lips and chin something that in years before had sheerly simply been in a rush of anxiety I feel inclined to put back on my mask so no one can see me, feel me hear what I have to say and ask and from this cruel tragedy many citizens are dying my lips quiver because beneath this cloth I have begun crying

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Digital Art, Sophia Kliatcho ’24

Blade

By Hudson Warm ’23

She grips the bejeweled hilt with trembling hands, the victim’s eyes red-rimmed, his jaw agape; Sprawled on the floor are fallen auburn strands; A braided rope hangs tight around his nape.

And the blade screeches loud across his throat; Aware that he is moments from his death, He hides his dreams beneath his overcoat; With weary eyes he heaves a hopeless breath.

She flips the knife toward her own shaking chest, And sheds tears like harsh rainfall on her tongue; A hush as through her bones the blade is pressed; She cannot live with all that she has done.

Ash-ridden skeleton of all she lost, If justice is gained, death may be the cost.

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What

Is Writing

By Allie Oh ’21

Photography, Megan Chin ’22

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To

Me

a spew of droplets misting out of the blowhole of an otherwise submerged whale its own breath of fresh air feeling your throat reopen to oxygen that you forgot you needed changing out of a costume and stepping into your own skin, yourself clearing a mirror too long ignored.

The first good look at yourself.

A confrontation.

Meeting your own best friend.

Piecing yourself together with A collage of magazine clippings Re-attaching yourself with paper clips Taking what is beautiful And redefining it making them your own because you know they can’t construct you the way you can (but you still need their words)

The way to talk without talking, A way to listen.

A puppet escaping the puppet master Cutting the string, slicing away (using a pencil or a macbook air).

Pouring cement but then stepping in it before it hardens Feeling stuck for a moment.

But then getting out.

Unstuck, Looking at your footprints.

Thinking of what is left behind, and envisioning what’s to come.

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Unstuck Pages Ava Roberts ’21

I. How do I stop composing the same story if I’m stuck in our cycle?

Maybe we are one poorly-written narrative of repeating plotlines with soggy, stuck together pages that others forget to read.

When I write about us I attempt to peel them back and use thick black ink to fill in where the words obscure into blue-black stains when the crinkled pages finally dry.

Though, I never thought we were tawdry (maybe I did last time I stood at this point in our cycle); Maybe I did when when you had no words to answer my questions the last time your image blurred my lines of what version of you stood before me. I have to flip back and attempt to re-read and re-read and re-read…

So I have no choice but to follow our thread– even when it seems small, like those that come loose in the laundry.

By the time I check back to see if we are clean, I find that I’m only the halfway point in your rinse cycle.

Along what outdoor lines did you think the wind could render me dry? Are you lost for words?

II. I fear I have only uttered miswords when my mind says one thing, but my features read another. Before I know it I’ve set new guidelines and I think, I know this is what I want. But my mouth is dry all of a sudden! And I wish I could recycle my words back in my throat to quench its thirst, to get that feeling back.

But that is just a fallback.

My words are on the same page as those I wrote last cycle.

The only difference is now you can read them. My message is anything but dry: read through the lines.

III. Soon you will see the unblurred lines of my unstuck pages, my written-in letters, those feelings I got back.

For once my phrases escape balladry– I don’t want you to decipher this puzzle. I have not left you keywords to search for until you find me until you can read me. I’ve written you lyrics that you can recycle.

But the ink I reserved for you has run dry. Those lines don’t live in the cycle you remember from back when my words lived, once, in the pages I wanted you to read.

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Sophie Miller ’22, drawing

Warped Perception

by Akshi Khowala ’23

Scents of roast chestnuts engulf my senses.

Angelic voices greet me at my gate, This time calls for copious expenses.

Spreading joy throughout the community.

Promises of white backyards at this date, Comes a hefty man who brings unity.

Parents open long letters to wishes, Children wait for objects under the tree.

They leave cookies on their pretty dishes, And fantasize about the jubilee.

He descends through a tunnel lined with soot, And repays the hopeful for their good deeds.

But as they transition to parenthood, The magic of it is misunderstood.

Photography, Kami Lim ’22 21

Hannah Leighton ’21, drawing

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The Fish Afsana Dhali ’23 My father looked at me Pride and joy I hadn’t seen that in a while The perch hung limp A witch being hung Though never given a trial He held it carefully His calloused hands around the fish Gills still moving Pierced by the hook On its lower lip Quite dapper, if you ask me My father smiled The crinkles at his eyes The smile a medal I didn’t deserve Never mine, never meant for me But always on my shelf How far would I go To leave the beat beat beat Of his hand The dancing of his stares The rhythm of his anger Words which only I knew, only I heard Gently, he took the hook And pulled the bait out The fish was immobile Eyes darting to me and my father In horror Was I really like him?

I made him proud The fish flew into the cooler With the first few He got his bait From the depths of its throat And began to recast

The night bore on The Midas, I became I stood in the cold Asleep on my feet But I continued I had to make him proud again The feeling reserved for my sister My cousins, everyone but me The sweet ambrosia of approval I craved it, I needed it The rod dug into the gashes and lines on my arms Different flavors bled together With each fish his pride grew I was useful More than a sandbag More than a mistake More than a disappointment I made myself proud I shouldn’t have been caught What bait led me here?

Ripped from my chest Thrown into a place I do not belong I do not want to belong Gasping, gills aflutter He peels off the iridescent scales The birds keep away Pain is an interspecies phenomenon The fish is out of my reach In this ocean, I barely float Forced to drown My head shoved into the lake The fish stare, unsure if I am the bait Or the fisherman I must catch more fish.

I cannot be either.

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Zaheer

By Will Kneisely ’21 The camera pans up. He appears on the edge of a cliff with his back towards the edge and the people below. They don’t know his vision. They don’t know that he will change their lives. He closes his eyes to the sight of his wife’s body. Each raindrop plops and splats on his smooth head. He breathes in deeply through his nose and calmly blows steam out of his mouth. It’s funny how he can see his breath even though it’s raining. The people are the opposite but he will show them the better way. He will show them the path to freedom and sight. Not the kind told to them by rulers and patrons. The kind you take for yourself. The kind you fight for every minute, every second. An order of disorder.

He breathes out again. He feels the heat come off the ground far below him and knows it’s beginning. The magma bubbles beckon him to join them. His head starts to sting from the now hailing sky and his path becomes clear.

“Let go your earthly tether” He feels the vibrations travel through his feet and into his spine and hands as the steeples explode.

“Enter the void” The fluttering of flags disappears as they falter among the fire.

“Empty and become wind”

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She appears. His needle of purpose among the haystack of order and the feeble-minded. He ponders whether looking among the ash would have been better… easier. He sighs softly to himself and smirks pure evil. This is the path he must walk for them.

He leans back and feels the wind and air contort around him. He leaves the woman’s body above.

The air almost seems to hug him like an old friend but he has lost the feeling. The air engulfs him as he speeds towards the ground in utter bliss. He opens his eyes and floats now only a few feet from the ground. He hovers now, enjoying the cries of the weak and the grunts of the stubborn trying to hold their little worlds together. The rebirth begins.

“Great job Basim.” The director turns towards the rest of the crew, “EVERYONE. LET’S SET UP FOR THE FIGHT SCENE.” He turns and beams a smile of approval at Basim.

“I know. Thank you for the…” Basim pauses and with the sly smirk of the trickster and the shapeshifter says, “opportunity.”

Photography, Megan Chin ’22

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Photography by Sophie Thomas ’21 26

she was in love

by Destiny Stephen ’22 like a nurse giving a shot she watched as she was filled with a pinch of pain for a remedy what happens when the shot turns more into pain than remedy a cycle of shots run through her arm causing too much harm she looks up as if to say- the nurse interrupts to say a bit of pain is to be expected this just didn’t feel right she turns her head though she knows what’s going to happen so she pictures a scene from dream a nurse giving a shot she winces in pain drained she complains “why does this hurt so much?, it’s not supposed to hurt this much.” her skin now gentle to the touch red but not yet bled skin so soft the pain now spreads from the skin to farther within she knows it’s not supposed to feel this way regardless of what the nurse may say but she can’t find the words to say to describe the way she is filled to the brim with dismay because it was never meant to turn out this way and then the nurse leaves her, rushed, on to the next patient

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This is what it feels like

By Eki Uzamere ’21 The moon comes out at night And is cold, small, round and everything we despise The moon comes out at night And reminds us the day is gone The moon comes out at night And the music stops, And the laughter turns to desperate pleas The moon comes out at night And it stands over our bronzed faces And flags the sky with patience The moon comes out at night And takes the shape of a spoon, Then a jagged claw threatening to pick us up

Charlotte Molinoff ’22, photography

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Church Hands

By Eki Uzamere ’21

Black knees swung together and slapped in laughter Do you see how mighty we look, with our hands— Cross hands Stray hands White oak palm hands Steady hands Surgery hands It’s so hot in this church, fan hands Gold, bejeweled hands “Praise him,” hands “Lift him,” hands My hands, your hands— all the while, beaming with joy

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Scour the Menu

By Alex Elwell ’23 1 Scour the menu for the meal that piques your desire. Its decadence dances upon your stomach delivering that satisfaction you had been deprived of for so long. A warm meal, teeming with the flavors of your childhood, transports you to a time of blithe serenity and ease to life. Oh, how you languish that time of simplicity. With what you now know of the harshness of life, you could never return to the yesteryear, it would not be enough.

Such as the menu you scour, beaten with age, weather, and desire, your need for respite is becoming ever more so apparent.

2 Crack the shell of the boiled egg in its dish to find the lovely orange yolk greeting you with warmth as you dip your spoon into the cocoon. With age, comes responsibility, something both you and your meal share. It is a responsibility to become consumed by life. The lunchtime wine has reached the culmination of fermentation resulting in a cornucopia of flavor after decades of waiting. You hope you reflect this beauty as age creeps into your skin. The cracks in your hand show as your fingers wrap around the spoon, tapping the egg. Life has cracked you and, as a right of passage, you crack the egg and another cork. The unassuming naivety of innocence becomes wrought by the sudden need to meet each waiting expectation, creating each indentation, each crack; in your flesh, the shell, and each bottle.

3 Spy a stray beam of light hit the glass on the table in front a-ways to your table as you place down your spoon, ending your meal. Encumbered by the never-ceasing thought of age, you see the beam flee as quickly as it came, seemingly a reflection of your current ensnarement in life. Your remaining sprig of sunshine is fleeting, being taken by deterioration. Your heart is burst; you have lost half your soul, your compatriot in your hand reminds you. You sit and reflect on the love you lost, you’re celebrated allure that once was captured by cameras so passionately. The ray of light was not your object of spying, just a justification for looking in the direction of what was once yours.

4 Sign the check with your antiquated detailed signature. Taking your book and purse in your hand you stand and push in your chair as you walk to the front of the outdoor seating area and exit onto the street, passing the couple with the beam of light that filled their glasses. You look upon them with pity and ragged jealousy; their youth and naivety ready to be cracked. Their fingers, smoothed and glowing, deliver each bite to their mouths, teeth white and perfect. You walk on, feeling satisfied with your meal. You leave the last satisfaction age has left for you, the joyous cuisine lost to you, at French Roast, to be returned to tomorrow. Every visit signs away more of your remaining money but they are the last necessity of yours that you possess. Shall never relinquish this ardor, despite the best efforts of age. Being full of supper and distempering draughts, you finally make your way home through the orange-hued streets, a picturesque and splendid sight to see in perfect juxtaposition to you.

It is the epitome of New York City life encapsulated in a single moment. The dreary meets the beautiful, as you sign away your life to the cycle of cracks.

Things that don’t go together

By Catherine Lapey ’22 Green grapes, boneless chicken wings, and yogurt covered pretzels: delicious foods that people underestimate.

Drawing By Hannah Leighton ’21 30

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Luke Yerkes ’22 , Photography 32

Ode to the Freshman Hallway

By Clare Didden ’22

Dimly lit lights flicker like stars against a pipeline sky, I recall memories, and etch them into my brain like the words scrawled on the sides of time worn locker walls.

It’s funny how high school’s “rite of passage” Is a passageway.

A liminal space.

Who knew what could have awaited us on the other side?

Like the fingers of dawn upon the obscured night, time has revealed the answers to our questions and experience has quieted our worries.

So when we walk down that passageway of passed time We’re leaving behind lessons learned in every corner and leave behind memories to collect like dust.

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between men ¹ By: Iheukwumere Marcus ’22

last in history?² [no]... [no], all people had advantages. ³ various accomplishments:⁴ [no] limited excellence.⁵ Colored Empires: [no] white race submerged. ⁶ [no] dramatic turbulence. ⁷ ...[now]? put in reverse. ⁸ my family for generations [now].⁹ the end [now], of some inevitable chain.¹⁰ modish Negroes: ¹¹ [now] feeling the hot whips of ¹² pain. ¹³ “Civilization” ¹⁴ [now].

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1 Fitzgerald, 132 2 Fitzgerald, 180(Book) 3 Fitzgerald, 3 4 Fitzgerald, 8 5 Fitzgerald, 8 6 Fitzgerald, 16 7 Fitzgerald, 8 8 Fitzgerald, 61 9 Fitzgerald, 4 10 Fitzgerald, 79 11 Fitzgerald, 74 12 Fitzgerald, 133 13 Fitzgerald, 41 14 Fitzgerald, 139 *other citations come from the PDF.

Charlotte Molinoff ’21, Photography

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A Holocaust Perspective (hatred)

By Cole Silpe ’24 never have I been so strong never have I stayed so long but even now I know it's wrong but do I really know any friend from foe because if I do this now could I ever even go but I can kid no longer the more that he gets stronger the more that she truly believes everything they've taught her lies upon lies while more and more die and a once good soul will say a final goodbye years I've felt myself building fail to comprehend the power he's yielding the stronger i get the more i forget that I am merely a fake no not really a fake not is my power fake just that I am merely a result of the thoughts of cult that are way less than fond of those without blonde making those who have horns and steal and scorn and kill and lie be forced to die

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Photography, Iheukwumere Marcus ’22

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Fear and Pride

By Ella Rodrigiguez ’23

1.

Pray for the desperate screamers in the street. Smell the wine off their heavy breath as they heave and ho and scream of “thieves”. Fear the news they bring, but fear not that it is true. “Thieves, thieves!”, they shout and shake and strike silence in the neighborhood. Truly desperate, they screech and make mockery of your house, your home, your daughter. Take their words and run.

2.

Turn and spit in the face of adversity, as the exasperated face of bearded adversity spits at you. Ignore his demands and pretend you don’t feel the fear. Tremble in the wake of two angry men but stand tall in your honor. Laugh at them and leave them in the dark, question their every motive. “What, have you lost your wits?” Defend your family name. “Why, wherefore ask you this?”

Photographs By Charlotte Molinoff “22 38

3.

Try to conceal your rage. Fail to conceal your rage. Your daughter is what? With who? The cold cobblestone around you fades away and all you see is red. The scent of snarky men with drunken smiles no longer fills your nostrils. You could turn and hide in your room, go back to sleep. Or, you can fill the world around you with the same passion you feel in your heart. Set forth the fire inside, “strike on the tinder, ho!” Let it all burn.

4.

Despair all you want, but let it be in private and at home. In this moment, you must salvage the wreck that is your damaged ego. Fill the void these screamers have left. “Raise all my kindred.” Taste the burning torches as smoke congests your lungs and feel it sting. Focus on the passion you’ve ignited rather than the loss you’ve faced. Do not be afraid. Stomp your foot and make yourself heard in these ordinarily quiet streets of Venice. Create the unrest around you that tears you apart inside.

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Phantasm

by Anonymous

Campbell Johnson ’22, Photography It’s impossible really to keep sitting here Looking here Breathing here Without my mind wandering Somewhere forbidden So my thoughts stay hidden My mind left pandering-Must beware Do I care Do I dare Might I really?

My mind starts to dance Heart starts thundering But a shadow creeps in Scraping under my skin And I can’t take the chance So I’ll just keep wondering

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Celestial Winter

by David Bernstein ’21

Iheukwumere Marcus ’22, Photography Blue sky on the autumn breeze Serenading for me If only I would look But for what, I don’t know Poetry was never my strength What I write are the words that I know The day that they came And they rode their horse into town I remember telling the paper “It won’t be long now” Oh, once when I sleep I’ll remember that day They took the sky from my heart, Let it lay, And it sank

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An Authoritative List of Billy Joel’s Top Songs

by Charlie Rudge ’21 Spotify says I am in the top 0.5% of Billy Joel listeners. This makes me an unrivaled expert on his music, so here is the definitive, non-arguable list of his best songs.

The River of Dreams- the gospel rhythms, intoxicating lyrics, and compelling narrative place this at the top of my list. It is also probably the reason why I sleepwalked into the lake one night at camp when I was 11.

We Didn’t Start the Fire- an unrivaled road trip song and a massive flex if you know every single verse. Billy himself might have hated the rhythm, but it’s second only to ‘American Pastoral’ in providing a succinct, digestible tale of the American century.

Scenes from an Italian Restaurant- I just want that big waterbed. Diners, divorce before 25, and a dime in the box combine to make this song worth the exorbitant runtime.

Pressure- blast this song while studying for the SAT. It works, I promise Summer, Highland Falls- it’s never sadness, and always euphoria, when this song comes on.

I still don’t know who Highland is, or why he falls, though.

Tell Her About It- communication is indeed the most important thing in a relationship.

New York State of Mind- pretentious, overbearing, arrogant- just like all New Yorkers. Also, would Billy really rather go to Ossining than Miami Beach? Liar.

Piano Man- kind of depresses me, and is MAD overrated. No one feels happy after listening to this song. What’s gonna happen to bartender John?

Movin’ Out- I will someday address my wife as ‘Mamaleone’ while riding in our Cadillac-ac-acac-ac down to Hackensack Captain Jack- I can’t legally say in a school publication why I love this song.

Allentown- stunting on the decline of American manufacturing and how much Pennsylvania steel towns suck. What a good New Yorker Billy is.

Uptown Girl- Billy’s Manhattan equivalent of Westchester’s ‘Harrison Girl’.

Goodnight Saigon- factually incorrect. Today, it should be ‘Goodnight Ho Chi Minh City’.

Vienna- not even a top 10 city in Europe, and the Austrians supported the Nazis.

Say Goodbye to Hollywood- reminds me of that one time I rode the ‘Rockin Roller Coaster’ when I went to Disney World nine years ago Only the Good Die Young- scares me a lot. My mom says I am good. Will I die young?

My Life- busy, loveless, but pretty damn fun; thanks for asking.

You May Be Right- and I may be crazy. I really might be. This list is making me crazy.

Don’t Ask Me Why- if you’ve read this far, thank you.

Photography, Megan Chin’22 42

The Longest Time- why did I make this, anyway? I see this type of list all the time- on Thillist or Buzzfeed, on The Ringer and Ranker. Random millennial office workers claim to be an authority on a certain subject, and I get vexed by their opinions. I leave comments to respond to Emily Avocado Toast’s list on Buzzfeed that ‘definitively’ proclaims the ‘17 Best Rom-Coms for When You Just Need to Snuggle in a Weighted Blanket and Drink Hot Chocolate’ about how wrong she because OBVIOUSLY Four Weddings and a Funeral is ten times better than Something Wild but I digress. I should know deep down that Emily is no more of an expert than I am, but there’s something about someone powerfully listing items from a position of authority that makes me just snap into attention. That being said, having written this list, please do not take my opinion as gospel. Go and listen to some Billy Joel yourself, and construct your own opinion.

I despise ‘The Longest Time’, but you might love it, and that is fine. ‘The River of Dreams’ is still his best song, though. Shut up. You’re wrong.

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Charlie Rudge ’21, mixed media

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Cast from heaven, spat ashore !"#!$%%&#'&(($)*&+#,-.

Cast from heaven, spat ashore.

A caring hand reaches from the rocks up high, Two young boys embrace under the sky.

They had each other; they needed nothing more.

What are you crying for?

The cat was weak, it was bound to die.

You were crying too, it’s not just I. The two play with no knowledge of the coming war.

Rivers of blood, skies ablaze.

Humanity fallen. Was God to blame?

Trust was gone, a world of crime.

On that rocky shore in humanity’s wake, Satan weeps for his devilman under the starry gaze.

As the world caves in, two devils lost in fierce red flame.

A devilman who felt too much, and a devil who felt for the first and last time.

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The Art of Letting Go

By Camille Ngbokoli ’ 21

The midnight wind blew right through my bones and convinced my body that the purpose of my sweatshirt had become redundant. Oddly enough, I felt as though the cold had replaced a missing piece within me.

The feeling I never claimed had returned.

As my body readjusted to the wind slowly denouncing it’s presence, the piece of completion left too.

All of a sudden, I was distracted again.

I was left within the confinement and the normalcy that made my aversions seem appealing.

Luke Yerkes ’ 22, photography

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The rooftop I stood on now became a launchpad and the shining stars and dully lit clouds represented a destination to which I was heading.

The plants that filled my foye at home were now overwatered by my own inability to judge when enough is enough.

When should I stop giving?

And lastly the bass of the song I previously could not make out, coming from a few floors below me, had vanished.

Just quiet, on this rooftop, within an untethered imagination 47

Photography by Sophie Thomas ’21 48

Mirage by Afsana Dhali ’23 Nobody holds themselves in high esteem. Not these days. Everyone’s got this image of themselves in their heads, which is more often than not, wrong. However, what most people do have, is an image of perfect. Of what they aspire to be. Want to be. Need to be.

They’ve got this goal, to be someone they’re not, to please someone they don’t know. They want to fill a quota they can’t see, want to make themselves perfect for someone they’ll never meet. They’re jealous of those who have what they want, and forget to love themselves.

Feeling stuck, helpless, in their own body. Disgusted when they look in the mirror. Not good enough. Not there yet. Not perfect enough. But who will tell them that their “perfect” is flawed? I can’t repeat myself to everyone. I only have so much breath. How can I tell you, that who you are right now is perfect? How can I tell you that you don’t need to be “perfect”? How can I make you listen? How can I make you understand that in fact “perfect” is flawed, and flawed is perfect? This image you have in your mind, it’s not real. Your own self-loathing will keep you from getting there. It’s not really there. It’s not a goal. Goals can be achieved. It’s not a goal. You don’t need to change. Because I can promise you, that somewhere, someone also has an image of perfect. A goal they want to achieve. And their image of perfection is, well, you.

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The Theory Of Relativity

By Afsana Dhali ’23

Here’s to the time spent together And to laughter we shared Here’s to never have I ever And to unfinished speeches Here’s to Hisoka and Sylvester And to your flannel Here’s to what we haven’t lost Which we’ve lost already

Here’s to my alien, my soulmate And to crying together Here’s to faceplanting in the snow And silent jokes we both heard Here’s to hibachi speeches And pencil smelling, and DNA Here’s to a dynamic I’m scared of losing Which will be forgotten someday

Here’s to word cookies And to Sherlock at midnight Here’s to Sobble and pre-calc And walks in the rain Here’s to unfinished business And hugs we’ll share again Here’s to what we will lose Which is already gone

Here’s to outfit advice And spontaneous songs Here’s to chai over facetime And papers almost due Here’s to throwing multi-lingual shade And discussing goris & goras Here’s to hoping you’ll always be here Which is selfish because it’s almost over

Heres to random hugs And to daylight hat theft Here’s to you being more mature than I And to lunch in middle school Here’s to game pigeon And balloon arches in the summer Here’s to hoping we don’t lose touch Which has already been left on delivered

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Here’s to everyone in between Thems, hims, and hers I’ll take forever to name As cheesy as it is, without them I wouldn’t be the same

Drawing, Allison Chin ’24

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The

Raven

By Ben Kirsch ’21

I am writing for the Vision, indecision As I ponder long division, Meanwhile, I wonder about my college decision Last year I learned Biology, cell division I sit here and my future, I envision With precision Hoping my condition, Does not lead to an incision, A need to quote has arisen, “This is the remix to ignition, Hot and fresh out the kitchen, Got every man in here wishin” -R Kelly, A man whose future involves prison,

For multiple editions, Of the Vision, Where to be published, I request permission At a school to which I pay tuition, This poem defies definition, Yet not tradition

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Photography, Iheukwumere Marcus ’22 53

Soulmate

by Hadassah Henderson ’21 I am willed to follow, every morning the same path as you A route that changes without my acknowledgment The same rotation in the temperate air, filled with sunshine Down the block right then right then left or maybe a different direction Sometimes I walk down the path of demolished houses, small things were thrown in the path to block my inevitable arrival

Our life together is written in the stars Other times I walk across the bridge of sheet music which reaches the ears of the dog walker Most of the time, I have no idea where I’m going The same rotation maybe replicated elsewhere

Yours however is the same as mine A maze of paths unidentified by technological eyes but instead revealed to our mind’s eye Do you think it’s beautiful as well?

The everlasting and unchained sequence of paths We will be the only ones to meet in the middle For our life is destiny replicated, and we are empaths of the same rotation

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Photography, Iheukwumere Marcus ’22 55

Shadow Self

By Hadassah Henderson ’21 “Arise, for you have been summoned.”

A ringing is calling you From fabrications from whence you came Your daily list of obligations run on an endless path Overwhelming your mind Beckoning you into the land of the living No matter how much you say “Stop..please, I’m not ready.”

The rush never ends, and you are the unwilling victim being pulled limb from limb Are you up yet?

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Photograph By Camille Ngbokoli ’21 57

They Never Told Me It’s kind of funny how One little part of us Defines the rest of us.

They never told me I was beautiful.

That my dark skin and curly hair Would be cherished Like the blonde haired-blue eyed girls You see in the magazines.

They never told me to embrace myself.

That I didn’t need to straighten my hair everyday Which would take hours To hide who I was.

Sometimes I wish they did.

They never told me I was different.

That my dark hair and monolids automatically made me identical to the others.

“Where are you from?” they’d ask.

And they wouldn’t take America as an answer.

They never told me.

But I knew when I saw their glances Flit towards me When my teacher wrote “9/11” On the Board.

Something in me knew That it was because of my brown skin, Or the Hijab wrapped around my head.

I am more Than my skin color Than my religion Than those stereotypes ingrained in things we can’t control Silently woven in a seemingly perfect society Like a threaded blanket.

Pull the thread out, And it collapses.

It’s kind of funny how One little part of us Defines the rest of us.

Defines the rest of us, One little part of us.

It’s kind of funny, isn’t it?

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Poem, Anonymous Photo, Charlotte Molinoff 59

/*012+$((#2+#13$#4$&5

By Advith Sharma ’23 Emptiness in the peak of the moment, eyes circumventing the center of focus, in the middle of the figure, not too far, perhaps equidistant from the corners, around the top and into the sky, difficult thoughts perpetuating the mind, and never to the center.

Mateen Nassirpour ’23, Digital Art 60

63$#7829$#:$*8

By Charlie Rudge ’21 Dropped off a cliff to a silent moment Red ridges flattened like the prairies under a Kansas sunset.

But now it’s too quiet and I can’t bear it and now I’m going 85 and now I’m shouting into my phone to make the hills rise into the Rocky Mountains above the plains.

Building monuments to my future understanding Colossal peaks and girdled ridges, eclectic emotions raising my range.

A mountain range that takes 11 minutes and 19 seconds to traverse.

All pain and anguish and frustration and confusion.

I slow down the car because the silence is gone and every emotion pours out of me in a torrent of rock and shifting plates.

Forever a way to understand the twisted thoughts rattling through my mind.

The mountains I made on a chilly July night.

Memory encapsulated, the mountains I built shoved in the Cloud, downloadable across all Apple devices I will ever own.

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Randomity 2: The Sequel by Sid Shah ’22 The blue parrot drove by the hitchhiking mongoose.

Nobody loves a pig wearing lipstick.

The bees decided to have a mutiny against their queen.

A dead duck doesn’t fly backward.

If I don’t like something, I’ll stay away from it.

Every manager should be able to recite at least ten nursery rhymes backward.

As the rental car rolled to a stop on the dark road, her fear increased by the moment.

The paintbrush was angry at the color the artist chose to use.

The swirled lollipop had issues with the pop rock candy.

Joe made the sugar cookies; Susan decorated them.

Grape jelly was leaking out the hole in the roof.

He loved eating his bananas in hot dog buns.

He waited for the stop sign to turn to a go sign.

Thigh-high in the water, the fisherman’s hope for dinner soon turned to despair.

It had been sixteen days since the zombies first attacked.

Please tell me you don’t work in a morgue.

He went back to the video to see what had been recorded and was shocked at what he saw.

While on the first date he accidentally hit his head on the beam.

Random words in front of other random words create a random sentence.

Abstraction is often one floor above you.

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Vimisutolongverbum by Michael Lee ’22 vimisutolongverbum(vi-mis-ou-toe-long-ver-bum) - Noun. A person who misuses long words.

Derived from vir(man), misuse(mis(bad) + utor(use)), longus(long), and verbum(word).

Examples: During an insult battle, one could say "You, sir, are vimisutolongverbum" However, due to the words misuse, one could respond with "No no no. There, you would use the word vimisutolongverbous. You truly are one who possesses qualities of a vimisutolongverbum."

Related terms: "vimisutolongverbous," "vimisutolongverbist, "vimisutolongverbologist," "vimisutolongverbology," "vimisutolongverbing," "vimisutolongverbic," and "vimisutolongverber"

Drawing by Ocean Saric ’21 63

by Alex Elwell ’23

Sitting on the light green carpeted floor of my room, I giggle softly to the slap-stick emitting from the record player by my bed. Sketch after sketch my giggles continue, morphing into loud, boisterous, and uncontrollable laughter. A knock on the door, and my dad ducks in to join me in listening to the silly British comedy. He looks one way, then sharply the other, before coming in so he doesn’t get caught for not helping my mom do something or another. We double over in hysterics as we join Monty Python in singing the “Eric the Half-a-Bee” song. As the record finishes and I get up to flip it, my dad starts to jokingly educate me on the importance of British humor, smiles ingrained into his face from all of the laughing. He goes on about how Grandpa loved Monty Python, “He just really loved it.” A somber air engulfs the both of us as I sit down, record in hand. Droopy eyes and sad words tumble out of our mouths masked by a facade of indifference and faux positivity. It reminded my grandfather of his childhood, growing up in the war, facing displacement, and chaos. Memories of me sitting on his lap and him asking me about camp rush, unasked, into my mind. The caring and genuine curiosity had poured from his eyes and into the air around him. He asked me which books I brought with me, knowing me so well and that I would have of course brought books on a hiking trip. Our discussion then morphed into a bumbling exchange about history as both of us gained in excitement over our favorite subject. Little 12 year old me. A fond memory now drench with sadness as I am the only one of us left to recount it.

Photography, Megan Chin ’22 64

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The Hater’s Guide to the Hamptons By a dissatisfied Hamptonite

Ah, the Hamptons. The pinnacle of WASP culture. Where some golf clubs are still anti-Semitic, and where Porsches are a dime a dozen. It’s so privileged, in fact, that two of the five wealthiest zip codes in the United States are in this land mass we all have indiscriminately agreed to call the Hamptons. Gone are the days where Montauk was the home of scrappy whalers and fisherman, they’ve all been replaced by entitled trust fund puppies. It’s the land of the posers and the famous, so long as we pretend the people who work and live there all year round don’t exist. It’s where if you don’t know the difference between pinot grigio and pinot noir you will be shunned. It’s where you can spend $7 on an eight ounce cappuccino, granted that’s with almond milk, because why would you have any less- only the rabble cheaps out on whole or regular. So here it goes, I guess. Your 2021 Hater’s Guide to the Hamptons.

South Hampton The place to go if you think you’re some hotshot you’re not. It’s so all encompassing that not only is it a town, but also township, robbing the other wealthy towns of their own identity. To be fair, they do have the best high school (based solely on dollar to kid ratio, since the people paying the property tax wouldn’t dare to send their kids to a public school, gasp (all sarcastic)). It’s the perfect caricature of the Hamptons, really. But hey, at least the beach is pretty. The town is decent, assuming you can pay $5 for a standard cup of coffee. Not even Starbucks in New York City charges that much.

And this coffee isn’t even good. They made the perfect commercial bakery that does ridiculous scale, and then jacked up the prices- it’s your local Tate’s Bake Shop! But it’s not special, I can get it at any Duane Reade. Everyone is walking around in their couple thousand-dollar outfits, but I guess that goes for all the Hamptons, so I can’t really pick on them uniquely for this, but there is a distinct lack of taste. The needless flexing gets to be to much after about an hour. No hate, but it’s true.

Watermill Do you even exist bro?

Bridgehampton The most expensive zip code on the East Coast. At least they have affordable (by Hamptons standards) grocery and liquor stores (don’t drink, you’re still under age). The town is basically non-existent, so I have nothing else to add.

Sagaponack The second most expensive zip code on the East Coast. Home to the most overhyped vineyard which exclusively caters to Upper East Side moms. They have a mom and pop distillery, so that’s cool I guess (I still don’t condone drinking until you’re 21). There’s no town, but do you really need one if you have a helipad in your backyard?

Wainscott Historically the “cheap” Hamptons. Living here is like trying to say you live in either Sagaponack or East, when you don’t but say you do just to seem cool. In my mind, it’s a Hamptons wannabe, with arguably the most annoying population out of anyone who’s not out in East or South. But Levain is cool, very cool. I can’t argue with good pizza and cookies, which is all this town is good for. Also, it claims the worst run post office in the entire country. Make sure you put your PO box number on every package or you won’t get it, and the staff will just yell at you for wasting their time.

Sag Harbor Hands down, the best town in the Hamptons. Best grocery stores, best vibes (still rich, but not as conspicuous), they’ve still got that old whaler town vibes. Tries too hard to be Montauk, with all of the multi-million dollar yachts with not one, not two, not three or even four or five, but thirteen, yes a one followed by a three, yacht clubs. That just shows you. Also, there’s a cheese shop where the average price is probably about $28 per pound. Then there’s the trendy froyo place (you know the one I’m talking about) that charges 78 cents per ounce, where they serve you both froyo and toppings. There’s no way to walk out without paying at least ten bucks on a simple cup of ice cream. Then there’s the public school. Nothing is inherently wrong with the school. It’s more the out of town people who pay extra to send their kids there over East Hampton, which is not only better funded and higher ranked, but also more diverse, so to Sag Harbor they all go. To be fair to whom I castigate, it’s mostly former Upper East Siders who do this and that notion has faded over the past few years, but it was a genuine trend observed by many. Sag Harbor also basically takes credit for the two neighboring towns, but eh, they don’t matter.

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East Hampton The stereotypical Hampton. Very expensive, no good restaurants downtown, but home to the best coffee shop and sausage place. Nice park, if you can ever get a parking spot. Has the highest golf course density in the world (ok I made that up, but it could be true), and is the pinnacle of the WASPy Hamptons. It’s so bougie that it has its own airport that is exclusively used by people trying to get their pilots license, business executives, celebrities, and Bill Clinton.

It’s a more authentic version of South Hampton, it’s rich and ostentatious without that annoying try hard vibe. You walk down main street and the bargain clothes stores are Polo Ralph Lauren and Vineyard Vines. It’s also home to the aforementioned $7 cappuccino. The beach is pretty, as long as you don’t mind paying the $1000 pass fee if you don’t own property in the village, renters have no rights here. But if you do want to go to East Hampton, hit up La Fondita or the Blue Parrot, they have some great Mexican food and it’s not a complete rip off (by Hamptons standards).

Amagansett East Hampton, but make it more expensive. Has by far the best beach, natural landscape, back roads, and all the non-Hamptons Hamptons things. If I had to guess, it’s the least densely populated town, which makes it the best because the summer folk annoy the living daylights out of me. Then it’s the battle of the two clam shacks. Placed on opposite sides of Rt. 27 withing a quarter of a mile of each other. Always packed, causing traffic jams for anyone trying to go to or from Montauk. They’re also owned by the same guy, but they cause fabricated tribal warfare, now how’s that for an excellent business model?

Montauk The end of the world and this rant. What used to be a nice place to go fishing and get away from the annoying entitled trust fund puppies of East and South has become populated by wealthy college kids exclusively trying to get drunk.

Now it’s always packed with kids so annoying that during the lockdowns in the spring Cuomo had to call them out by name in a press briefing to go back inside and leave the bars. No shade to Montauk though, it’s just far away and traffic once you enter South sucks, so people don’t always love trekking out there.

Conclusion The Hamptons are great, as long as you get rid of all the people who summer there. Full of natural beauty and cool, hard-working locals. Just don’t go there for the summers, you’ll thank me later.

Megan Chin ’22, Photography 67

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Photography, Winslow Griffen ’21

The Rain Sails

By Daniel Cai ’22

“Arma virumque canō” - Aeneid Vast, boundless blue, The wind wept and soothed.

Behind were the ash heaps, nothing ahead stood.

In the homebound, The ship had heard sirens.

The ship has no man, no sailors and saw no land.

That is when the rain began, the water rising, slowly climbing up the sand.

The land folded itself into a nice sheet, Along with the drizzle, Adam’s army drowned and sank.

Great walls crumbled, Pyramids and towers no longer told their tale.

Everest submerged.

All else silent, and gone. that is when, that is when.

Only then the rain began to sail — in a world where no man fell.

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Mixed Media, Kylie Oh ’24

Questions of Youth

by Hadassah Henderson

If only the blood would leave my mother’s body Then she would be alone forever.

In the comfort of singular brittle bones Her skin torn from incisions of years past

Would they get a glimpse of her sacrifices?

Every extra job she worked Every time she gave pieces of her time to a man that didn’t deserve it Every time she sacrificed solace to give her children semblance of famil

Then maybe she would gain the courage to repair herself.

To rework Refashion Would she cease to exist?

If only the water leaking from the sky would suppress the urge To overwhelm her structure of comfort.

Her home Her money Constant repairs of structures Overflowing with life Her Home Her Body

Then maybe she wouldn’t have to pry open their eyes and minds.

Go beyond her body’s capability Her fingernails are thin Fingertips rusted and dry Fingers stiff and unmovable Hands bruised and battered Limbs sore beyond compare Tired So tired

Nonstop efforts of reparations for those Under her mercy Then maybe her children would see her.

Her home Her souls Then she would be a mother The definition you see in the picture books For them, she would be a place of wondrous fiction Separate from the harsh reality Real-life has taught them

My wish for my Mother Is for love to exist in real life The way it does in the books that consume me.

Support and love should have consumed her.

Instead, she spits out these high expectations Not high, realistic maybe

If only those people with skin paler than her own Would open their minds To be overwhelmed by her knowledge and her experiences.

The feelings of loss of partnership and trust Her pain of overuse of mind and body Most importantly, her love of family and her children Hands bruised and battered Limbs sore beyond compare Tired So tired

I torment myself with questions of intrigue.

Of how our life should have been How her life should have been

My wish for my Mother Is for love to exist in real life The way it does in the books that consume me.

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To my 3:30 am alarm

By Hadassah Henderson ’21

Please don’t ask me for more than what I can manage to create a passion for.

How do I manifest love?

Not for anyone but rather anything at all…

All I have for you right now are thoughts of emptiness.

I often feel like I am drifting off and drifting away like a lone astronaut in space.

Long forgotten.

Gasps of air are all I can manage right now.

I’m counting the seconds Until the past and future collide In a fiery explosion Emotions uncertain Destruction unwarranted I often wonder if I’ll make it.

I can feel my body slowly rebelling against the neglection of my mind.

Can I just have a good cry?

I think that’s something I can manage.

Maybe I’m so broken that I don’t even deserve to release my destruction.

So don’t ask me how I’m doing.

The only answer I can manage is that Tomorrow will be inevitably worse than what I wanted.

I have nothing to offer in this transaction of meaningless pleasantries.

Is everyone gone now?

If you don’t mind I’m going to collapse for a couple of seconds.

Can you manage without me?

“Until we meet again, in the half-conscious dawn.”

Luke Yerkes ’22, photography 72

The Vision !"#$%&'()*+',%-.%&'()*+',/

The Vision’s mission is to create a platform for students to share their artistic and literary accomplishments with the rest of the student body and faculty.

With this in mind, we strive to represent all four grades, 9-12, along with a wide spectrum of artistic media and types of literature, including poetry, fiction, nonfiction, paintings, drawings, photography, and various other forms of free and creative expression. Literary submissions are chosen by peer readers who review anonymous submissions and vote for the pieces they deem worthy of inclusion.

Artwork is selected by The Vision staff with a focus on quality, variety, and allaround layout needs. The Vision editorial team creates the layout in the Adobe InDesign platform, using the Georgia font. The magazine is printed with fourcolor process plus aqueous coating.

Hackley School is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.