The Avatar 2025

The Harvey School

The Avatar The Avatar

Faculty Advisor: Ms. Bean

Editor & Layout Design: Chloe Anmuth

Cover Art: Sophia Beldotti

Bri, Bri Bri, Brie, Brie, Elle!! Those are all variations of my name, but not my name. My name is Brielle. Brielle is a French name that came from the Hebrew name Gabrielle. My parents named me Brielle instead of Gabrielle because they felt as if people couldn't shorten Brielle like they do Gabrielle. They were wrong. My plethora of nicknames sprang from my childhood; my friends couldn't say my name, so it was just Bri or Bri-Bri. After a while, people stopped calling me that once I was older. What's the point of a name if you people just shorten it?

My name, Brielle, means "heroine of God" or "God is my strength." How am I supposed to live up to my name if I've never felt like I deserved the name? Often, I am told that Brielle is such a unique name. You will never hear of a Brielle doing something outstanding that will shock everyone; you will hear common names like Brianna, Alexa, Olivia, etc. Don't get me wrong, I love hearing compliments about my name. I like that it is unique, but can I live up to it?

How am I supposed to live up to a name if I don't hear about any Brielle doing something courageous? Brielle, Heroine of God? How am I supposed to be idealized by courage and having noble qualities, having God within me, if I don't feel like I do myself? I feel lost and always feel not worthy of such a powerful name. There is no Brielle that I can look up to, no role models.

Am I supposed to build my own story off of someone else and lead by their example or make my name into what I want other girls named Brielle to look up to? My name, my name, my name.

Such a beautiful but cursed name. Most think that you are given a name just so someone can call you that. But a name to me is that you were named with your name to live by that name and do good by that name. But with such a unique name, how can you ever live up to the name?

"Beyond the Skye"

by Skye Watson

Pamela -Skye. Skye. Skye. Skye. I’m sweet like honey, bright as the moon. Pamela ewww sounds old and antiquated. Just like an old grandfather's clock, that loudly clicks when it strikes 12. My name travels like time which is like a loophole because it skips a generation. Pamela is of Greek origin, “meaning sweet”. In my family, I’m like the fourth Pamela, they must like honey. I’m named after my grandma. I always admired her but not the name. Skye. Skye. Skye. Skye. I always loved my second name, Skye, always makes me feel like I woke up from a dream and escaped reality. There was something that always interested me. I do not know why but probably because it was unique. People usually use Skye as a nickname for Skylar, but I was named Skye. Skye. Skye. Skye means “nature, moons, and stars”. Skye reminds me of the clear ocean sea, like I'm a free bird soaring in the cotton candy clouds. Skye. Skye. Skye. Skye.

"Familial Features" by Talya Langer

She brought me into this world

A newborn

Wide-eyed and curious

I officially became a citizen of Earth and a member of our little family. For better or for worse, I was here.

I was now a part of a whole

I was the last piece of the puzzle that is now complete.

She taught me the beauty of my prominent characteristics of my tan skin and the coils that frame my face

The features formed on the faces of my ancestors

Passed down as reminders of those who have passed

Tangible mementos that mirror pieces of a mask

Features carried into the future but brought from the past

A constant reminder, a keepsake that lasts.

My face is a mixture, a combination of couples

Countless encounters that resulted in love

Their children eventually bearing children

Continuing the lineage and their legacy, carrying their name.

The features that rest on my face

Hold stories and memories from the past

My eyes are the same eyes that my grandfather fell in love with when he met his wife. My smile is the same one that brought my blind great-grandfather's face to life.

My hands have fingers that used to grip grain-like sand

As they sprinkled starch on freshly baked bread

My facial shape is my mother's, my grandmother's, and my great-grandmother's too, a trait we all share, proving it’s nothing new.

My color represents the joining of two cultures, a love never lost by the confines of skin. A barrier broken because of the love within.

My physique, a gift from my mother, mirrors her beauty—a reflection of the woman I aspire to become.

My forehead, wide and sweeping, bears the mark of her lineage, a symbol of the wisdom we are destined to share with those who stand by us—loyal, unwavering, through all trials.

My smile lines replicate my mother’s, dug in deep and defined – determined to persisted and demands to be noticed

And my curls—woven from the strands of both her and my father—are uniquely mine, a tapestry of their love and lineage, a signature that belongs to no one else but me.

I carry my family's features

Countless love stories encapsulated by one simple trait

A great love thoroughly grasped by a grain of sand in a sea of curls

A familiar feature serves as a reminder of times that have passed

Second in history, time we will never get back

My features are family heirlooms

They are far more valuable than a ring of gold

A bracelet dripped with diamonds or a necklace of pearls

My familial features serve as a lifelong link to people from the present and the past

Opening the door to stories and memories that last,

So every day as I walk through this world, I carry your features, your eyes, and your curls

So as I go through life, on my own

Part of each person can experience each moment

Alongside me.

"Haircare

vs. Hair-care "

by Talya Langer & Summer Jarbath

The air is thick, coconut clings to my skin, back sticky against the tub, Her ﬁngers pull through my hair a slow reminding ache. Hair drenched and dripping. Body damp and sitting, Still.

Face contorted with discomfort, hand grabbing hold of the tub’s porcelain walls, her delicate touch traces the perimeter of my corse curls, trailing every coil, savoring every strand. I feel her faint touch as she grasps the curls that frame my face, her fragile ﬁngers traversing the rocky path from root to end.

My curls fall heavy and wet, drowning in sorrow, My mother’s silence is filling the room, settling on me, swarming my mind with doubt. Thick and full, my curls fly free flowing in the the wind as if unweighted. Trickling down from the root in a spiral, spinning through the stages. The strands twist tracing a coiled line from my head to my shoulders.

My mother wishes she had my hair “It’s beautiful” she says but I disagree.

I’m too much, this hair, these strands, are too much.

"Who am I?"

by Summer Jarbath

The identity crisis that never seems to end. A swirling circle: Black vs. White, Mom vs. Dad, Me vs. Myself. The space between these worlds weighs heavy Pulling at my left, Pulling at my right. I’m told to bridge the gap, To clasp my hands and find a balance.

Questions follow me like shadows, lurking in my reflection. Who am I?

Where do I belong? Who will I become?

I used to wait for the answers to come, For the day when I would enter a world where Both sides intertwine, Where I am not torn, But woven into a whole.

But the answers have always been with me. As I stand between both parents, Each hand holding a thread of my being, I feel it now.

I stand as a symbol of possibility. A person of change. I am mixed.

Charcoal Drawing

Luca Nishimura

Now my bedroom, my magic tree house

Your Room is a reflection of your mind. It’s like a magic trick of the mind and physical. Like the seasonal swift Stormy weather: the bluebird sings a melody that cools the moon. The razor tears overflowing turn into an overfilled trash can. A decaying smell sinks into the air as my sullen bed is suffocating. The calendar on the wall crossed each day off until Blossoms of spring: clear and clean; free and bold. I can finally see the sun’s rays peeking out from my bloody crimson curtains. The air smells like creativity and foolery, not a speck of the dust of the dead. My artificial flowers are always blooming, but this is different. I can taste my grandma cutting watermelon and reading my favorite book again, oh what a sweet taste. Like

Summer Bummer: busy or bored, more like both. I wonder where the purple fowl will take me. Will she swiftly take me into early mornings and battered feet, or twirl into spirals of my mind? I hope she takes me to self-discovery and rediscovery under my shelves of half-used diaries and empty books of unknown authors. The jellyfish on my ceiling tick tock as I clean and clean, like guests will appear, something new, someone interesting. But I know and I know, no one in or out. Sorry, my birdie, the window is shut, and Ugh, I need to go back to school.

Fall: ing into old habits again. School starts, and the bad habits pile and pile like the clothes on my bed and chair, rising like the mountain of worries in my mental. The bluebird is back. Cinnamon is in the air. My door never locks so he crips slowly though, you don’t even notice him. Bluebird leaves his crap everywhere but at least he goes on vacation in the Windy Winter: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Birthday come through, Mr.bluebird has migrated off to the North Pole or something. Happy Holidays I guess.