The Vision 2020 by Hackley School

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VIS ION VOLUME XXXI

THE TEAM CO-EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Emily Afriyie ’20 Ava Knapp ’20

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

LITERARY AND ART COORDINATOR

Christopher Arnold ’20

Alex Evangelidis ’20

STAFF Eliana Lee ’20 Bella Monteleone ’21 Allie Oh ’21 Charlie Rudge ’21 Eki Uzamere ’21 Megan Chin ’22 Clare Didden ’22 Destiny Stephen’22

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.

Arushi Chandra ’23 Callie Duggan ’23 Flor Guzman ’23 Akshi Khowala ’23 Ava Lattimore ’23 Mason Napach ’23 Eleanor Neu ’23 Advith Sharma ’23 Zara Yusaf ’23 Dionne Chen ’22

Annabelle Gray ’22 Emma Joseph ’22 Kami Lim ’22 Emily Rossman ’22 Alina Watson ’22 Mira Zaslow ’22 David Bernstein ’21 Gainsley Korengold ’21 Will Rifkin ’21 Olivia Rowbottom ’21

Hear Annabel Ives discuss these images.

Lauren Ahern ’20 Sadie Friesen ’20 Elizabeth Hetzel ’20 Chiara Kaufman ’20 Conor McMahon ’20 Amanda Mooney ’20 Kylie Morrison ’20 Max Rosenblum ’20 Jackie Vargas ’20 Madeline Zuckerman ’20

Hackley School • 293 Benedict Avenue • Tarrytown, NY • 10591 Volume XXXI • Published Annually • © Hackley School 2020

Photography, Kami Lim â&#x20AC;&#x2122;22

Hear Kami Lim discuss this image.

A Letter from the Senior Editors Dear Vision Readers, Each year, we are delighted and awed by the talent and voice of the Hackley Upper School student body. There was an abundance of wonderful art and literature to choose from--we knew from the beginning that we would have the opportunity to create a very special magazine this year! Per usual, new members of the staff proved eager to master the nuances of magazine publication, including graphics design practices, Photoshop and the InDesign platform, and the realities of deadline management. They rallied their classmates to submit content for consideration, and managed the final selection process. Each class, there was this palpable energy and happiness that came with designing spreads that brought student writing and art together to create something entirely new that celebrates our peers’ talents, and in collaborating to see what our fellow staff members had produced. This passion for what we do on The Vision is what keeps this magazine running each year. While the staff is used to the quiet hum of work in the early months of the year that then transitions midyear to a big push toward the deadline, no one could have foreseen the unexpected challenges that augmented the usual hustle and bustle of the end of year, given the great challenges we’d be facing. COVID-19 forced us to move our collaborative efforts to a remote classroom environment. The transition to a virtual workplace felt surprisingly seamless, as Hackley quickly authorized at-home access to the Adobe Creative Cloud for each of us. Still, the staff needed to to respond with speed and flexibility -with just one day’s warning in which to transition from “at school” work to “at home” work, we quickly moved all our files from our shared files on the school’s server to Google Drive to ensure continued access should we be shut out of campus. For us as Senior Editors of this publication, maintaining a sense of normalcy amidst the general craziness was crucial. We needed to ensure discipline in order to keep the publication moving toward the deadline, but also flexibility so that no one felt overwhelmed with the new pressures of distance learning. We have all been on the staff of the Vision for at least two years so these experiences come with quite a bit of knowledge on how this magazine runs. We could not do this work without the help of each other, our staff, our faculty advisor, Ms. Akin, Mr. Green, and various other faculty members who have encouraged our mission. As our own time on the Editorial Team of this magazine comes to a close, we thank everyone who has made this opportunity special and invaluable. It once again shows that nothing can stop us from sharing the perspectives and stories of our school--not even COVID-19. Sincerely, The Vision’s 2020 Senior Editors Emily Afriyie & Ava Knapp, Co-Editors-in-Chief Christopher Arnold, Creative Director Alex Evangelidis, Literature & Art Coordinator 3

table of contents DRAWING “Band Stickers,“ by Leah Holmes ’20...................................................................................................................... Cover “Toys,” drawing by Annabel Ives ’20............................................................................................... Inside Cover, page 1 “Tajah” by Christopher Arnold ’20....................................................................................................................... page 12 “Climbing” by Sadie Friesen ’20............................................................................................................................page 17 “Onion” by Alexandra Gray ’20.............................................................................................................................page 22 “Melon” by Alexandra Gray’ 20.............................................................................................................................page 23 “Skull & Bones” by Dylan Wade ’20......................................................................................................................page 26 “Hissing Bones” by Hannah Leighton ’21............................................................................................................. page 27 “The Crown Jewel” by Jackie Vargas ’20..............................................................................................................page 30 “Fjords” by Talia Shoshani ’20..............................................................................................................................page 36 “Blue Faced” by Emma Lauerwald ’20.................................................................................................................. page 41 “Pancakes” by Alexaandra Gray ’20......................................................................................................................page 42 “Toy Dragon” by Annabel Ives ’20........................................................................................................................page 44 “The Youth of the Bronx” by Schylar Chase ’20....................................................................................................page 48 “Swim” by Aidan Wilson ’20................................................................................................................................. page 54 “Backroads Adventure” by Leah Holmes ’20........................................................................................................ page 56 “Kylie” by Christopher Arnold ’20........................................................................................................................page 66 “Gummy Bear” by Emily Rifkin ’23......................................................................................................................page 68

PHOTOGRAPHY “Doorway,” by Kami Lim ’22...................................................................................................................................page 2 “New York,” by Jordan Miller ’20....................................................................................................................... page 4, 5 “Girl” by Megan Chin ’22.........................................................................................................................................page 6 “Rhythm” by Oren Tirschwell ’20...........................................................................................................................page 8 “Light” by Eki Uzamere ’21................................................................................................................................. ...page 10 “Eye” by Massimo Soto ’23.................................................................................................................................... page 18 “Sunny Skies” by Jessie Bard ’21........................................................................................................................... page 21 “Sheep“ by Ava Knapp ’20.....................................................................................................................................page 24 “Reflection” by Megan Chin ’22............................................................................................................................page 28 “Mirror” by Christopher Arnold ’20.....................................................................................................................page 32 “Car” by Ava Knapp ’20.........................................................................................................................................page 34 “Hook, Line, and Thinker” by Jordan Miller ’20.................................................................................................. page 35 “Boy in Blue” by Emma Lauerwald’ 20.................................................................................................................page 41 “Window Shopper” by Bella Monteleone ’21........................................................................................................page 50 “Drifting, 2pm rio de l’Albero“ by Kami Lim ’22..................................................................................................page 58 “All American Teen” by Sophia Thomas ’21..........................................................................................................page 60 “Kids” by Jessie Bard ’21.......................................................................................................................................page 63

MIXED MEDIA “Locked In” by Chiara Kaufman ’20..................................................................................................................... page 14 “Face” by Chiara Kaufman ’20..............................................................................................................................page 46

PAINTING 4

“Marsh Sunset” by Mason Chapman ’21............................................................................................................... page 52

DIGITAL

Hear Jordan Miller discuss this image.

“The Tower” by Mateen Nassirpour ’23................................................................................................................page 64 “ 2020,” by Christopher Arnold ’20................................................................................................................ Back Cover

PERSONAL NARRATIVE & SHORT FICTION “The Stargazer” by Conor McMahon ’20...............................................................................................................page 11 “The Scream” by Sadie Friesen ’20....................................................................................................................... page 14 “Ghost Stories” by Helen Sileshi ’20..................................................................................................................... page 14 “Gitout” by Alex Evangelidis ’20........................................................................................................................... page 16 “The Velvet Cushion or A Solipist Midsummer’s Dreams” by Ben Marra ’20.....................................................page 24 “A Brief Autobiography of the Earth” by Erin Lynch ’20.....................................................................................page 26 “Another Body” by Chiara Kaufman ’20............................................................................................................... page 27 “Hello” by Conor McMahon ’20............................................................................................................................ page 31 “Randomity” by Siddhant Shah ’22....................................................................................................................... page 33 “Circumstance and Character” by Ava Knapp ’20................................................................................................page 36 “Landlady” by Conor McMahon ’20......................................................................................................................page 43 “My Reflection” by Emily Afriyie ’20....................................................................................................................page 49 “tfw cher asks if u believe in love after love” by Kylie Morrison ’20....................................................................page 50 “weather man :/” by Kylie Morrison ’20............................................................................................................... page 52 “Is It You?” by Eki Uzamere ’21............................................................................................................................. page 55 “Baba O’Riley” by Elizabeth Hetzel ’20................................................................................................................. page 57 “Captain Tory” by Elizabeth Hetzel ’20................................................................................................................page 58 “The Chest” by Charles Dewey ’21......................................................................................................................... page 61 “Smile for Nadia” by Sarah Shapiro ’21.................................................................................................................page 62 “Letter to the Black Girl” by Taylor Robin ’20...................................................................................................... page 67

POETRY “Sensory Details” by Ava Knapp ’20....................................................................................................................... page 6 “Order” by Sophie Miller ’22...................................................................................................................................page 8 “Deafened Desire” by Camille Ngbokoli ’21.......................................................................................................... page 10 “Last Will and Testament” by Tajah Burgher ’20..................................................................................... ............page 13 “Otter” by Ben Marra ’20....................................................................................................................................... page 18 “The Edge of the World” by Sadie Friesen ’20......................................................................................................page 20 “Assassin” by Alex Evangelidis’ 20.......................................................................................................................page 22 “Ode to Time” by Iheukwumere Marcus ’22.........................................................................................................page 28 “To Sculpt a Verse add Plaster” by Chiara Kaufman ’20......................................................................................page 29 “National Park Space Landing” by Ava Knapp ’20...............................................................................................page 34 “Summer’s End” Ben Marra ’20........................................................................................................................... .page 35 “I Am” by Emily Rifkin ’23....................................................................................................................................page 40 “For the Love of Roland Barthes” by Chiara Kaufman ’20................................................................................... page 45 “Fanning the Flames” by David Benstein ’21........................................................................................................ page 47 “Whose Awake/Me Too” by Ben Marra................................................................................................................page 65 “My Existence” by Sadie Friesen’20......................................................................................................................page 68

D S E E T N A S I O L S R Y By Ava Knapp â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

Photography, Megan Chin â&#x20AC;&#x2122;22

Hear Megan Chin discuss this image.

I awaken and there are pink flowers, Potted, stems reaching out As do your arms and fingers, Curling into my touch. I think I smell You here, or perhaps The sweetness of the ice cream I left To harden, lying idly on a stack of books. There is music streaming From the radio alarm nearby. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve turned It down and I paw For the remote. Christian pop is inescapable In the mornings. The remote is gray and white. Your flowers are pink. Hear Ava Knapp read this piece. 7

Order by Sophie Miller ’22

They’ll tell you that the ones like me are wrong To get somewhere you must be purely “good” I ask you this: do you wish to belong? Or do you thirst to rule them as you should The power is the path to every dream But I’m the wielder, now you must obey There’s no space for the weak in this regime I sense one who resists and he will pay Eyes cloaked in black, lips scarlet, heart dark pitch Glide out the door, begin my silent flight Arrive, he’s mine, his fear is sweet and rich His desperate screams dissolve into the night It’s destiny, dark magic conquers all If you fight back you’ll be the next to fall.

Photography, Oren Tirschwell ’20 8

Photography, Eki Uzamere ’21

The moonlight punctured what felt like my soul

DEAFENED DESIRE

As I sat back I couldn’t help but feel empty Outside, I could see the sun He glistened He was bright He was full

By Camille Ngbokoli ’21

He transformed the basic human into a celestial being And embodied everything pure I tried to direct my focus to him I wanted its warmth and its freedom but all I could feel was the moon. She wasn’t present but I could still feel everything Maybe I felt a bit too much Her fitful silvery light consumed me, And even though it inspired my melancholy, I never wanted her to leave.

Hear Eki Uzamere talk about this image 10

Hear Camille Ngbokoli’s piece read by Emily Afriyie.

The waves gently bumped up against the aging docks on which he stood. Gazing out into the great endless night sky, shifting his focus from one star to the next, searching. For what? What answer did he hope to find in the stars that he could not find down on Earth? Yesterday it had been a dim-lit star. Positioned perfectly in between two much brighter stars, this one which he had named Hope, he thought to be a reflection at first. Far diminished by its neighbors, this star struggled to be seen, and yet he had found it. Having not been able to find it tonight, he figured he was wrong, and this wasn’t the star that could give him the answers. Just another sign that the hope he had always held in his life was forsaking him. So perhaps it was the soothing sound of the waves that continued to lure him down here late at night. Regardless, he didn’t understand it. Not fifty steps from the docks was a bed to lay in, a pillow to sink into, and a woman to keep him warm. But instead, it was a star that he wanted. He hadn’t found the right one. Not yet. “Utterly exposed, his nakedIt was something that he needed to do, but he knew ness left him unprotected from not why. It was something that he was searching the many challenges that his life for, and yet he knew not what it looked like. It was an emptiness that he wanted to fill, ignoring the fact seemed to constantly produce. that his life appeared to be so full from the eyes of an Unsure, hesitant, scared, and outsider. But all he could see was the growing divide lost, he questioned if he really between him and the answers that he seeked. Not was the lucky man that people even knowing what he wanted to know, he believed thought he was.” that he would have no doubts when he finds what he wants to find. Utterly exposed, his nakedness left him unprotected from the many challenges that his life seemed to constantly produce. Unsure, hesitant, scared, and lost, he questioned if he really was the lucky man that people thought he was. His angel on Earth had suggested that they start trying for children. He wanted to agree, he truly did. But what man would agree to such a commitment when he knew in his heart that he wasn’t ready? He would be ready, one day, he was sure of it. Maybe that’s why he spent hours of his night peering out into the blending sea and sky, which were unrecognizable even with the light that the moon provided. A gust of salty air rushed upon him, and he looked down at his worn down slippers. He had never thought that he would ever wear slippers, but things change he figured. Just like the diminishing excitement he derived from his job, and the increasing discomfort he felt in his weakening knees after years of helping his father’s construction company, which was doomed to go out of business with or without any assistance from a then seventeen year old boy who couldn’t lift a block of cement to save his life. After the gust had passed he looked back up into the starry beyond. Satellites streaked across the sky in slow motion, distracting him from his star hunting. “Did you find it yet?” came a soft, sweet voice from behind him. Turning back to find his beautiful girl in her sweatpants and sweatshirt that was two sizes too big for her gazing up at the sky, he was overcome with a desire to hold and kiss her. How could he have been looking too intensely for something that had been there for him since he was a shy, going-nowhere boy who had given up even looking for a way By out. Or a way in; depends how you look at it. So consumed with the eternal darkness, she Conor never even looked down as he walked to stand behind her and looked up into the sky with McMahon her. The two of them alone, aside from the waves and the stars that held all the answers, he ’20 whispered, “Yes.”

T H E

S T A R G A Z E R

Hear Conor McMahon read this piece. 11

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Last Will and Testament By Tajah Burgher â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

Blank leaves. Blank leaves through the door. Blank leaves through the door -and never returns. Trailing behind tears And lost ambitions And memories of all that was And dreams of all that could have been Blank leaves tired. Of wishing for redos, Second chances and last words Of the disappointments forgotten and still To come Of remembering the fear felt in every room Every hall Behind every door And no recollection of resolution Blank leaves chained. Without much experience of life outside these walls and blind to this handicap Blank wonders why the sky looks so different than The ones filtered by the glass windows Why the landscape does not match the ones bound by the pages of their books Why they feel different Standing outside this door Blank wants to be let back in But knows the door wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t open again for them Blank leaves. With her head held high With back turned With their goodbyes all said and done Blank is not ready to leave. Blank is not willing to return. Hear Tajah Burgher read this piece.

Hear Christopher Arnold discuss this image. 13

The Scream by Sadie Friesen ’20

She donned a rosy flannel shirt and blue jeans, the stripes of her socks sliding against the hardwood floor. Holiday songs ran through her head, escaping as quiet hums through her painted lips. She danced around the room as the night grew colder and the child sat outside, screaming.

Ghost Stories by Helen Sileshi ’20 “Happy birthday to you,” My mother began as she walked into the dining room. I was in the middle of an argument about absolutely nothing with my brother and my train of thought halted. I was stunned, since my birthday was two weeks ago, but I plastered a smile on my face and waited patiently. My mother could still see through my smile. She addressed my poorly-masked bewilderment by whispering under everyone’s singing, “We haven’t celebrated properly yet. With everyone. This is the only day we’re all together.” The glow of the single candle illuminated my mother’s face and reminded me of what my camp friends’ faces would look like when we held a flashlight under our chins and told ghost stories. The prominent dark circles under her eyes — the very same ones that I, alone, inherited — suddenly seemed much darker on her face and the shadows started to drip down her cheeks. I shivered at the unnerving sight. Nobody looked human with the lights off.

Mixed Media, Chiara Kaufman â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20 15

Gitout by Alex Evangelidis ’20

Charles Julius Guiteau was born on September 8th, 1978 in Jacksonville, Florida. His father, Luther Guiteau, is a local business magnate and the owner of the Florida Times. As a child, Charles was very attached to his parents. Despite this attachment, Charles never showed promise in school like his father had. In fact, the only subjects which he passed were French and Algebra. However, when the time came for Charles to apply to college, Luther urged him to apply to the University of Michigan. Due to his abysmal grades, conspicuous lack of work ethic, and the fact that the only extracurricular he listed on his application was filming parkour fail videos, he was resoundingly rejected. Hurt and somehow surprised by his rejection, Charles decided that he wished to take a gap year before reapplying to colleges. It was during this time that he began to find solace in a Greater Power, and informed his father that he wished to explore his spirituality. Luther, slightly perplexed, nevertheless acquiesced. Charles spent that gap year touring various Utopian communities that his father had connections to, including Twin Oaks in Virginia, East Wind Community in Missouri, and The Farm in Tennessee. Despite Luther’s connections, Charles was denied yet again when he applied for membership to all three communities. In fact, he was disliked so much that the members nicknamed him “Charles Getout.” Disillusioned and without a college degree, Charles returned to Jacksonville and applied for a job at a debt collection agency, to which he was accepted. For ten years, Charles accosted and harassed penniless people well enough as to not arouse any suspicions. Despite this, he proved to be a bad hire for the agency, as in 2008 it was discovered that he was regularly pursuing debtors that had already paid in full and taking their money for himself. Out of a job, he stayed with his father for six years, doing nothing of great importance until, once again, his connection with the Powers That Be struck. Having found a source of inspiration, Charles wrote and published a theological book in 2014 entitled The Truth through one of Luther’s business contacts. Critics quickly remarked that The Truth had almost entirely plagiarized Joel Osteen’s Become a Better You. Despite this, Charles gained a small but incredibly devoted set of readers and, funded by his father’s money, he embarked on a book tour across America in November of 2015. On one tour stop, on the fateful day of February 2nd, 2016 in Des Moines, the day after the Iowa primaries, Charles was asked which of the Presidential candidates was his favorite. Flattered that, for the first time in his life, someone had asked his opinion on a topic of national importance, he disregarded the fact that he was woefully uninformed. He made a split-second decision, declaring support for the man most like himself: colorful, brash, loud, and impulsive. That night, in a tiny gymnasium that seated only 200 people, Charles Guiteau endorsed Donald Trump for President. Little did Charles know, audience members were filming him. Before he knew it, his endorsement had gone viral, and was even retweeted by Donald Trump, Jr. At first, Charles was merely happy that the increased press translated to better book sales. But as the Trump campaign kept winning primary after primary, he started to feel that he had something to do with it. By November 8th, 2016, he was convinced; he, Charles Guiteau, and his speech, had won Donald Trump the Presidency.

In return for playing such a great role in Trump’s election victory, Charles demanded that he be given the ambassadorship to France. Despite his passing grades in French III in high school, the Trump campaign instead appointed Jamie McCourt, who, with her B.A. in French from Georgetown University, was infinitely more qualified. Nevertheless, Charles persisted in lobbying for an ambassadorship in the Trump administration. He even once waited outside Trump Tower for forty-eight hours for the President-elect to emerge so that he could lobby him personally. Instead of Trump, it was Rex Tillerson who exited the building. Seizing the opportunity, Charles ran up to him, demanding a diplomatic position. Tillerson, fed up with Charles’s antics, screamed “Never speak to me again as long as you live!” For Charles, that was the last straw. Once again bitter and jilted, he came out as a fervent Trump critic, and was widely praised for his change of opinion by the media. Today, Charles Guiteau is a successful political anchor on MSNBC with his own show entitled Speak Up, Liberal America! with Charles Guiteau. And finally, he has made his dad Luther proud.

Drawing, Sadie Friesen ’20 17

Otter

by Ben Marra â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20 They had been hard at work to preserve the presence of the otter In these Kelp forests miles off the coast. They were hard at work when they saw a male--one of the cutest Bludgeon a newborn seal beneath the waves. They were stopped to eat their lunches when he slid atop its floating carcass And caterwauled with glee, and let a cloudy discharge into the sunlight They had been following him for days when the seal began to come apart. But he went on until the eyes went red, and the sides began to swell. And back in the lab he continued until he had the tank quite near opaque And the lab assistants mortified, and the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes lowered in shame.

Hear Ben Marra read this piece.

Photography, Massimo Soto â&#x20AC;&#x2122;23

The Edge of the World by Sadie Friesen ’20

The man, he went to the edge of the world The woman, she came along with him The children, they followed, two boys and a girl They sought out the stories and loved them. The family felt the draw of the night They hopped on a plane to go seek it They whispered and wondered in eager delight And knew that they wouldn’t critique it. They got on a boat and went out to the sea They didn’t know what they would find there Felt push and the pull of the forces that be They couldn’t imagine this anywhere. They went to an island, the creatures they howled, The monsters and fairies enchanted Although they were tired and stomachs they growled They climbed up the mountains and panted. The waves swelled and crashed, eleven feet tall They hoped that they wouldn’t feel seasick They rocked while they slept with their hands to the wall But life there, they found that it did click. The villages made them feel young and afraid At peace at the very same time They didn’t know how, but these houses were made And torn down by weather and grime Another man showed them the ways of the earth He laughed and he walked and he killed He taught them the ways that the world has a worth And out there with him they were thrilled. Eventually, though, they had to return They couldn’t live out there forever. They left the man there with a fire that burned That was the end of their endeavor.

Hear Sadie Friesen read this piece. 20

Photography, Jessie Bard ’21

Assassin by Alex Evangelidis ’20

Drawings, Alexandra Gray ’20 22

Hear Alexandra Gray discuss the image above, and the image at right.

Crunch As I bite. Crust with Flavor. A mind of its Own. Almonds, Sesame Dance across my tongue. Juices run Bursting blueberries Flow. Raspberries stain My tongue My brain. I remember Two days. Rolling pins Sweaty faces Burnt fingers Wafting smell. Hijacking me.

I struggle, At war with Myself, Common sense. Waiting Is Agony. Once We have cooled, I bite. Almonds, sesame dance. Blueberries burst. Raspberries stain. Total silence. I smile. I would Kill For pie.

The Velvet Cushion or A Solipsist’s Midsummer’s Dream by Ben Marra ’20

I came one night, to a velvet cushion on the shore of a fast, adolescent river somewhere in New England. It sat on purple grass and only just downstream of a power plant that had been spinning the river dizzy and sparkling since likely before I was born. Islands of sputtered foam hurried by, as if with shame. They sailed the water’s braided humps to where it all dove to smoothness at the edge of sight. The cushion could have been molded, moth-eaten-full, even, of slumbering wasps. But in the dark and in the tailest echo of the plant’s screaming lights, it glowed silently. And so I sat. The fabric exhaled sharply beneath me, scattering a few curls of dry plant matter, and likely alerting the ants to an oncoming gale. The smell was of cold boggy mist and after that of some attic. The cushion eased and eased until it settled at a perfect compression, where the outer curve of my buttock could just perceive the suggestion of a ground underneath. Who left it there upon the bank? How did he know of my approach? Perhaps the roil and storm within my chest had turned the heavens, as if by mirrored magnets, and alerted the woodland to my condition with a spritz of bitter rain.

And one, cloven-hoofed and crowned in shining green, must have plucked this red fruit from wherever it hung, and placed it here with some degree of ceremony. Even as I stumbled through the brush to arrive here, he might have been watching. He might have been balanced on the striated plane of a felled stump, humming.

Photography, Ava Knapp ’20

And she, with full body and divine fabrics trailing off into the last of the light failing through the canopy, awaited my arrival as well. She from whom blew the warm winds which bid seeds to split beneath the frost, and blew also the frigid gales commanding leaves to drop like small dreams. And through whom all is possible, save a few small things. And they, their sound swallowed by the eternal rustle of this deciduous patch of earth, fornicated like brilliant animals beyond my perception. In the back of their minds there stood the exact amount of time it would take me to sit, to look, to think of them, and finally to grow bored. This was when they would reveal themselves to me.

But I was not yet bored. I thought of my mother and father rowing a wooden boat against the curling stream. With strokes coordinated and not, they fought to stay abreast of land they knew. I thought also of my aging dog, soon to be swept away in one of timeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s multitudinous eddies, some transparency of her spinning backwards until she faded from mind. I thought of my brothers, toiling at their sand-games on the riverbank, unaware of the hungry torrent at their backs. And before I could lay these visions to rest, the sun was pulled below a distant rim, and they vanished. I was left only with the cacophony of the real and the unreal, and the sterile beams of the plant, sweeping the picture clean of all airs of fantasy. Everything in me was sinking.

At last I heard gentle steps behind me. I did not turn to look. I knew exactly what I would have seen. Hands closed around each arm, bearing tacit a command to rise.

Hear Ben Marra reading this piece.

A Brief Autobiography of the Earth by Erin Lynch ’20 They called it gangrene: the death of bodily tissue, the putrefaction of the flesh. Indelible reminder that even the rock that composes me will one day defy possibility and turn to rot; and from the rot will spring a new life, an age of intergalactic exploration. The bacteria which explore exploit my body will disperse, star-matter from a supernova— glistening with bloodlust. How beautiful: humanity stripped down to its gentlest violence. I call it corruption. I smolder. I fury. Murder written in my skin, I revenge. Never would I have asked for this; I am guilty in the way of a cancer-heavy child, growths like bitumen blocks bursting from my cells. I am angry in the way of a victim, righteous in the way of a mother betrayed. I spare no benevolence. Not anymore.

Hear Erin Lynch reading this piece.

Drawing, Dylan Wade ’20 Hear Dylan Wade discuss this piece. 26

Another Body by Chiara Kaufman â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 The callus on your hand was porous it let in air like morning & the way the dirt grows like lilies around your bones makes me think of burgeoning snow & i wonder if you remember the snow how it jellies on the leaves in a temporary freeze that could not last forever, even though the cold never seemed to end unlike the way in which you left me & could it be that the way you left was also temporary maybe it is just that time has warped slow like how water erodes stone & could it be that you chose to go that you did not want to keep your body alive in the western warmth in the arid storms beneath the canopies of trees, but the thing is is that these smells these sights, they are like the physicality of rhymes & i remember that that is how you would hold me like i was a blooming of your tongue in your mouth in a sound that trickled down from your spine to the ground & what if after all we are nothing but vibratos in bodies & what if death is just another body that we need to feed & what if I have decided that this means you were you weak & what if i am sitting here at your grave & i kiss the grave & i kiss the engraving of your name & imagine that i was able to take in my cheeks at the seams & tailor myself to fit you & what if i said that the reason i miss you is that because while you were living, i never not once had the chance to kiss you.

Drawing, Hannah Leighton â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21

Ode to Time by Iheukwumere Marcus ’22

My fleeting time, you inspire me to write. How I love the way you drag, fly and pass, Invading my mind day and through the night, Always dreaming about the ticking gas. Let me compare you to a sanctu’ry? You are more constant, limited and quick. Snow chills the berries of January, And wintertime has the realpolitik. How do I love you? Let me count the ways. I love your alive length, speed and travel. Thinking of your kicking speed fills my days. My love for you is the modest cavil. Now I must away with a modest heart, Remember my short words whilst we’re apart.

Hear Megan Chin discuss this image.

To Sculpt a Verse add Plaster

by Chiara Kaufman ’20

Photography, Megan Chin ’22

or maybe you gut the trunk see that gash is the groove of a master see I dont write fast I go a verb or two per hour & add —ly when I am tired since hollow is just room&board for water well tides raisin words anyway you dont want nothingness to be cliche like the mass grave named EVERY POET DIES AT 4 A.M. IN THE RAIN see syntax is a chisel punctuation can be uncraved look at Terrance Hayes form is not stoic it’s the is of the moment & house would not be home if frame was dense as tone as space Hear Chiara Kaufman read this piece. 29

Drawing, Jackie Vargas â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20 30

Hello By Conor McMahon â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20 Her smile is enough to overflow the gap that had been existing in my heart. Like an internal emptiness that was suddenly flooded with warm feelings of safety, relief and happiness, my heart pounded as after eight endless months my eyes finally met hers. Green with tints of gold, looking into her eyes were like looking into an emerald sea. She always complained that her skin was too pale, but today it was very tan which complimented her dirty blonde hair. Even as she sat, facing away from me, her beauty reinforced the truth that I had no right stealing her from the countless suitors that would line the streets waiting for her. This made me think of how lucky I was to possess her love and devotion, a gift I have promised never to forsake. I saw her whisper to her friend beside her, just before she turned to see me. I saw her holding back a laugh in response to what her friend must have said. Her teeth showed through her desire to stop her laugh, and I instantly remembered her laugh and how it always spread joy though my heart. Her ring, which matched the color of her eyes sparkled on her hand. The hand shot up as if to identify herself, despite the fact we were already looking at each other. I rushed over, and fought every urge to not touch her lips with my own. Instead I took the seat next to her, and stared straight ahead. We were already causing too much commotion in the silent Church, and it would not help to increase it. After our long separation we were finally back together, but were still separated by the dozens of eyes staring at us from behind our row. The pain of having the ability to touch her, but at the same time not, was unbearable. Having been away, abroad on a school trip for eight months, and her not having the resources to come and visit, I was worried that the love that we had felt would no longer be shared between us. After all, it had been my decision to go away, all the while knowing that this would prevent our seeing each other for this much time. It is hard enough being away for days, let alone weeks and months. But my fears vanished when she reached for my hand and squeezed it. I knew that she needed me as much as I needed her. This time I swore I would never let her go.

Hear Jackie Vargas discuss this image. 31

Photography, Christopher Arnold â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

RANDOMITY by Siddhant Shah ’22

The clock within this blog and the clock on my laptop are 1 hour different from each other. Cats are good pets, for they are clean and are not noisy. Please wait outside of the house. She borrowed the book from him many years ago and hasn’t yet returned it. The body may perhaps compensates for the loss of a true metaphysics. If you like tuna and tomato sauce-try combining the two. It’s really not as bad as it sounds. Wednesday is hump day, but has anyone asked the camel if he’s happy about it? I am counting my calories, yet I really want dessert. Someone I know recently combined maple syrup & buttered popcorn thinking it would taste like caramel popcorn. It didn’t and they don’t recommend anyone else do it either. Is it free? We need to rent a room for our party. Two seats were vacant. I’d rather be a bird than a fish. Everyone was busy, so I went to the movies alone. I love eating toasted cheese and tuna sandwiches. She was too short to see over the fence. When I was little I had a car door slammed shut on my hand. I still remember it quite vividly. He said he was not there yesterday; however, many people saw him there.

Hear Siddhant Shah read this piece.

National Park Space Landing by Ava Knapp ’20 In this shimmering c aballomachine we are Man jumping the unknown, One small step with tires etched deep And one giant leap as ten irises reap the red sand Unwinding atop vermillion rock And reaching its scattered hand Beyond the meteors and past the press of the atmosphere Until but few grains of carmine promise Invite the wanderer to Mars. Hear Ava Knapp read this piece.

Photography, Ava Knapp ’20 34

Summer’s End by Ben Marra ’20

Where summers end backpedals like a memory Through dusty annals all in back of me Where each degree around can lay a stroke Till there I stand endomed in light like smoke Till there I stand endomed perhaps ensphered In all there is to see, with nothing left to fear I want to go wherever it may be That time’s deluge erodes no hair off me That bread beneath the streaming windowpane Is soft as days by years might fall unstained And soft and broken up by rays of rigid gray But soft as yonder light through window frays And maybe I myself could fade

Photography, Jordan Miller ’20

I want to go to where the dome of sky paddocks in the clouds and lets not by Those trails of sweat. A string of yet unfrayed A finger fence not slipped through but at last obeyed When my hands go up to block the sun

Like fumes of lemon from the tongue. Hear Ben Marra read this piece.

Hear Jordan Miller discuss this image. 35

Circumstance and Character by Ava Knapp â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

As Richard Clarke passed by the opulent bar and caught his reflection in the mirrored paneling, he could not help but notice a yellow quality to his clean-shaven skin. Yellow not with the onslaught of old age and ill health, but yellow with a new vibrance unattained in cheeks flushed red from liquor. He did not know himself to be vain, however, and he swept his limber frame away from his changed reflection the moment after he saw it. A bearded man whose shimmering cufflinks preceded his body approached him, and held himself poised for Conversation. “Could you direct me toward the library please? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with Mr. Conway’s home.” His voice was deep and his vowels flowed honey-smooth. “Of course. It’s just over this way.” Richard gestured in the direction past a timid brunette in ochre. The man gave a quick “thank you,” in that molasses voice, and Richard was left wondering how many people he’d been able to swindle with it. Finding himself suddenly unoccupied, he glanced about in search of a way to evade a night that dissipated into triviality. Usually a gregarious (and arguably rowdy) man, he found himself inwardly tepid, and this sudden presence of personal balance left him at odds with his usual habits. Rather than boasting with his friends or inundating his tired liver, he stood waiting for a woman he knew would come dressed in something that did not shine. An acquaintance of his had told him that she might be here tonight, though not officially on the guest list and altogether far removed from tonight’s echelon of attendees. It was assumed that through plain and decidedly unsuitable clothing, she would errantly reveal the humility of her upbringing, yet Richard was still intrigued at the thought of her presence. Soon enough she wandered over, her slim frame wrapped in a simple blue dress. She lifted her calculated doe-gaze toward Richard. “You’re glowing.” She continued to gaze at him, her expression becoming increasingly ambiguous. “Lila. It’s been awhile.” Though Richard’s remarks were curt, the name rolled across his tongue with a warm sense of familiarity. She said “Yes, it has,” and Richard watched the moving lights of the room make golden waves across her face. He found himself suddenly not knowing what to make of her; it seemed that the passage of time had rendered her an esoteric being, albeit still delicate and outwardly tender. He supposed he was waiting for her to smile her old smile, the one with a flash of white teeth that lay crooked on the bottom and a crinkling of chocolate eyes made slightly chartreuse by the force of the sun or perhaps just her laughter. Lila then reached out to touch Richard’s hand, and led him carefully toward a yard glowing golden with personable excitement. As gleeful figures danced around meticulously trimmed shrubbery, Richard slipped into memory. ~~~ “Lila! Lila!” Richard’s pleas came out hoarse, labored. He plodded with desperation through splintered boards of wood and randomly strewn household carpets, stirring up dune-colored clouds of dust as he went. “Lila!” he called. Around him was a wasteland, and nothing but a battered terrier had greeted him there. The scene was surreal; he thought he would be unable to recognize anything when a few yards to the left he saw his old house, the roof blown off and the yellow kitchen tiles gleaming through the skeleton of former walls. He dragged his weary frame over to the broken stoop and set himself down, his right arm leaning against a wooden post. Twelve years ago he remembered seeing his father’s face above him in this very spot, lined and frowning. Richard remembered his hard blue eyes and yellowed teeth glaring as he carried out farming chores, telling him to work ever-harder as he toiled his youthful hands away on the barren Oklahoma plains.

“Be deft with that shovel, boy!” he’d yell, his cigar nearly dropping from his crooked Jaw. The sun would then beat down on Richard’s frail, boyish body. He’d lift and lower the shovel that rusted to the color of autumn leaves and labor himself into manhood. The hard blue eyes would watch the whole way, watering the germinating thought of leaving this life behind into full bloom. Richard met Lila in these years, on a day when it was bright out. She had come along him working in the yard, two cornsilk pigtails dangling by a porcelain face. She had on a dress the color of wedding cake frosting where it wasn’t stained with dirt and she asked Richard if he might be able to help her with something. Richard complied, of course, and soon found himself removing a frightened tabby cat from a tree. This was when Lila first offered him a smile, one so full of unadulterated joy and delightfully imperfect teeth that Richard found himself ready to whisper about the darkest truths of life with her. Coming back to terms with the hurricane’s mess around him, Richard rose from his seat on the bent stoop and scanned the splintered sea once more. A tremor ran through him. Convinced that only death and deserted property remained in his hometown, Richard let his brow furrow. Tears fell from his slanted eyes, the eyes that he had kept from hardening like his father’s. He left Lila behind with the battered houses, and walked into the glaring yellow light. ~~~ The yard fizzed and trembled with human emotion. People in all their trappings were loudly giggling, clapping, swearing. The peach trees were laden with golden streamers and twinkling string lights blazed and bounced off of twirling skirts. Blades of grass seemed to drip with champagne, and Lila with her cornsilk hair stood there against it all. It occurred to Richard that he was nearly unrecognizable to her. She gazed at his gelled-back hair, his tailored suit and freshly shined shoes and saw a stranger. Richard saw home and felt ambivalence. “Are you going to talk to me?” she whispered, her voice singing a folk song into the Night. Of course it was reasonable for Lila to expect a loving reunion, at the very least some concern about where she had been for all these years and how exactly she managed to survive the hurricane that had devastated their town. She probably expected amicable conversation about their childhood memories to follow, Richard recalling the day with her in that wedding-cake dress and the smile and the poor little tabby cat. Lila, in her unsuitable clothes and still-imperfect smile had come to this party in search of the last vestige of her home, yet Richard in all his learned pomp and distance began to feel his stomach churn at the prospect. The internal axis of Richard’s body seemed to slant indefinitely, and he saw in that sweet and simple face the shovel and the hard blue eyes he had tried so long to evade until he was a caricature of himself--no, his real self dressed in fine clothes holding a champagne flute made of finest glass palming his leather wallet with his free hand and feeling the edge of a dollar bill he had won through trickery no work, hard work, work that his father knew he could do even if he didn’t know it at the time even if he drank himself to death before he could see it happen no Richard stood at this party and felt a sickly kind of freedom and felt his knees tremble as the party blurred and became clear all at once and he looked at the blazing yellow light of Mr. Conway’s gaudy castle and saw himself. He pulled the business card for a hotel out of his Wallet. “Lila,” he began. She radiated confusion. “I think you need to go.” Hear Ava Knapp read this piece.

Hear Talia Shoshani discuss this image.

Drawing, Talia Shoshani â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20 39

I Am

By Emily Rifkin â&#x20AC;&#x2122;23 sometimes i feel lonely i feel as though i am made of air and you look through me as if i am nothing if i disappear will anyone notice i am gone is there a hole where i once stood or am i the extra puzzle piece that gets left behind ive realized that i can scream until it hurts yell until my voice has cracked so many times that i am shattered but my voice will always be a whisper and it will never part the sea of people to leave me a space to stand but i look at myself in the mirror and i see a girl who has moved mountains and rebuilt her world when it came tumbling down whose arms are open for anyone who needs them i believe that i am worth it and that every second i spend or have spent living in agony has made me the person i once wished to confide in and now when i am called nothing i turn away because i know my worth and i am not nothing in my own way i am everything

Photography, Emma Lauerwald â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20 Hear Emma Lauerwald discuss this image. 40

Drawing, Alexandra Gray â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

Landlady by Conor McMahon â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

I can still smell him in my sheets. The sheets that I have refused to wash since his last visit. Almost a month has gone by now, but his familiar scent welcomes me everytime I rest. The bittersweet memory of his body pressed up against mine, and him shutting my door as he left the next morning will not escape my mind. I want him more than I need him, but he needs me more than he wants me. After all, I am still his landlady. His girlfriend has always been an itch on my back. The part of your back that you can never reach. I hear her every night with him, when he should be with me. Should have known to invest in better isolation in these walls when I renovated the place. Never anticipated that the man I would come to love would be with another woman just ten feet above me. I can hear them late at night when he calls out her name. The name that should be mine. I hear their baby wailing at all hours, and when my neighbors complain I turn them away. I often think about threatening to evict them. After all, young children are not permitted. I got close when he started mailing his rent to me, because his girlfriend was getting suspicious. But how could I keep him while losing them. He would go with them, the honorbound man he is, and walk out of my life forever. Never again would he smile at me when he thinks Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not looking. Never again would he gaze longingly at my door before his bitch of a girlfriend calls him to her. I am losing patience. Many nights I lie in bed awake listening to them making their love. The love that could never satisfy him. I listen to his perfect sounds of excitement, obviously faked. Maybe he needs me to free him. Maybe he needs me to rid him of the plague that follows him like some parasite. I have started loading my gun at night again like I used to. Just in case that this is the night. Just in case that tonight I decide to save him from the two things that make the thirty-four (thirty-three on a good day) steps from my bed to his seem like an ocean of space. I see him knocking at my door. Finally, he had come. I race towards the door, thrust it open, but it is not him. His girlfriend stands before me weeping. She tells me of the fight they had had, and how it was over. She asks if she could spend the night here, as she had nowhere to go. I laugh to myself. How the tide has turned. Little did I know that forgetting to unload the gun the night before would turn out to be so important. Only one shot was fired, but that was all it took to change our lives forever. Who knew one click could be so important? The sirens were drowned out by the sound of my heart pumping in my chest. Maybe I should have stayed a dancer.

s â&#x20AC;&#x2122;2

For the Love of Roland Barthes By Chiara Kaufman ’20 “… there is no fixity in mythical concepts: they can come into being, alter, disintegrate, disappear completely. And it is precisely because they are historical that history can very easily suppress them…” — Roland Barthes: Mythologies, 119 What is left of our myth about happy times,* when the difference between breakage & split doesn’t exist, & I suppose that we hear what we believe when we listen to TV. I think that myth is a single ellipse, stretched in perception by the size of the spaces between three equidistant dots. To connect, first there is the needle, the thread, then the silver cloth woven from the palms linking the gaps. Our yarns of daylight have been strung by filthy mothers, who did bring newness from their cavities, but who also draped nakedness in civility & erected cities in fabrication of cloth. Happiness lives as a cactus withers in streams, withholding memory like cameras leave fate cropped to the side of the screen & I suppose that if mythology is the difference between what is portrayed & what is seen, we may in fact be happy. We may in fact be happy, because there are no strings leaking from trapped seams, & we wear the present that is shown as if it is the only cloak we will ever care to know.

Hear Chiara Kaufman read this piece. Hear Annabel Ives discuss these images. *The first line belongs to the poem “Don’t Write History as Poetry” by Mahmoud Darwish, translated by Fady Joudah as it appears in the second edition of Kenyon Review Readings for Writers.

Mixed Media, Chiara Kaufman â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

Hear Chiara Kaufman discuss this sculpture.

FANNING THE FLAMES By David Bernstein â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21

When I was younger, I ran around When I fell, I cried When I got scared, I screamed I expressed myself I blew the fire out. As I got older, the fire grew stronger My brain was changing Not for the better I no longer knew who I was I could no longer cry I could no longer scream I could not be myself In fear that they would judge me The fire grew hotter The flames rose quicker The fire raged on I sat back and internalized I put on a smile I told them I was fine I was only fanning the flames The fire raged on I knew who I was Knowing who I was made it harder Knowing I was not acting like my true self Fanning the flames only makes the fire hotter The fire raged on The fire showed no signs of stopping The more fake smiles The more lies The fire could not be contained The fire raged on

The fire reached my thoughts All the happiness left was charred In its path fire only leaves ruins The fire raged on The fire grew too big The fire replaced my thoughts I could not see past the smoke Darkness surrounded everything I wanted to let the fire destroy all A tiny light shone through the darkness At the last second of existence It sang a song of freedom I sang with it I started to talk to people, I acted like my true self Their acceptance was water The fire grew smaller The fire calmed as fast as it grew My smiles seemed less fake, My truth was starting to show The fire grew smaller The fire weakened into sparks, The truth ended the fire I could be myself, I was set free Truth is the enemy of fire, There was no use in trying, With just plain lying, For when the fireâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gone, A rainbow rises.

Hear David Bernstein read this piece.

Drawing, Schylar Chase â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20 48

Hear Schylar Chase discuss this image.

My Reflection By Emily Afriyie ’20

If you know me well enough, you’ll know that I appreciate comfort. This appreciation

comes to life in various ways. I love soft blankets draping my bed and warm fuzzy socks in the winter, and while I can’t tell you why I am the way I am, I could tell you that being comfortable is important. And not just to me, but I imagine to most people that I know.

Growing up, I always described my family as fearless but I guess everything gets

skewed to seem that way when you’re about six years old and they do practically everything for you. They appreciate comfort in the same way I do but they never let that stop them from living wholly and fully. They’re honest, genuine, and will respectfully share their beliefs. They weren’t only comfortable with what they could control but what they couldn’t as well.

To be fearless is much easier said than done. Most people react in two ways to fear

or discomfort: they run or they pretend that the effects of it don’t bother them. Having your worst fear highlighted in a public manner, you might run. Or you realize that at some point, we are all vulnerable and scared to confront our fears. To be okay with not being okay with doing something is important but it’s much more significant to understand we don’t always need to be comfortable. Because when we´re all doing different things and are forced to stick out, it helps us understand our own vulnerability and empathize with that of others.

In middle school, I was asked to create a speech to share about a great teacher who

would be retiring from the school at graduation and it was my fourth grade teacher. Imagine meeting someone as fearless as my family. Imagine the personification of those fuzzy socks in a bubbly woman who could make the most shy fourth grader very comfortable and talkative. To this day, I remember the many days when she constantly pushed us to be ourselves, different but simply okay with that. But on the first day of class that year, I still remember her saying “No matter what happens this year or who says what, just try your best because if you’re happy with what you’re doing and being the best person you can be, you need to know that you’ve tried and that in itself is enough.”

Hear Emily Afriyie read this piece. 49

tfw cher asks if by Kylie Morrison â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20 Hear Bella Monteleone disucss this image.

Photography, Bella Monteleone â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21 50

u believe in love after love

dear mew, cher asked if i believed in love after love and you know what...how can i answer the question if the first love never happened? then the question would just be “do you believe in love?” i don’t. it’s fake. and it’s just another way for people to make money and own each other. so what i guess what i’m trying to say is sorry. sorry for overthinking the various emotions human beings harness. sorry for being awkward and shy. sorry for ruining everything that could have been. i am quiet, only sometimes. i can be mean, but that’s how i deal with it. i can be stand offish. i can be a lil weird because that’s who i am. i can seem a lil out of it, but i am just dreaming. i might seem oblivious, but i am purposely pretending to not see it all. if i’m being honest, i’m not completely apologetic. i am saving myself from the burden. i’ll just stay right here. i’ll just live in the memories and pretend to not regret not taking the chances given to me. i’ll live in my horizon. i love this space. i’ll live only having fallen in like, for i’ll never let myself drown in what’s believed to be “deeper.” i’ll imagine my various paradises because i need this freedom. and i think we all do. sincerely, the girl who fakes her emotions until they become real

Hear Kylie Morrison read this piece.

weather man :/ by Kylie Morrison ’20

the weatherman on the tv has a strangely big nose. it’s pointy in the middle and manages to penetrate the images on the screen. his hands constantly move as if it helps me to understand what he’s saying. but in reality i have no clue. the arbitrary 55 degrees, 49 degrees, the spinning yellow sun, or the gray clouds with flashing raindrops. it’s all supposed to tell me what my days will be like. flashing raindrops indicating rain. and spinning animated suns indicating sunny october days. but all the weatherman sees is a green screen. all he does is tell us what he thinks is on there. all he does is describe stupid animations made to predict my future. whirling lines indicating winds and huge Hs and Ls, i assume meaning highs and lows, just like life. what does the weatherman know but the green screen and his big nose and his distracting hand gestures? he cant tell me why the commercials come on back to back and never seem to end. he cant tell me what exists in the interplanetary space because maybe that’s his big secret. maybe he’s a martian and that’s why he knows his familial green. he still cannot tell me why we are here, or what the weather will be like on this exact day, in this exact moment, in this exact space, 159 years from now. so he knows of nothing. knows of nothing more than me. i could tell you 55 degrees and you would listen to me. what makes the weatherman so special? all he has is a green screen and a degree.

Hear Kylie Morrison reading this piece.

Painting, Mason Chapman ’21 Hear Mason Chapman discuss this image. 52

54 Drawing, Aidan Wilson â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

Is It You? By Eki Uzamere ’20

Inside Rigby’s home, the television is set to her favorite medical drama. On the screen, the Doctor’s hands flail in a man’s failing liver, and the machine beats rapidly. Surgical balderdash spits out of their mouths like medical patois as they exchange worried glances and try to find the source. Within the stifling husk of soft blue sleeves, their is a sky of absolution and the chlorine blueness of summer in a New York City public pool. The blue tinge of Rigby’s eyes fray against its crimped white edges—it is a bruise, straddling the borderless walls of Home as if lost into the open mouth of the dead until TV Doctor sends the mayfly swaying swarms of his men away and the low clumsy fight against dying resolves itself into a stinging awareness of Lee Ritenour’s “Is It You?” playing softly in the background. Hear Eki Uzamere read this piece.

Hear Aidan Wilson discuss this image. 55

Baba O’Riley by Elizabeth Hetzel ’20

Drawing, Leah Holmes ’20

Hear Leah Holmes discuss this image. 56

On Generation Z: They scroll through their phones. She snaps a picture of the scenery for her story. He snaps a picture of her for his. They get up from their seat on the bench or the grass or the rock. He offers her a juul or a joint or a stick of chewing gum. They get in her car or his car or hop on the train. They don’t see each other for two days or two months or two years. They meet up at school or in town or at a nearby cafe. They catch up as if they saw each other yesterday, but they did, somewhere online on their screens. She talks of friends or family or boys, he’s looking at memes or hot instagram models or her best friend’s page. She continues to talk or resorts to the same.

They can’t help but think they’ll be dead before forty. The planet is dying and they have to save it. Reusable straws or cups or clothes litter their homes, but they drive to the movies or the parks or the malls. They sit under sunsets or smog sheltered stars. Politics are hectic, it never calms down. Fluidity is a concept Boomers don’t understand, boys now wear makeup and girls f**k unplanned. They’re depressed or anxious or bulimic or all of the above. They’re destroyed by the school system or Hollywood’s fake-truelove. They’re nihilistic or self deprecating or just taught to bicker. They see the world through Snapchat lenses or cynical hydroflask stickers.

Their coffees or lunches or double shot iced caramel macchiato lattes with almond milk from Starbucks arrive. They ignore everything they just read on the news app or Buzzfeed or Twitter. She leaves first, then he goes. The next time they see each other, everyone is drunk or high or following some teenage lusty drive. They convene in the backyard or the bathroom or somebody’s bedroom. The music is too loud, too soft, or too bass-heavy. They want to be like the characters they see on their screens. The models or actors or athletes or all, they hope for their lives to be wild or dull or stereotypical. They are diverse or similar or both all at once. She looks up from her phone. He looks up from his.

Hear Elizabeth Hetzel read this piece. 57

Captain Tory by Elizabeth Hetzel ’20 Captain Tory stood at the docks, the boy at his side and water in his socks. He pointed towards the cloudy haze, hoping to follow the young boy’s gaze. He swung his lantern to and fro, lighting the path and scaring the crow. The young boy hollered as the bird flew by, flapping its feathers back up to the sky. “What is it boy, tell me, quick.” “I swear it, Captain, he went home sick.” The Captain put his lantern down, facing the child with a downturned frown. He stared the boy right in the eye, patting his shoulder so he wouldn’t cry. “No man has bailed on my watch yet, so rest assured that coward will fret. I’ll find him fast and bring him back, so you can watch and I can sack. He went home, it means he’s through, but I don’t simply bid adieu.” “No, of course not,” was the boy’s reply, shrug ging his shoulders and heaving a sigh. The lantern, it shook, in the Captain’s hand, moving the shadows that were cast on the land. The boy, he turned, and began to run away. Captain Tory

Photography, Kami Lim ’22

stood up, and looked out at the bay. His gaze watched the boy as he found his way home, hoping to God that he would roam. To stray from the path at this time of night, could lead to a scary and watery fright. The monster, who swam beneath all the fog, had swallowed up many along with a dog. The Captain was worried, but never afraid, for he knew its weakness and it never strayed. But if the wind were to blow his lantern out, he would holler and scream and he would shout. For one who runs away from the sea, will never, ever truly be free. The monster will chase them until they die, and Captain Tory will watch them cry. He’ll sack the man who left his post, to make sure he won’t return to the coast. Captain Tory stood on the docks, no one at his side and water in his socks. He turned away from the foggy bay, passing the fence and walking away. He held up his arm and lantern to aim, but then came a breeze and out went the flame. Then came the darkness and he disappeared, their watchman was gone, all the people feared.

Hear Kami Lim discussing this image.

Two days had passed and still no answer came, when people in town called Captain Tory’s name. The young boy swore he saw him at the docks, a lantern at his side and water in his socks. On and on and on they continued the search, but no sign of Captain Tory made the boy’s stomach lurch. They returned to their homes as soon as night fell, for fear of the sea made them feel unwell. Many people suspected what became of Captain Tory, but none dared to follow him, for they were too full of worry. The young boy hoped, he wanted to know more, but no one in his home would let him open the front door. They feared that he too would be taken away, and no one hoped to see him vanish into the gray. Another week passed and Captain Tory was still gone, the townspeople gave up but the boy searched on. He had refused many times to stop looking and go home, for Captain Tory was a legend, not just a petty gnome. He had guarded the sea and protected the town from the monster that lured so many to drown. For nearly fifty years he stood on the docks, the lantern at his side and water in his socks. He never allowed his companions to stray, closer to the sea than his lantern’s light ray. Captain Tory was the protector, and the town now cowered, so the boy stood up and tried to feel empowered. The boy captain stood still at the docks, a lantern at his side and water in his socks. He never gave

up his search for Captain Tory, but he made sure the Captain lived on in this story. The boy watched closely for the monster in the sea, but never saw anything that made him want to flee. He never found Captain Tory nor the source of their fear, and he lived a happy life with a successful career. He guarded the sea and no one was taken, so the townsfolk were safe and no more were shaken. When one day at eighty his lantern blew out, the now-old captain refused to shout. He scanned the docks for the source of the breeze, when a familiar figure walked over with ease. “You have done well,” the ghostly figure said. “I am proud of you and the life you have led. But your time is now up, you must say your goodbyes. The sea now has spoken, and it tells no lies.” The boy understood and turned to the town, he whispered “Goodbye” and turned back with a frown. “Is it scary?” he asked, suddenly a child once more. The apparition chuckled and pointed to the shore. “It is what you make of it,” he said with a smile, as he held out his hand in an old fashioned style. The boy reached out, as he understood, and was ready to make of it all that he could. Captain Tory stood at the docks, the boy at his side and water in his socks. He looked out with his now cloudy gaze, as he took the boy’s hand they sank into the haze.

Hear Elizabeth Hetzel read this piece.

The Chest by Charles Dewey ’21

Photography, Sophia Thomas ’21 Hear Sophia Thomas discuss this image. 60

Returning to Grammy’s house in Wilmington, Delaware was always fun, as it was a meeting spot for the en-

tire family. From Nashville, D.C., Long Island, and New York, everyone either flew, trained, or drove to the house for whatever small amount of time we were able to scrap up out of our calendars. Usually the big house was very quiet, but now it was overflowing with noise. Young cousins and brothers and sisters sprinting through the house, showing off their quick reflexes and agility to their older counterparts, who were yelling at them to quit it. Playing with the piano was a common occurrence, with miniature feet dangling off the seat and a terrible, yet comforting, cacophony chiming through the house. Always needing something to preoccupy them, the chest filled with toys was constantly being rummaged through, things being thrown all about inside of it. The aroma of something boiling, cooking, burning, or just sitting in the kitchen somehow made its way through the house into the living room, prompting an insatiable hunger to take hold of the children, now impatiently waiting for an aunt or mother to come through the hallway giving them their long awaited good news. The race to the dinner table ended almost as quickly as it started with a flash of anger from the elders to keep the children in line. As soon as the rush of hunger had entered into their system, it had been alleviated, of course before anyone else was even close to finishing. The kids now sat idly and grew impatient once again. They inevitably get what they want, as their Grammy relieves them of their post. After the exhausting trials and tribulations of running amok and carefree 24/7, falling asleep is no challenge as they quickly end their day.

Returning once again to the same house years later is a starkly different experience. The small children, now

self-involved adolescents, are tasked with carrying suitcases in, not sprinting through the front door. Once settled in, the pounding of feet against the stone floor has seemingly vanished along with the comforting cacophony coming out of the piano rooms doors. Instead of sifting through different toys and play things in the chest, they are sucked into the myriad of devices at their fingertips. No interaction, all in their own world. The race to the dinner table has turned into a cool saunter, no reprimanding is needed. Turning it in and hitting the hay is more challenging then it once was, the mind vibrating with thought. One of the adolescents, formerly an energetic toddler, can’t sleep and decides to make the trip downstairs. Wandering the dark, chilly house is not as frightful as it might be for a toddler. Walking through the house, the adolescent goes into the living room and comes across the chest, an artifact from his past he hasn’t though of in years.

It’s fairly simple. Nothing too complex or seemingly interesting about it. One can tell its position on top of

the faded, hazy blue rug has shifted ever so slightly over the years, as the deep indentations squishing down on the rug surround its corners. These markings also give you an idea of just how heavy it is, taking a toll on the surface underneath. Its smooth, brown exterior with silver bolts screwed in keep it fully functional. A small child would struggle with handling the immense weight of opening the heavy top, requiring the intervention of an adult, whether requested or not. Once the challenge of opening it is overcome, the reward is an overwhelming supply of…things. Toys, battered blue cars and furiously red fire trucks, remnants of board games with integral pieces thrown about, as well as small tidbits and paraphernalia from the past obsession of the toddlers. Coming in with the goal of locating something in particular immediately vanishes, as one becomes enamored with the various paths one can follow, their own paths, their own stories. The rush of nostalgia and better times completely distracts from any important prior thoughts. Taking a step back, the age of the chest itself seems to supersede the age of its contents, making one think how old it could be. The details appear much more clearly and the adolescent realizes how much he had forgotten and not even noticed about the chest. Eventually no one will ever know the history of the chest, the hours, the days spent with the contents. He himself doesn't know the true extent of the chest’s history. Just as what happened to his childhood, and as happens to everything, it will be forgotten, unappreciated, the memories irretrievable.

Hear Charles Dewey read this piece. 61

Smile for Nadia by Sarah Shapiro ’21

Nadia’s hair was a satin gown. I ached for the nights when my Mom would yank my head in for kisses, wailing her apologies over losing my pigtails and velcro sketchers, and Nadia would shyly assure her that they lay askew under a chair. Her hair would be twisted and webbed, nesting like a mini tiara. Mom would stumble off to her double shift at Target, and Nadia and I would exchange mischievous smirks. For dinner she microwaved Lunchables cuisine, and on special nights let me dine on Hershey’s Chocolate Cheesecake Swirl. She’d erect a kingdom of blankets on the sofa and toss my body into the clouds. “Faster!” I’d squeal, “Higher! Faster!” She couldn’t spark the oven so we ate Pillsbury cookie dough by the tube. And when we were both too tired to see I’d curl into her body heat, snug before the murmuring TV. “Stupid Jack,” she’d whisper as he sank beneath the Arctic. “There’s room on the board, you know.” In the morning Mom would drag herself home and collapse on the sofa. I turned twelve, then thirteen. Nadia’s Dad made her wear baggy sweatshirts that were becoming increasingly confining. She would strip to a tank top at the door, staring excitedly as she rubbed careful hands around her peeping breasts. “You want an adventure?” She pulled me into Mom’s closet and tossed me a wrap around gown, Burberry pumps, and hoops to weigh down my ears. I threw on the ensemble if only to please and took a calculated twirl towards her as she smeared blue ash above her eyelids. She applauded, and my cheeks warmed to her praise. We danced like ballerinas on a warped, off-tempo music box. She began to take pride in her swelling chest, her friends squishing it and caressing it in their oversized palms. When it stopped ballooning she cried and stuffed tissues and warm ice-packs down her shirt. She grabbed my face and smeared ruby wax on my lips. “Pay attention,” she barked. I felt a rush. “This is all anyone wants. Give them what they want and you have power. Get it?” I nodded. She ripped off her scrunchy and let her hair tumble down, reaching for her ass in long, silky waves. Then she accentuated the jiggles of her butt and screamed curses in my face when I couldn’t do the same. When Nadia felt especially powerful she brought a man home with a scraggly stubble. She squatted on his legs and forced hungry kisses into his face, while he stroked a hot-dog finger through her hair. When she saw my trembling hands she excused herself. “Dude, it’s not a big deal.” My heart was yanking around my chest. “Hey? Can I get a smile? Smile for me! Now, please… ” I slipped on a nervous smile and in a moment of desperation ran to my Mom’s room and unsheathed the wax, staining my teeth so it looked like I was drinking wine. I leapt through the door and presented myself to Nadia, bowing slightly in the hopes that she might see me and we could play in the closet together and her man would melt like snow. “Babe, I didn’t know you brought a friend.” His eyes widened and he began to groan and pant wildly, salivating and clenching his pudgy fists. “A little young but I’ll take her.” Nadia looked on from the kitchen, her vacant grin concealed by knotted, netted locks. That night I cried on my floor, too soft for Mom to hear. Nadia tapped on the door, but her man disappeared in a beaten Buick before I could say he was sorry. If I ever saw Nadia again I wouldn’t have noticed, but I may have seen a waxy smile melted to her cheeks. And I may have heard her voice, echoing in powerful tones her favorite refrain: He’s sorry. He’s sorry. He’s sorry. He’s sorry.

Hear Allie Oh read this piece by Sarah Shapiro. 62

Hear Jessie Bard discuss this image.

Photography, Jessie Bard â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21 63

Who’s Awake Me Too by Ben Marra ’20

There was no impetus to clear away the sheets And hoist away the blinds To stand and look across my Purple window haloed In its purple like a television from behind. In nature this can mean “stay away” or also “come partake” And I’m telling you this because I know you like the inconsequential, the inexplicable the nocturnal. I’m telling you that I cleared away the sheets despite no impetus And stood and watched the train flash faces Between the river and I. I saw the faces and thought of you Who are not a face but a streak yourself in the night Who I saw reflected in the water as if you wove between the docks But you did not. And standing, wondering at how the light Must swim across my face when I turn to look and wonder I saw a figure right its hat in the clouded window of a car I saw your queasy figure Surge beneath the water’s skin And die back again like a million years gone by. And an owl beyond the yard or in the wires proposed Who’s awake Who’s awake Me too

Digital Image, Mateen Nassirpour ’23 Hear Mateen Nassirpour discuss this image.

Hear Ben Marra read this piece. 65

Drawing, Christopher Arnold â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20 Hear Christopher Arnold discuss this image.

Letter to the Black Girl by Taylor Robin â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

This is a letter to the Black Girl...

The girl who has always been made to feel less than yet constantly has to hold their

heads up high and act as the bigger person meanwhile we hurt inside in a way that is unique to us. We have always had to be smarter, tougher, more witty but not too strong, too tough, or too witty because then you will be labeled as aggressive, ratchet, or angry. And that is a tough burden to carry constantly. That burden is always there even when sometimes we are too deep in our own situations, or so preoccupied with helping other people that you forget itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s there. You forget that in actuality you are severely hurting inside. But I just want to say I love you.

I love you and I will always love you. I will love you when your hair starts acting up

in the middle of the day. I will love you when you are a little more rough around the edges because that day was just a little harder than the rest. We all long for the day in which the mask of fierceness and intensity begins to degrade and demolish. But, I will love you when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re left with the broken pieces of your heart and soul, that used to be so vibrant, and are left trying to salvage whatever love you have left to give yourself. I will love you when it gets too hard to love yourself and you begin to build up this almost impenetrable wall that only the toughest, most patient can break.

Take it from me who shares the same hurt and pain as you, I love you and I will

always love you. Love, Taylor Hear Taylor Robin read this piece.

My Existence by Sadie Friesen ’20

I ate two servings Mac and cheese is in my blood I need a salad

Drawing, Emily Rifkin ’23 68

THE VISION 2020 “For Students By Students”

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, non-fiction, 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 all-around layout needs. The Vision editorial team creates the layout in the Adobe InDesign platform, using the Georgia font. The magazine is printed with four-color process plus aqueous coating. This year , the COVID-19 crisis forced Hackley to move to distance learning after spring break, and the team completed the magazine via remote partnership. The uncertainty surrounding whether campus would reopen before the end of the year challenged us to reconsider our distribution strategy. Instead of offset printing 600 copies for distribution for all members of the Upper School community, we printed just 75 so that every student who worked on the publication or whose work is featured would have a copy, with additional copies to showcase for campus visitors and in school archives. In addition, we created an enhanced online version of the magazine to share with all students and faculty. Student artists were invited to record discussions of their artistic vision, while writers were invited to record readings of their work. In this way, we hoped to bring our voices together, virtually if not literally, in celebration of the literary and visual arts at Hackley School. Hackley School is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

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