Retrospect Magazine 2022

M AY 2022 VO L . 9

RETROSPECT AN ARTS AND LITER ARY JOURNAL OF THE OSBORNE WRITING CENTER

Little Men by Lucia Passarelli '22

Dear Readers For many of the senior editors, the year 2022 always seemed to loom in the distant future providing us with a sort of finish line. With every passing New Year’s Day, we came a step closer to the end of a era. With that in mind, it’s hard not to think of this spring and this year as a whole with a nostalgic filter over our eyes and a haze of bittersweet reflection. However expected the attitude of the senior class may have been, another bittersweet truth exists: as the student body emerges from a period of the utmost uncertainty, another sort of finish line has been created for us all to cross together. An end is approaching us as a collective whether the editors graduate or not, and for that we wanted to create a body of work that celebrates, memorializes, and forever captures the tribulations and triumphs of such a fickle time.

In the wake of uncertainty, human nature is predictable and unpredictable at the very same time. Predicting our nerves and reactions towards a world that was changing rapidly was easy. We experienced periods of denial, sadness, and loneliness. We pushed back against change that we did not want to see, and we mourned the feelings of togetherness. Collectively, youth across the world yearned for their old lives, and the HB Upper School was no exception. Then the unpredictable happened. HB students decided to epitomize what they are known for: a dedication to perseverance. From behind screens we created, we built, we flourished, and we consciously decided to be a force to be reckoned with. From the uncomfortable feelings, award winning art and writing took form. When connection could not be felt physically, it radiated from within each of us and forged into a community that would always be felt. Magnificence came to be from our creativity.

In this magazine, featured in three main sections, are pieces we feel truly recognize three central feelings or attitudes associated with the last couple of years. In our blue section, we recognize the sadness, the tranquility, and the acceptance of the unknown. In our yellow section, we celebrate the excitement, the ambition, and the hope associated with the future. And finally, in our pink section, we commemorate the memories, the reminiscence and the nostalgia around our time together the way things used to be. Each section, each page, and each word come together to completely represent who we were, who we are, and who we will be as HB students and human beings, as we reach the finish line and begin anew.

Thank you and enjoy this edition of Retrospect, The Senior Editors

From left to right and front to back: Allison Fritz, Jazmine Halawa, Elizabeth Troyer Morgan Monesmith, Cammy Cort, Anjali Dhanekula, Shruthika Araselvan Grace Mansour, Radhika Dutta, Helen Breen, Suzy Schwabl Perin Romano, Lucia Passarelli, Liv Boyer Carys Bowen, Lóa Schriefer

We dedicate this magazine to Scott Parsons for being an extraordinary teacher and for always bringing positive energy into our community. We wish you the best of luck in all your future adventures!

The Editors

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TABLE OF CONTENTS 13

17 ON THE COVER No I Do Not Regret Anything

by Somerset Colligan ‘22

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2

Little Men by Lucia Passarelli '22

20 20 Bones by Lóa Schriefer '22 20 Into the Fog by Brooklyn Napolitano '22

BLUE

21 Ripping Through Skin by Brooke Bordanaro '22

11 Blue by Anna Sharkunov '22

21 Fragile Mankind by Chloe Echols '23

12 Letter of Recommendation by Alexa Christopherson '23

22 Blue Heat by Carys Bowen '22

13 Trapped by Ava Piliang ’23

22 Learning to Accept Unacceptable People by Percy Okoben '22

13 Car Saunas by Jermani Jones '23

23 Body by Sam Tekieli '23

13 Hell on Earth by Claire Hudson '26

23 Alex by Anna Sharkunov '22

13 Time to Get Clean by Brooklyn Napolitano ’22

23 Law Office by Gabby Joeseph '23

14 For Enna by Allison Fritz '22

24 Abstract by Morgan Butler '23

15 Self Portrait by Cyan St. Clair '26

24 Lipstick Girl by Brooke Bordonaro '22

15 Peek a Boo by Fiona Liu ’24

24 Six Word Stories by Grace Gilson '24

15 The Conditions of Joy and Grief by Clair Hudson '26

25 Grandmas Are Cool by Jermani Jones '23

16 Elemental by Max Husni ’22

25 Calming Buddha by Arya Babu '26

16 Screenshot by Suzy Schwabl '22

26 Van Gogh Inspired Painting by Arya Babu '26

16 Changing of the Seasons by Olivia Thornton ’24

26 Poem as a Wet Dog by Percy Okoben '22

17 Floating by Lily Botros ’22

26 Rain by Ally Hudson '26

17 Intertwined by Alex Wolf '22

26 Exploration in the Woods by Ava Piliang '23

17 Left Behind by Madeleine Burke '26

26 Stiff by Lucia Passarelli '22

18 Counting to Infinity by Christina Bencin '23

27 Sparkle by Kailey Takaoka '22

19 Into the Woods by Lucia Passarelli '22

27 Gertrude, Caught in the Rainstorm by Katie Greppin '22

19 Head in the Clouds by Alex Wolf '22

28 Tragic Story by Alexandra Burke '26

20 The Polarizing World of Politics by Elizabeth Troyer '22

28 In What Place Do You See Yourself by Suzy Schwabl '22

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27

33

34

28 Nap by Ava Beredo '23

39 Barco by Rhea Mahajan '22

29 Watch It by Massa Armanazi '24

40 Letter from My Eyes to My Heart by Muna Agwa '23

29 If I Would Have Known Earlier by Summer Mu '24

40 Letter from The Heart to The Eyes by Muna Agwa '23

30 Thoughts You Were Never Supposed to Hear

by Desir'ee Neal '22

40 Green Girl by Perin Romano '22

30 Prosperity by Demetriyana Hughes '23 30 Blemish by Camden Kitchens '23 31 Study of the Internal by Sofia Dewey '23 31 Pants by Max Husni '22

40 Faces by Lizzie Kasubick '23 41 The World Moves On Without the Children

by Colleen Nakhooda '24 41 Fear by Audrianna Imka '22

32 Midnight Runs to Swampland by Sophia Dewey '23

42 The Dangers of Selective Portrayal of Reality Through Chartkov's Art in "The Portrait" by Meredith Stewart '23

32 Used Me Till It Killed Me by Ally Hudson '26

43 Overlooked by Alexis Everett '24

32 Sea-nic by Rhea Mahajan '22

44 Flip Side by Natalie Crowley '23

33 Industrial Corners by Carys Bowen '22

44 Release by Lily Botros '22

33 Morning by Anjali Dhanekula '22

44 Groin to Grave by Sofia Dewey '23

34 Hands by Zoe Bennett '23

45 Lost in Thought by Saija Shah '23

34 Rocks by Lóa Schriefer '22

45 Strength by Isla Rollinson '24

35 Diagnosis by Anjali Dhanekula '22 35 Man in the MIrror by Alex Wolf '22 36 Friday Night Shabbat by Maggie Abrams '22 36 The Feast by Evey Wellman '23 37 A Mother's Fawn by Noel Ullom '23 37 Skin by Natalie Crowley '23 37 Pensive by Saija Shah '23 38 The Mind's Impact on the Adoption of Cyclical Behaviors

by Sahar Maleki '23

45 Tear Me Open and Anger Falls Out by Carys Bowen '22 45 Kathleen by Audrianna Imka '22 46 Who Made Your Clothes by Mia Howe '24 46 City Girl by Tori Marguiles '24 47 The Child Remade by Gauri Gandhi '24 47 Awkward Moment by Allison Fritz '22 47 Love Letter by Perin Romano '22 48 My Friend Lucia by Brooklyn Napolitano '22

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43

48 48 Fax to a Coastguard; Conversations with My Mother

by Sophia Dewey '23 48 Too Closely by Carys Bowen '22 49 Stare by Lóa Schriefer '22 49 Bamboo by Allison Fritz '22 49 Self Portrait by Zoe Bennett '23 50 Butterflight by Fiona Liu '24 50 She by Tess Hays '22 50 Heart of Gold by Grace Mansour '22 50 Lights by Allison Fritz '22 51 Christmas Melody by Fiona Liu '24 51 Unwinding by Lóa Schriefer '22

53

56 CMA In Its Element by Saija Shah '23 56 Speaking with the Dignity She Deserves by Katie Greppin '22 57 Flower Power by Lucia Passarelli '22 57 Tarot Cards by Lucia Passarelli '22 57 Nyx's Curse by Emma Wilson '23 58 Cherry by Allison Fritz '22 58 Excerpt of My Favorite Essay by Tess Hays '22 58 Untitled by Carys Bowen '22 58 Piece of Pie by Taryn Kucharski '23 59 Produce Aisle by Vivienne Forstner '23 59 Supermarket by Allison Fritz '22

52 Hollow by Lóa Schriefer '22

60 How Biden's Supreme Court Pick Could Change Our Country Forever by Sam Boyce '25

52 Blue by Suzy Schwabl '22

60 Dog on Table by Morgan Butler '23

52 White Emptiness by Christina Bencin '23

61 Clouds by Sophy Gao '23 61 Envy Draws Seclusion by Katie Greppin '22

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YELLOW

61 Oxygen by Katie Greppin '22

53 Annie by Lucia Passarelli '22

62 Crush by Carys Bowen '22

54 At Sunrise by Evelyn Bursdall '22

62 Just Around the Riverbend by Rhea Mahajan '22

54 Angel by Morgan Kennedy '22

62 Reflection by Sophy Gao '23

55 Escape to The Sunrise Over The Sea

by Colleen Nakhooda '24

63 Simple Moments by Liv Boyer '22

55 Rise and Fall by Summer Mu '24

64 The Delight in the Human Eye by Meredith Stewart '23

56 Ciuni's Secret Chess Life by suflei '24

64 Something There by Rhea Mahajan '22

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65

71

74

65 Why You Should Care About Latin by Grace Gilson '24

74 Bloom by Allison Fritz '22

65 CMYK by Jayla Pittman '23

74 Hidden Intentions by Sydnee Dykes '23

65 Basketball Star by Carolyn Jiang '23

74 Planted in the Studio by Ella Nolan '23

66 In the Absence of Ceiling and Ground by Saija Shah '23

75 Shards of Glass, the Ceiling Broken by Katie Greppin '22

66 Always in My Head by Claire Hudson '25

75 Summering by Allison Fritz '22

66 Landscapes by Lóa Schriefer '22

75 There are Always Flowers for Those Willing to See

by Fatema Dinary '24

67 Paradise Found by Kailey Takaoka '22 67 Sweat and Rain and Dust by Genevieve Comar '24 68 Our Community by Perin Romano '22 69 Cinderella by Lily Botros '22 69 Doodles by Audrianna Imka '22 69 Put Forth Good Vibes for Real by Carolyn Jiang '23 69 Ethereal World by Morgan Kennedy '23

76 Why Being in an Orchestra Will Change Your Life by Francesca Burke '23 76 Captivated by Desperation by Katie Greppin '22 77 Lava by Lóa Schriefer '22 77 Moon by Vivienne Forstner '23 77 Golden by Lóa Schriefer '22

70 MUD by Shruthika Araselvan '22

78 Why I Was So Wrong to Think Self Care Was Underrated

by Zoe Bennett '23

70 Bathroom by Meredith Stewart '23

79 Botanical Gardens by Muna Agwa '23

70 Sun by Lucia Passarelli '22

79 Lucy's Flowers by Lucy Castellanos '23

71 Fantasy by Alex Wolf '22

79 The Way to Life by Summer Mu '24

71 Dawn Erases Our Ensemble of Stars by Abby Gemechu '24

80 Maniac by Grace Mansour '22

71 Static by Tori Marguiles '24

80 Floating Through Clouds by Sophie Weber '25

71 The Start to the End 1999 by Somerset Collligan '22

80 Hands by Brooke Bordonaro '22

71 The Ocean of Frank by Carolyn Jiang '23

80 Sketchbook by Somerset Colligan '22

72 Blue Mountain Lake by Natalie Crowley '23

81 Morning in Paris by Paige Fleunt '25

72 Vegan Makeup by Seema Casey '23

81 Beehive by Conzie Aris '24

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83 81 Sticky Note Stories by Jermani Jones '23

91 Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is by Lily Botros '22

82 My Car by Natalie Crowley '23

91 Strings by Lóa Schriefer '22

82 A Horse's Race by Noel Ullom '23

91 Violin by Ella Rosenberg '24

83 Galacticy by Camden Kitchens '24

91 Ophelia by Carys Bowen '22

83 My Friend by Maggie Abrams '22

92 Wishes by Bella Stahl '24

84 Uncle Brent by Maddie Bucci '23

92 Daydream by Alex Wolf '22

84 Sign Language by Anna Sharkunov '22

92 Lilypads by Kyndall Mack '23

84 Haiku 17 by Anjali Dhanekula '22

92 In the Waves by Anna Sharkunov '22

85 You Can Dissappoint No One by Cole Urban '24

93 Beneath the Bark: An Essay on Authenticity and Delight

by Muna Agwa '23

85 Sands of Ethan by Fiona Liu '24 86 In Stride She Revealed Her Resilience

by Katie Greppin '22 86 The Power of PowerPoint by Ava Keresztesy '23

PINK 87 Dive by Brooklyn Napolitano '22 88 Welcome by Marley Lammers '22 88 She Stook at the Door Waiting by Carolyn Jiang '23 89 Butterfly by Sam Tekieli '23 89 Piano by Kate Klein '24 89 The Dressmaker by Clover Skinner '24 90 A Letter to the Girl I Once Was

by Hannah Rowland-Seymour '23 90 Valerie by Brooklyn Napolitano '22

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94 Arrowblossom by Marley Lammers '22 96 Artificial Island by Sophy Gao '23 96 Mildly Extraordinary by Carys Bowen '22 97 In the Woods by Carys Bowen '22 97 Through the Looking Glass by Alex Wolf '22 97 Cigarette Box by Perin Romano '22 98 Little Red Cinders by Marley Lammers '22 99 A Wall of Fire Rising by Elizabeth Troyer '22 99 Sleepover on the Sidewalk by Muna Agwa '23 99 Metamorphosis by Martina Aucejo '22 100 My Mom's Shoes by Carolyn Jian '23 100 Bird Sanctuary by Liza Weinberger '25 101 We Breathe Only to Forget by Noel Ullom '23

92

105

106

101 Tennis Shoes by Evey Wellman '23

110 Missed Connections by Helen Breen '22

101 Chucks by Maisie Yan '23

111 Old Google Drive by Allison Fritz '22

102 Camellia by Allison Fritz '22

111 Dreams of a Different Life by Tess Hays '22

104 Sunset from My Bedroom Window by Chloe Echols '23

111 A Crowded Scene by Suzy Schwabl '22

104 Coke by Kate Klein '24

112 Three Visions, One America by Saija Shah '23

104 Red Flag by Allison Fritz '22

113 Christmas at The Arcade by Sydnee Dykes '23

105 Late Night by Lilianna Parsons '23 105 The Collector by Maddi Bucci '23 105 Out Of Range by Anna Sharkunov '22 105 Missing Antonio Monologue by Percy Okoben '22 106 Possession of the Scholar by Olivia Boyer '22 106 Myself Through My Eyes by Somerset Colligan '22 106 Green Summer by Carys Bowen '22 107 Identity Crisis by Carys Bowen '22 107 B and W by Alex Wolf '22 107 Home by Ami Hashimoto '23

113 Great Gatsby by Elizabeth Troyer '22 113 Land of Opportunity by Rhea Mahajan '22 114 Le Petit Prince Chapitre Supplementaire

by Zoe Nelson '23 Illustrations by Ava Beredo '23 115 Break A Leg by Liza Weinberger '24 115 The Beginning by Taryn Kucharski '23 115 Hands by Carys Bowen '22 115 My Things by Suzy Schwabl '22 116 Galatea, Years Later by Muna Agwa '23 116 Discordant Harmony by Brooklyn Napolitano '22 116 Flowered by Brooklyn Napolitano '22

108 The Want for Androgyny Verus the Reality of Sexism in Modern Academia in Possession by Rhea Mahajan '22

117 Le Goût de la Victoire by Allie Schmidt '22

109 The Line by Eesha Talasila '23

117 Snow Cone Nostalgia by Somerset Colligan '22

109 Pinkies Up by Kaya Mendels '22

118 City of Corn by Allison Fritz '22

110 The Importance of Worn Out Suffed Animals

by Taryn Kucharski '23

119 Love Letter by Perin Romano '22

110 I'm Not Lion by Marley Lammers '22

116 Little Men by Lucia Passarelli '22

120 La Reine des Fées by Ava Beredo '23 and Carmella Muresan ‘23

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128

130

122 Pearl Chain by Evelyn Burdsall '22

128 World View by Cammy Cort '22

124 Dresser Drawers by Perin Romano '22

128 Grandma by Carli Jordan '23

124 Enveloped by Ingrid Tekieli '23

128 My Dad and I by Audrianna Imka '22

125 Steam by Lóa Schriefer '22 125 February 14th by Muna Agwa '23

129 Thoughts from a Second Semester Senior in the Middle of the College Process by Anjali Dhanekula '22

125 Gwammy and Gwampy by Kaya Mendels '22

130 Lilac and Orange by Allison Fritz '22

126 Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass

by Alexa Christopherson ‘23

130 Midsummer Nightmare by Muna Agwa '23

126 Inside My Mind by Somerset Colligan '22 127 Lake Chautauqua Delight by Emily Jones ‘23

130 Moon Cake by Jasmine Neumann '25 131 Internal Tantrum by Anna Sharkunov '22

Osborne Writing Center The Osborne Writing Center and its programming is supported by The William McKinley and Jessie M. Osborne Writing Center Fund, The Horvitz/Rosenthal Family Fund for the Young Writers and Artists Festival, The Grace Wood Bregenzer 1927 Memorial Fund, The Peyrat Family Fund for the Young Writers and Artists Festival, and the Hathaway Brown School Colloquium Fund. These endowments support an atmosphere at HB in which student writing can originate and evolve. The entire school community is indebted to and grateful for the outstanding programming that has been launched as a result of this generous philanthropy, including the publication of this annual arts and literary journal. For more information, visit www.hb.edu/write or contact Osborne Writing Center Director Scott Parsons at sparsons@hb.edu.

Since its launch in 2014, Retrospect has been recognized for excellence in the annual Program to Recognize Excellence in Student Literary Magazines, including being the only school in Ohio to receive the Highest Award in 2016. We are thankful to AGC for bringing our vision to life. In addition to numerous other national and regional awards in 2016-17, Hathaway Brown student writers also won 113 regional Scholastic Writing Awards in nine different categories, and three students received national medals for their work.

To learn more about our writing program, please visit www.hb.edu/write or contact Osborne Writing Center director Scott Parsons at sparsons@hb.edu.

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Blue by Anna Sharkunov '22

BLUE

01

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LETTER OF RECOMMENDATION ALEXA CHRISTOPHERSON ’23 I recommend stopping and looking outside once in a while. This may seem obv ious-you already loo dumb and you may be thi k outside every day, and nking, this is there is no necessity to rea different perspective. d onward, but allow me to give you a Every yea r we go throug h the same pat tern. Spring comes with great del igh cold. The birds sing louder t to most who have been and the sun beams bright hau led in by the er than ever in the past yea long for summer to com r. Throughout the last stre e. To most this means wa tch of May we rm weather, freedom from sch feel happiest during the ool, or even just a vacatio summer connections bec n from work. I om e stress free and more sim for wa rd to beach days and ple than ever before. All hanging out with friends yea r looking all day until September longing for the time bac hits, and the only though k. As aut umn arrives, the ts bec om ea lea ves beg in to scatter, flow mud blankets the ground ers lose vivacit y, the day beneath. s are shorter, and I watch from inside, pro tected by four wa lls and a roof as the world outsid maple tree in front of my e changes day by day. On window grew forlorn, on thursday the large friday the tips of the lea orange on Sat urday, red fs that once were green Sunday, brown Monday, tur ned yel low, then and by Tuesday the tree arms out towards the sun that once was ful l of life , was dul l and bare. The and stretched its long weather dropped from 70 raz ors on my dry skin. Wi to 30 last week, the new th the arriva l of winter com col d air feels like es severe cold, a jaded, cru to succumb and evaporate el cold that stea ls wa rmth in its clutch. The weather and forces it is now utterly unpredicta pelts, and snow falls. As ble; the sun beams, the rain one sits and examines the pou rs, hai l white blanket spread ove sight is scu lpted in the min r the ground, there is pea d. ce; an everlasting The cold is uncomfor tab le, but the discomfor t is ignored as the value of the appreciates the snow, all moment is remembered. interferences are hushed When one , as are tensions; there is the cold dark months the no bustle, simply calm, pur inside of my house is wa e silence. During rm, the fire is lit, and the us together in the wa rm hugs are tighter. The col th of each other's embra d of winter brings ce. During these times we Without the frost humans bond and stick closer to cannot show appreciation esc ape the cold. and gratitude for times heat prevents us from exp of wa rmth, conversely onl eriencing the importanc y knowing the e of finding comfor t in kin dred spirits.

My whole life I have bee n told to always put my best face for wa rd, always all aspects. I never ful ly wear a smile, and act pra knew the reason why but ctically fau ltless in when you're young you don are told. When I fell off 't tru ly question your rea my bike, or got yel led at, lity or what you or my best friend rol led Holding in all the emotio her eyes at me during rec ns caused me to care so ess I never cried. deeply about what people a mask of my true self and thought, that I felt like made me a complete anx I alw ays had to wear ious mess. The need to be consumed me whole. per fect constantly sur rou nded me and The seasons of the yea r are nt per fect, they are unpred ictable, solemn, and una changing brings great bea voidable, yet even the ess uty to the phenomenon ence of the world of eve ry season. Nature is imp such an accepting lense. erfect yet can be examin We should treat ourselv ed through es the way we treat nat ure everything that comes our , because in likeness we way so why place fau lt or are n't in control of pressure on ourselves to simply doing our best. Soo have everything figured ner or later we won't eve out when we are n be able to value the bea it upon ourselves and the uty in each season, so the rest of the world to apprec fas ter we can take iate what we tru ly are gif the time we have. ted with the faster we can bring value to

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n o E arth L L E H You practice your lines to convince me you’re not breaking You yourfine lines andpractice that you’re to convince me you’re not breaking I can see it in your eyes and that you’re fine That’s where lies I can see it inyour yourlieeyes Tears down your That’sroll where your lie face lies

I want toTears helproll youdown escapeyour from your head face

I'll wait you from I say your head I want to help you for escape I was okay I'llhoping wait foryou'd you Ibesay

02

Your living on earth I washell hoping you'ddoesn't be okayit burn?

Keep faking, Your living hell onon earth doesn't it burn? but i'll always see right through Keep on faking, your breaking mind but i'll always see right through your breaking mind

CL AI

02 Trapped by Ava Piliang ’23 03 Time to Get Clean by Brooklyn Napolitano ’22

6 R E H U DSO N ’ 2

03

Car Saunas

JERMANI JONES ’23

When the weather starts to rise in the midwestern region of the states, it’s always a joyous time, full of hope it seems. Everything: the people, greenery, and animals are moving more proudly, boisterously. I love to hop into my mother’s car (via a barefoot trot from my house absorbing the pavement heat) or any car for that matter to indulge in the hot temperature that comes from the beaming sun. The car sauna. My few minutes of peace just before my mom enters the car complaining and yelling about how I should have clicked the air conditioner on, preventing such extremes. I love the way the thick air clouds my lungs, like the big puffs of smoke exiting the tall factory chutes. Then the leather seats burning my bare legs like the sensation of the metal on a long slide during a scorching day. The best part is the beginning when my body is finding a way to grasp and adjust to these adversities. It’s like my senses are heightened, extra sensitive and observant, perfect for writing, thinking, or just being. If I’m lucky and the sun is angled at the perfect height, I am graced with the presence of the microscopic white specks of magic dust. The recipe and definition of something good is in the air. In that same way, the sun is shining into my eyes. But if I look down correctly, I can create this incredible effect where the sun paints my eyelashes making them cast out rays of sunshine into my vision. The heat is suffocating yet exhilarating and rejuvenating in the best of ways.

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For Enna ALLISON FRITZ '22

“About Enna, my lovely daughter.” The woman’s mouth curved into a smile.

“Our Enna is number one in her class, she can play five instruments, and is a prodigy in chess and she can dance on the ice. Enna memorized almost all the vocabulary from our dictionary, and she can solve math problems quicker than any of you. She has been able to do all of this since she was ten years old. Shall I continue?”

“How impressive!” The man smiled. “And may I ask how many languages she speaks?” The woman paused. “What?”

“Languages? Surely a child so talented must be well-versed in language as well.” “Oh,” She shifted in her seat.

“Well, it doesn't matter. May I take a look at her photograph again?”

“Oh, yes, of course!”

He peered down at the small polaroid, and there, looking back at the girl with long, silky locks, a sweet smile and shining eyes, a girl who looked awake. “How charming.”

Just then, a girl came running towards the table. “Mother.” She was beautiful, even more so than the image.

The man looked up. “Enna?”

The woman chuckled. “Oh, this isn’t her. This is my younger one, Ruby.”

“Ah, Ruby. Like…the stone?”

“Um, I suppose so. It was just a sound we liked.”

“And what can Ruby do?” He smiled.

“Oh…she is also very talented.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Just… not as obedient you know?” She sighed. “Enna, however, I could talk about her for hours.” She quickly laughed in the silence, and glanced at Ruby.

“Sorry, dear.”

———————————————— Enna was set to leave on a Wednesday. She chose a fine chiffon dress to wear, the color of spring grass. Enna stayed at the institution for several months. One day, her mother received a message that she was ill.

“Well, what’s wrong with her?” Enna’s father gruffly asked his wife.

“She has a fever. Oh, hurry, we must go get her!” She replied frantically.

They left quickly and told Ruby to watch over the house. Ruby wandered around after a meal of smoked salmon on toast, somewhat bored, until finally, the veridian car pulled into the driveway. She ran out onto the steps to greet Enna, but stopped in her tracks when the girl stepped out of the car.

Color was gone from her face, causing her to look translucent. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and she had shrunk, skinny, so that her collarbone was sharp, and her ankles looked unstable. Her nose had remains of dried blood crusted on the edges of her nostril.

“She looks terrible.” Ruby said. “What happened?”

“Stop,” Her mother said, through gritted teeth, and dug a fingernail into her skin. Ruby flinched and was quickly released. “Enna is fine. Enna has been doing an exceptional job in her studies, Mr. Magister has told me.”

“Nice, so you got top scores again?” Ruby asked Enna.

Enna shook her head.

“Well, dear, you should go rest now.” Her mother said. As soon as Enna retreated to her room, their father turned on their mother.

“Look at the state she’s in! I can’t believe you would go so far as to send her there. What will the neighbors say? They’ll say we put our daughter in prison.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, so let us discuss the details for Enna’s studies.”

He whipped out a thick folder with papers sticking out. “We take education very seriously. She would be getting up at five every morning, and following that classes, extra-curriculars, seminars and various physical and spiritual training would take place until ten. We do give them a very flexible downtime, they’ll have two hours before they must be in bed, you see.”

“No—no, I’m sure she’s just sick. I was told the students love it there.”

“So you’re saying that they may potentially only receive five hours of sleep per night? Enna is still growing.”

“Hah!” Their father barked. “You didn’t hear her say anything because she can’t say anything! Their mother paused, shaking angrily. She jabbed a finger at their father. “And you. You were always doing whatever you wanted, you were never there for them. Now you want to step in? This is all.

Your. Fault!”

“She is already fifteen. You must understand, when such fine learning is happening, rest is not a priority.” “...of course.”

“That sounds inhumane.” Ruby later pointed out to her mother.

“You don’t understand how rare of an opportunity this is for your sister.”

She paused. “Did you ask her if she wanted to go?”

Her mother laughed. “I know your sister. Of course she wants to go, who wouldn’t? Even I want to go!”

“I don’t think I would go.”

“Oh, Little Red, don’t be jealous.” She patted Ruby’s hair lightly. “You’ll get some opportunity some day…you might have gotten it already if you were more focused.”

“I—I’m not jealous.”

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“How do you know?”

“I know her. She would like it. And she never said no.” Their mother retorted back. “I mean, if she had resisted, I would have listened. But did I hear her say anything?”

Ruby watched the exchange go on for hours, outside the house on the lawn, then into the kitchen, over a pot of pasta, to the living room, back to the kitchen, where juice boxes went flying through the air, and mops were angrily brushed across the floor. Ruby tried to stop them a few times, but it didn’t work, so she worked around it. She read at the kitchen island, dodging whatever was soaring her way. She didn’t even know what they were fighting about anymore.

Enna came down after a while, seemingly more refreshed, and Ruby glanced over at her. Enna had her hands over her ears, and stood there with her mouth open. No sound came out. Ruby could see her inhaling, exhaling, trying to force a sound out. Their parents continued shouting at each other. Ruby blinked a few times, then slowly let out a yell. For Enna.

THE CONDITIONS OF

joy & grief CLAIRE HUDSON ’26 Laid out are the conditions of what and how you can execute certain things The full value of joy isn't achieved easily The need of grief is involved it coexists almost like it has invisibility One day your with them The next day you’re not It’s a mind game hard to sort out Like sorting your light and darks into two piles

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Or making a pile of pleasant shells and not so pleasant shells Sorting life without them is hard Everything that once was right, now is a mess laying blunt Playing that one game was pure entertainment Now I just want to be in a containment Where I’m not seen And not heard Comments I used to get regularly happen no more because of my new reality Put me to sleep At least I won't have to take the heat The flames that rise when I'm angered, bothered, or even triggered are often belittling Im happiest when I forget I let it slip out of my grip

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For a second it's a fantasy one where my mind lets me wander like 0 gravity Happiness is only achieved when you felt grief No way to say what a heartache is if you've never felt any sort heartbreak Heartbreak is sorrow And sorrow is grief

04 Self Portrait by Cyan St. Clair '26 05 Peek a Boo by Fiona Liu ’24

Tied into a bow like its royalty It’ easily achieved when all the costs are laid out for everyone to see

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06 Elemental by Max Husni ’22 07 Screenshot by Suzy Schwabl '22 08 Changing of the Seasons by Olivia Thornton ’24 09 Floating by Lily Botros ’22 10 Intertwined by Alex Wolf '22

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Left

Behind MADELEINE BURKE ’26

Why does the snow blow towards my face in the spring?

I feel as though the seasons are leaving me Behind Behind the wall I hide Waiting for something to happen Time is leaving me Behind

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As I wait And I wait For something to happen Modernity is leaving me Behind Why must I wait?

Behind those older than me Wiser than me Faster than me Waiting for something small to happen Behind closed doors Waiting for something Waiting for snow In the dead of spring Waiting For something to happen That never should And never will Why doesn't the snow blow towards my face in the winter?

Why must I wait for spring?

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Infinity

COUNTING TO CHRISTINA BENCIN ’23

I remember that sunny Saturday afternoon. I was sitting at the kitchen table, about three or four years old, licking the remnants of the peanut butter off of my fingers, and you were at the sink, washing off the bread crumbs and jelly that stained the white porcelain.

I watched you just stand there for a while after you had finished cleaning. You were silent, looking out the kitchen window blankly, your hands laying limply at your sides, clenched into fists. You dismissively shook your hands out of those balled up fists upon noticing me watching you and rushed over to stand behind my chair.

“What?” I asked with a cheeky grin. You wore the kindest smile I had seen in a while as you threaded your ever so gentle yet demanding fingers over my face and said, “Close your eyes and count.”

I eagerly obliged, ecstatic to finally see something other than a frown on your face. I started to shout excitedly when I got to ninety, proud I had counted this high. I heard the creak of the kitchen door, the draft of the wind from the outside lifting my hair, but I ignored it for you. When I got to ninety five, I heard the car door slam shut. When I got to one hundred, I immediately opened my eyes and bolted out of my chair as I heard the car start.

But I was too late. *** I could never fully grasp why you would leave without a warning. Every night when I was six years old, over the second hand wooden table where you once placed those heavenly sandwiches for me on muggy Saturday afternoons, I would ask Dad insistently, as tears uncontrollably welled in my eyes, “Why did she leave us? Was it because of me?”

Every time, Dad would turn his head and comfort me, saying, “It wasn’t because of you. I promise” and we would go back to eating the same over cooked rice in the same chipped porcelain bowls.

After dinner, I would rush to my room and sit by the ink black sky, etching the constellations with my fingers, trying to count the endless diamonds in the expansive darkness. After reaching my

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limit, usually around one hundred stars, I would wish upon a star that you would return after a long game of hide and seek with that same beautiful smile on your face as to say “I was here the whole time” and ask if I had finished counting. *** When I was ten years old, Dad got a promotion, so we moved across the country where I was placed at a new elementary school, a less diverse school compared to my last school. It took me a while to make a friend, but once I did, we instantly started hanging out after school all the time. One weekend, after constantly nagging our parents, we went to the Hershey factory together.

Dad, my friend Marley, Marley’s mother, and I all took Dad’s Subaru Outback to the factory to see how Hershey chocolate was made. From the moment Dad extended his hand to shake Marley’s, Marley didn’t say a word. The whole car ride, she kept her eyes locked on the iPad we were playing on to avoid looking at my father.

Halfway through the car ride, I saw Marley’s mother take out her phone and swipe into a group chat through the reflection in the window.

Using my keen eyesight, I caught a few words in the reflection saying terribly untrue, racist things about my father.

But I said nothing.

When we got to the factory and strayed away from our parents to stand up front, Marley whipped her head away from the tour guide, looked me straight in the eye and whispered, “You’re Chinese? I’ve never met a Chinese person before!”

“Oh, um, yeah, I’m half Chinese.” I stuttered, staring at my maroon Converse high tops and counting the intersections of the laces.

“Hmm. Well, you don’t look Chinese at all.”

Marley responded, turning back to listen to the tour guide.

Once she diverted her focus from me, I glanced at the conveyor belt of little chocolate squares and started to count them, thinking of all of the moments you could have filled the awkward silence when my friend’s parents would meet my father, the number of times you could have defended your husband against people who talked badly about him behind his back, the

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plethora of my friends you could explain to that I had features of both you and him. *** For a long time, up until now, I couldn’t remember - or rather I had blocked out this memory to preserve my belief that you were good before you left - but a few days before you left us, we went to Dad’s friend’s house for Chinese New Year. We didn’t visit Dad’s friends very often when I was a child, at least not as often as we met yours, but I was excited whenever we did meet them. I loved to learn more about the culture of my other half, all while getting to see Dad comfortably speaking Chinese and enjoying his rare treat of hot pot. While Dad and his friends were talking a storm, you took me outside to play, thinking that it would be boring for the two of us to just sit there listening to a foreign language. But I wanted to stay inside and impress them with my (very limited) vocabulary.

I wanted to ask them if they could share their stories and teach me how to make dumplings and introduce me to the art of calligraphy.

As we sat out in Dad’s friend’s garden, you cupped the February lilies in your hands while I kept myself as distracted as possible from your words by counting and tearing off the petals. But I could still hear you complaining to me about Dad and his friends-- unfortunately, as per usual. You said their overly strict parenting style was crass, that they were too humble and polite to the point that it annoyed you, and many more extremely hurtful, judgemental things. You stopped for a while, releasing your hands from the flowers to stroke my hair with one hand. I yanked at the stubs of dead grass and counted how many I had torn from the soil with tears in my eyes, trying to forget all that you said.

At around 9:30, Dad called us in and his friend handed me a red envelope and I bowed to receive it, thanking him very much for the generous gift. You donned an insincere, razor thin smile as I took it from his hand and after we got in the car, you tore it from my hands and slid it into your purse. *** The next day, during dinner, I asked Dad if I could go to Chinese school. It was an innocent question, really, and it was expected for a biracial

child to want to experience both sides of her heritage. I could tell it made him happy to hear, but you, you would have none of that. I saw it in your eyes, right before you plastered them to your meal the rest of dinner.

After you tucked me into bed, I shut my eyes to count sheep so I could go to sleep. But I couldn’t because downstairs, I could hear you violently heaving books at the walls and smashing vases on the ground and fiercely complaining about Dad’s friends all while Dad said nothing.

Around 10:30, after your fit of rage, you went to sleep and I heard Dad softly sobbing. I counted.

He sobbed for 17 long minutes and I stayed up, the sheep disappearing from my thoughts, for another 24 minutes.

The first time this horrific memory I had kept away, hidden, for years played through my mind, suddenly Marely’s words of not looking like my father rang through my head. Marely was right: I don’t look like Dad.

11 11 Into the Woods by Lucia Passarelli '22 12 Head in the Clouds by Alex Wolf '22

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I look like you.

Yet I still wasn’t enough for your liking, was I? Why did you marry Dad and have a child with him knowing the child would be Chinese, that you would have to hang out with Dad’s friends, that your child would one day naturally want to learn more about her other half?

Why did you commit to this relationship with us if you knew you were going to leave us for a “better” man and a “better” child? *** In all honesty, I would do it again, count, I mean. I would count years on end for you to learn and grow and love your husband and child despite their race. I would count until my voice became raspy for you to come back and truly apologize for the years of sadness you have caused and for your irrational anger and racism toward us.

I would count to infinity and beyond for you to become a real mother.

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The POLARIZING World of POLITICS ELIZABETH TROYER ’22

As a child, politics came in twos. Republican versus Democrat. Red versus Blue. Good versus bad. I never remember listening to music during car rides, only political radio stations per my mom’s choice. I was too young to understand the implications of the big adult world words that the guests on the radio show said, so I simply asked, “Are they good or bad?” to which I would receive a one-word response that would shift my entire view on the person and what they said. For a long time, I saw the complex world of politics in this way. If Mom said that they were good, then they were good and all who said otherwise simply didn’t understand. At that age, it wasn’t ignorance, as much as it was childhood innocence.

When I began middle school, my educational environment changed. For the first time in my life, my class showed diversity. As I made friends, I realized that my peers had vastly different lives from mine. Different religions, different family structures, and different political beliefs. It was eye-opening as I realized that people cannot simply be classified as good or bad. Despite a peer not sharing a view that my parents did, they were in no way a bad person. I began to understand that my previous naivety and environment had kept me closed-minded. Middle school was a transformative era in my life as my world opened up to a diverse group of peers who showed me their views and taught me to open my mind. I realized that a person’s political beliefs are affected by the experiences they face, all of which are different for everyone. It was this time in my life that my morals and opinions were cemented and my confidence in my own identity and beliefs grew. I realized that I had the power to make decisions in my own life about what I believed in and that my parents’ views didn’t necessarily have to be my own.

My personal growth became difficult when my parents realized I no longer fully retained their list of political beliefs. Long fights ensued as I was told I had been brainwashed and needed to return to their ideals. These insults hurt as they made me question my own integrity. Had I gained an open mind or had I truly been brainwashed? The simplicity that I once knew had disappeared as the line between right and wrong blurred. Many aspects of my life had become politicized. A few disputes between my mom and my doctor over small medical decisions that have somehow become political have led my doctor to pull me aside, advising me to do one thing while my mom told me to do another. I have always seen my parents as some of the most intelligent people I have ever met, which complicated my situation even more.

I began to realize that our differences came down to our experiences. My parents have seen the world change at an alarmingly fast rate in the past few years, which no doubt has to be jolting. On the other hand, they have never experienced what it is like to be a minority in America, or a young person during this polarizing time as I have. I have learned that a person’s political views are formed by their experiences, and the best that I can do is keep an open mind and express my opinions while trying to understand theirs. From my experience, I now know that judging a person as either good or bad based on their views is entirely counterproductive as someone’s ideals are never fully understood without knowing why they hold them.

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Fragile Mankind

BY CHLOE ECHOLS '23

It is turning down the corner of your street 161 East 212th It is the woman guiding the blind man with his stick, on the sidewalk and through the crosswalk It is the faith that the other fellow, and beloved human across from you will not intentionally run his red light It is humming along to the trumpet of blues in the quiet, but busy Starbucks It is sharing your 2 week's worth of ideas, fit into one paper, written at 1 AM with your tablemate It is pushing in the chairs of your peers who leave the classroom It is smiling at a stranger It is laughing as loud as the fire alarm that sounds when you are still in your “Jacks Casino” apron in Ceramics It is saying “Happy Birthday” to the kitchen staff member who you don’t know personally It is the cool tatted up barista who compliments your sweatshirt in the summer It is the one who holds your hands while you are sobbing and can only feel the weight of your heart and the numbness in your head It is the snowman in December; The brown-haired, seemingly tall, strong guy in his pickup truck who offers to help you shovel snow on Christmas Day It is the activists on city streets It is the facetime call at 11 The baby’s delightful giggle when you validate their understanding of a bug; little do they know that they breathe in corruption, the greed of mankind fills the air However, it is this hope in the hearts of your fellows, it is the glass heart, the pain, the love, the fragility of mankind, that cheers my heart It is our common weakness, consideration, vulnerability, and the measly slivers in between, that allow me to feel the warm, sweet, color yellow

13 Bones by Lóa Schriefer '22 14 Into the Fog by Brooklyn Napolitano '22 15 Ripping Through Skin by Brooke Bordanaro '22

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Learning to Accept Unacceptable People Most people, when they think of their grandparents, think of loving people who will always be there for them. But when I was eleven years old, starting to question my identity and announced to my grandmother, “I think I’m a lesbian,” she immediately responded, “No you’re not.” And that was the end of the discussion. Six years later, shortly before Christmas, I wrote a thank you letter to my grandparents where, in addition to thanking them for a gift, I told them that I am transgender. I still have not heard back. But now I see that I don’t need to.

My grandparents have not spoken to two of my aunts or their families in years. They took my father’s side when my mother, their daughter, chose to divorce him, and haven’t spoken to her in months except to extend perhaps the world’s strangest olive branch in the form of $200 stuffed inside a pair of socks. It didn’t matter how unhealthy my parents’ marriage was or how unhappy they both were, because my grandparents believe that divorce, no matter the circumstances, is always wrong. And in their family, their word is gospel. But I am no longer a part of that family.

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PERCY OKOBEN ’22

My grandparents and I have never been particularly close, but we have always been civil. My grandmother taught me how to crochet. My grandfather instilled in me a love of the Classics. I remember the summers my brother and I used to spend at their house. They weren’t exactly happy summers, but my grandmother always cried when we left. We never said I love you, but it was always understood that there was some love-adjacent emotion present. They loved their granddaughter, the one who goes to church every Sunday, the one who never questioned them, the one who needed their approval. The one who doesn’t exist.

So when my grandparents did not respond to my letter, at first I was upset.

But a few months later, I realize how lucky I am not to have them in my life anymore. The people around me, from the other members of my school’s Gender and Sexuality Alliance, of which I am co-president, to my aunts and uncles who accept me, will always be there for me. Now, I realize that I am just one of many relatives my grandparents have abandoned. And those relatives will always love me like my grandparents never could.

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Blue Heat by Carys Bowen '22 Body by Sam Tekieli '23 Alex by Anna Sharkunov '22 Law Office by Gabby Joeseph '23

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Six Word Stories My only proof is my story.

I hate you, but you don’t My son, standing there, is gone What are you without identity GRACE GILSON '24

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Grandmas Are Cool

JERMANI JONES '23

Last week on November third, I officially turned sixteen years old. At birthday celebrations our family tradition is this activity I like to call, “what I like about you.” Using this beginning phrase we say nice things about the person who matured by one year. So the moment in which my grandma proclaimed that I was her favorite grandchild in front of 4 of her other grandchildren and on record, made me ecstatic. It fired off these nerve endings that already had an inkling of the idea.

My grandma, who I call Ma Ma or Ma, is in her late seventies and lives alone. Ma is a lighter-toned black woman with several freckles and moles. She always wears these small gold hoop earrings that I want to magically float off of her ears and attach to my own. She is from Georgia, Alabama as she calls it, or more specifically on the border of Phenix City, Alabama and Columbus, Georgia. After being in Cleveland for over fifty years her southern accent still sticks to her speech better than syrup on pancakes. She grew up as the second youngest among ten brothers and sisters. She is retired and no longer drives. Ma Ma loves to go to the mall and GoodWill every weekend.

Ma Ma is not your typical grandma. I will never see her baking cookies for me in the kitchen because that’s just not her thing. I recall one occasion where there was a cookbook on the table with cookie recipes. I said, “Ma, can you please make me chocolate chip cookies, those are my favorite.” She looked at me with a smile and responded, “Why don’t you make me some instead” followed by a chuckle. What she does have are several knickknacks everywhere: sculptures, clocks, paintings, and mostly pictures (of everyone in the family). I think she has so many pictures because she wants to visually remember all of her loved ones that aren’t with her.

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Grandmas are wise with banks of knowledge and information. I scrape the walls of Ma Ma’s brain for details about the racist South in the 1950s. Due to our age differences when we trade ideas with one another it is so foreign that they become a breath of fresh air. We get suctioned into what one another says because it is interesting to know the unique things about each other that are a result of our distinct environments.

I have such a great appreciation for grandmas because it’s not easy growing older. The longer you live on this planet, the more people you lose, like friends, siblings, and parents. Grandmas’ lives can become lonely if they are not surrounded by the people they love. It is like a time warp where one was once with people who were all older than them or the same age as them and now everyone is younger than them.

Grandmas may not be the most glamorous person, but they are wise and strong in who they are. This is because that same body, mind, and soul has lasted them for multiple decades. The reason I have such a special bond is because she took care of me in my developmental years of growth as a newborn and toddler. She never lets go of the time when I bit her, and she can show me the mark on her left arm to prove it. She is so easy to talk to and a great listener (when she is listening). So when she solidified my spot as the favorite grandchild on my birthday, I wanted to jump into her lap and give her a huge hug. However, I know that I have to be persistent with my spontaneous calls and sweet words to continue to uphold this profound level of status.

20 Abstract by Morgan Butler '23 21 Lipstick Girl by Brooke Bordonaro '22 22 Calming Buddha by Arya Babu '26

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Rain ALLY HUDSON ’26

Rain can make you feel grey and gloom But after rain comes with bloom.

Water replenishes the dry and the bare Seeds and roots soak up their fare You may slip and slide But after everything glides You can see rain as ugly But don't forget that it makes our world lovely

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Poem as a Wet Dog It was cold out there And though I was wet And my fur was matted You still took me into your arms And made me warm and dry.

And even when you shout at me for barking Or hit me with the Sunday paper I am grateful

PERCY OKOBEN ’22

Because at least I have my bed on the floor My place at your feet And a bowl of kibble Every once in a while And I love you Because loving you Even when you hurt me Is better than loving no one at all

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Getrude,

Caught in the Rainstorm KATIE GREPPIN ’22

From drips of water from a gold spout sprouts a blue iris.

Welcomed to a world of luxury.

Immersed in the fantasy of power.

Married to the figurehead of authority.

Caught in the rainstorm of revenge.

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Van Gogh Inspired Painting by Arya Babu '26 Exploration in the Woods by Ava Piliang '23 Stiff by Lucia Passarelli '22 Sparkle by Kailey Takaoka '22

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Seemingly innocent, she fell victim to the horror of sovereignty.

Bearing the consequences of actions taken by others.

By family.

Brother to brother. Uncle to nephew. Brother in law to sister in law turned husband to wife.

Churning to scorch the relationship of mother to son.

Why, was it not a rush of complication? Of ultimate defeat, not triumph?

Captivated by the longing to soak in the power of love.

No, the love of power.

Love lost by power-hunger-hearts pouncing at the semblance of innocence.

Scrambling to reach the high ground of moral competence, yet Falling into the depths of demise.

Knowledge was power.

With understanding, came responsibility.

An unrelenting interrogation of morales.

To realize true motivations and live with the stark reality.

Ultimately. an inner quest altering the perception of condemnatory actions.

Familial loyalty intermingled with faltering safety.

Revenge challenging the structure of unearned structure.

Amidst the pain and sorrow, a new Queen emerged.

A shell of the flower that once bloomed.

Rain fell with force.

Poisoning all those in the vicinity.

None left unscathed.

Including the Queen, a woman marked with separation.

And a union worthy of the infernal regions.

The blue iris, once the aura of authority, wilted.

The rich blue color drained, the petals crinkled.

The rain pelted the remains.

And the gold spout.

The opening to the next act.

Tarnished by the rainstorm.

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Tragic Story ALEXANDRA BURKE '26

There once was a ladybug; she was beautiful and caught everyone's attention. She loved to fly and travel. It was the main part of her life just like most ladybugs. She experienced many things throughout her travels. Happy moments and scary moments, as well as painful moments. Ms. Ladybug specifically held onto the most difficult memories. She believed they were a part of her. Her biggest fear was forgetting everything and losing who she was. She developed a habit.

Anytime something painful would happen, she would pick up a pebble.

Just a small pebble, nothing more. The ladybug would go through her pebbles from time to time to reminisce on her past, even if it ended up making her extremely upset. Her best friend, Mr.Caterpillar believed her pebble collection was dangerous.

“What if your pebbles become too heavy one day, Ms.Ladybug?” he asked.

She became very angry with him.

“You do not understand my past! How can you expect me to let go of my pebbles? What if I forget my memories?” she fumed, before flying away.

Right before she left, she picked up a small pebble and added it to her growing collection. She continued her travels picking up more pebbles and holding onto more memories. She did not want to recognize that her habit might be dangerous. One day the weight of her pebbles started to weigh down on her. She felt her wings start to give out, but the ladybug just ignored it, not wanting Mr. Caterpillar to have been right all along. She started flying over a large river and the weight of her pebbles started to cause her wings to lose strength. Immediately as she touched the water she realized that she had to let go of her memories and pain or she was going to drown in the river. She would lose everything if she did not let go. She attempted to reach for the pebbles but realized they had already sunken to the bottom. She then tried to fly herself to shore, but her wings did not have any strength left after carrying all of the pebbles. She panicked, swearing to herself that she would never carry any more of her pain around with her, if she would be able to live. Unfortunately, it was too late to let go now, the ladybug drowned in the river and sank to the bottom with her pain.

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27 Nap by Ava Beredo '23 28 In What Place Do You See Yourself by Suzy Schwabl '22 29 Watch It by Massa Armanazi '24

If I Would Have Known Earlier SUMMER MU '24

The first time I thought about death, I was in a supermarket parking lot.

My life was not easy,

Up to that point in time.

No parents, dog passed away, best friend died in a car accident, Things were a struggle.

School began to feel more like a chore, Day by day.

My teachers never understood why I never raised my hand, Nor turned in my assignments on time.

Just a bad student I guess, Is what they thought.

No one truly understands anything.

That day when I drove myself to buy candy from the store, The crashing thunder and splitter splatter rain Let all my feelings out.

Death.

Death seemed so simple,

Suicide would be so simple.

One flicker of a light and then I’m gone.

One turn of the switch and I’d be gone.

The pain would not be so enduring anymore,

And life would finally be able to stop tormenting me.

That day,

Changed me.

Never told anyone about it, Kept it all to myself.

The feelings, emotions, tears buried inside of me, Brought me into a downward spiral.

But I would never be able to forgive myself.

I now understand that death is not that simple.

The pain I would put into everyone around me, Isn’t worth any amount of pain in myself.

Sometimes, other people deserve more than me.

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THOUGHTS YOU WERE NEVER SUPPOSED TO HEAR DESIR’EE NEAL '22

I never meant to hurt you. I was just scared I was going to hurt myself. So I left, I left before you had the chance too. Please don't be mad for long.

Please try to understand that you weren't just a phase for me. What we had was real. What we have is real. To me, you are still the moon and the stars, but our love was too much like the sun, and the love I have for you burns. It burns to the point where it pains me. It pains me to the point of no return. Maybe in another galaxy, we can exist once more, but for now, our love can be no more than Pluto...

You meant to hurt me but you’ll tell the world the reason you left was that you were scared you’d hurt yourself. The thing is, I know you better than you know yourself. You’re a liar, and a cheater and yet you always forget to mention that when you tell people your side of the story. For you make no mistakes and that is not to award you for your perfection, rather it emphasizes the fact that every foul action you’ve committed was done with precision. I can recall all the nights and days you spent with that nameless woman.

From 11 pm to 4 am you were gone. You’d tell me you were going to the gym to let off some steam yet you come back smelling like your clothes had been dry cleaned. If only you’d done a better job of masking the smell of Chanel No.5 perfume that lingered on what should have been your sweaty gym shirt. Or maybe if you’d checked your clothing for strands of blonde hair, your tracks might have been covered. But no. You were a thief in the night, attracted to diamonds, and pearls, and anything with more than 2 lips.

You are nothing more than a coward, a horrible excuse for a man and your mistress… she’s nothing more than a sorry excuse for a woman.

What type of woman, finds no disgust in breaking up a marriage? What type of woman, finds no disgust in breaking up a family?

If it makes you feel better, he never told me he was married. He only told me of the lavish life he lived. He told me of the trips he took to Dubai and France. He showed me pictures of the 3 orphaned children he adopted on missionary work down in Africa. You know the funny thing is that we looked through those pictures together, sometimes for hours on end, and yet I never once connected the fact that those were his children; I mean your children. But how was I supposed to know, his skin was ghostly and their skin was the color of smooth chocolate, it was practically flawless. I didn’t understand how a white man could possibly have 3 black children, but with you in the picture now it makes sense.

You know sometimes I thought of going down to African with him for his missionary work, I

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dreamt of meeting the 3 children he adopted… of even being their mother. I guess the sad truth is that I spent an entire year wishing I was you.

Wishing I was the black woman who birthed those children. I can’t give birth, so maybe that’s why he slept with me. Maybe that’s why I was no more than a Night Women to him.

I am starting to feel like I was never good enough for him like I never met the status quo.

Like he only liked me because his friends and family told him no. They told him that I was no good, no more than a negro looking for love in all the wrong places. Searching for the father figure they presume walked out of my life. I feel you only married me to spite your siblings, your parents, your grandparents, and the long line of your generation that hates me. A Black Women. And yet you still choose to have me bear your children. You told me you loved me more than you loved yourself. But then why?

Why cheat? Was my body not beautiful to you after I birthed your children? Was I no more than a container for a child to you? Tell Me! Was she petite, was her hair like silk, was she more submissive, was her skin paler than yours? Was she more beautiful than me? ... I don't hate that nameless woman, I wouldn’t even know her if I saw her. And yet day and night, I sit in the bed that we once shared and ask myself “Is it really her fault?” and then I realize that it was you who set the trap, she was just the foolish woman who took the bait. I loved you, and you said you loved me I just don’t understand how you could do this to me, the children, to us! I hope she makes you happy, I hope she fills that selfish void of yours because if she cant, I don't know if anyone can.

I lay here... alone, contemplating on all the things I could have done better. Of all the times I could have said I love you more, all the times I could have showered our children with a little more affection, of all the times I should have stayed. I should have stayed with you. I should have been a better man but it doesn’t matter now.

I feel like a failure, staying on my mothers' couch because there is no other place for me to call home. I haven't moved from this spot in 14 days.

That means 14 days of no food, no water, no shower, no interaction with anyone. I don't deserve interaction, I’ve done enough. Enough to ruin our trust, enough to ruin our love, enough to ruin our family. In the blink of an eye, every person who once loved me is now gone and although I tried to be optimistic I know we can never exist in another Galaxy. I know there is no us… not even in another dimension. We as a whole can never be Pluto because that planet

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only describes me. You are not cold or small like Pluto, and most importantly you do not have serval moons. You do not make love to those other moons, you do not lie to other moons about your life outside of them, and you do not sneak around with other moons despite orbiting so close to a beautiful sun. A sun that can only compare to you.

You’re probably wondering why I left the way I did. Why I couldn’t even have the decency to say goodbye… to even say sorry. I wish I could tell you a reason that would suffice but I know that there are no words that would excuse my actions.

I can only think of the emotions that were running through my mind as I not only walked out the door but our marriage. I can tell you that more than anything I was ashamed. Ashamed of my lack of self-control, and ashamed of the 20 years of marriage that I through down the drain.

Ashamed of not being able to tuck my children into bed every night because I now only see them on the weekends. Ashamed that I am living with my mother at 42 years old and that when she asks me why you and I are no longer together I have to say because of me! This makes me sick to my stomach but I won’t ask for forgiveness. Just that one day, I get the chance to tell you that none of this was your fault because I know you have a habit of blaming yourself. I want to tell you that she was not worth everything that I lost and that she could never compare to you. She could never fulfill this void that I have. Just don't ask me why I cheated because I could never tell you why. She didn’t make me smile as you did, she never lit up the room as you did, she never made love to me as you did. She could never do what you could. She could never be the sun, only a star who in due time was bound to burn out… just like our love.

I am Pluto I am the Sun I am the stars Together we are an orbit out of balance, an orbit of thoughts you were never supposed to hear I have never really loved myself. Never truly admired the skin I was in. Whether it be the placement of my curves, the way my curls fall. I wish you would have told me to love myself a little more. But I know that you can only show what you know… and love is not one of those things. I get that you come from a broken home, that you are just the score from the test your own mother was hoping to fail. But why can’t you be better than her?

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Prosperity by Demetriyana Hughes '23 Blemish by Camden Kitchens '23 Study of the Internal by Sofia Dewey '23 Pants by Max Husni '22

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Midnight Runs TO SWAMPLAND

USED ME TILL IT KILLED ME.

SOPHIA DEWEY '23

last night i dreamt that i packed my grandmother and dog into my car and ran away from home after midnight. it is pitch black and i don’t have my headlights on, everyone is quiet but the car is buzzing like summer air in the middle of winter.

ALLY HUDSON '26

i am driving with wild purpose; we are going somewhere, i know it because i can feel it in my fingertips. when i round the corner of a trail in the forest the northern lights are shining and flickering like fireworks over a mountain that does not exist. i start to shout, i am crying because it is so beautiful and my eyes are burning out of my head: look! grandma, look! have you ever seen this? one mississippi, two, and she is screaming something at me, in the dark and past the moon that is hanging in the sky like the icing of a cake already drenched in sugar. she is screaming and pointing at my windshield: my dog groans as she skids into the window. my fingertips were tingling with so much hunger and my head so full of sparkling lights that i drove into a swamp at 60 miles an hour: a few feet to the right of the bridge i was supposed to take. i am sobbing now, wailing for forgiveness in my mother-tongue and sitting limp against my seat, my hunk of dark metal sinking into the black muddy water. «ПРОСТИ МЕНЯ ПОЖАЛУЙСТА, БАБУШКА ПРОСТИ МЕНЯ» my grandmother resents me under her breath and reaches behind my back to force open the drivers side door. my car is sinking and i have not even made it four miles from the home i am running away from. i crawl out of my hyundai and my feet touch wet sand; i wipe snot off my face with the sleeve of a shirt i hate. i am dragging my car sideways onto the bridge, breathing in the silence of my grandmother smoking and the surprise of warm water. the moon is gone. i am staring at a few stars and an led billboard where aurora borealis used to be: the holes burned into my eye sockets are cold and full of ash. my fingers aren’t buzzing.

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MORNING

ANJALI DHANEKULA '22 You are the soft amber of a Sun-soaked morning.

You wake, a glistening horizon, A drop of sweat falling down your forehead The warmest cup of coffee.

I would burn myself everyday.

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It is now morning.

I wait.

I listen for the sounds.

I hear them.

You never did like the crickets.

You didn’t like my cold feet And my grip And my tangle of limbs and The damp tendrils of hair That stick closely to the sides of my face.

As I shift in the bed, I reach over to the warm side, But You Are not there.

34 Sea-nic by Rhea Mahajan '22 35 Industrial Corners by Carys Bowen '22

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36 Hands by Zoe Bennett '23 37 Rocks by Lóa Schriefer '22 38 Man in the MIrror by Alex Wolf '22

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ANJALI DHANEKULA ‘22 When I was in 6th grade, Samantha Broke her arm. I watched as Tiny fingers Slipped off the metal bar.

Pinky, ring, middle, pointer, thumb.

One by one. There was the Crack, so loud I could hear it through the audience Scattered on the playground. Then there was the Scream.

She emerged from the battle, a war hero.

Her trophy, a proper pink cast, Begged to be signed by everyone, a Beacon as we gathered in the cafeteria.

That day, shards of pink plaster Lodged themselves into the backwoods of my Memory.

I am fluent in reaction, A firefighter cast in the glow of a computer screen.

I am not broken like she was.

I sleep in class, eyes wide open, Dark purple bruises where the questions hit me.

I was never good at dodgeball.

I do not know the answers.

I am simply cold hands and headaches.

I lose sleep not in dreams but in nervous wonders of what could be.

I am a pleasure to teach, But I hide scars of red pen that I trace to where it went wrong.

The succulent living on my windowsill is dying.

I can’t see my bedroom floor.

I hold my own hand.

I am not broken.

I am not even sprained.

There is no sling, and there is no brace.

There is only forward.

Yet I crave the diagnosis: Something to tell me it’s real, Someone to tell me it’s really there, A pair of eyes that will do nothing more Than see.

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39 Friday Night Shabbat by Maggie Abrams '22 40 The Feast by Evey Wellman '23 41 Skin by Natalie Crowley '23 42 Pensive by Saija Shah '23

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A Mother’s Fawn NOEL ULLOM '23 IV.

I. I must admit I only picked up my pen When I realized you might be dead.

The silence of your ghost hung Vaguely with the moonlights’ drip, But even the stars began to mourn When they found sanctuary in a human’s eyes.

I watched nothing.

Where I often found your delicate tracks And bites taken from fallen fruit, There was the spot Where the tree branches pointed To a ground devoid of life, Where the grass rustled to meet the feet Of a creature who had run to grassless land.

I must admit it’s been months now Since I’ve found the shape of your shadow, One confirmed by the moon’s witness Or one crafted by my own.

Your mother has since stood beneath the mourning trees And gazed up for one more story, But the day their fruit stopped falling She too forgot to return.

I must admit I’ve learned to rest, knowing

That you may still nurse from the night; knowing That you may still nudge the moon; knowing That you may still step across the stars.

I hope you have found your fallen fruit In those constellations that watched you, Or instead, In the silent prayer my lips once formed When I realized that only the living eat fruit.

II. Did your mother tire of me?

Did she tire of a field growing Under the eyes of a girl who waits?

I waited for the sound of leaves Crunched under your careful hooves, I waited for the sight of a shadow Shaped by your careful steps, I waited for what it meant When a mother and calf searched, Searched for a haven they could trust to find Every time despite time itself.

III. You were the one who taught me That a step is not defined by sound, You were the one who taught me That a shadow is not defined by shape, You were the one who taught me That my world is not defined by truth.

The ground I once said was devoid of life Still finds something there Your neck and ears bending upwards Not to my Heaven, but to yours: Your mother, who walked paths Of grass and leaves and cement, Your mother, who nudged you With a soft and twitching nose.

Whether my remembrance of this Is life or hopelessness, I refuse to answer; May this sad sacrifice give a bit of freedom Reluctantly back to you.

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The Mind’s Impact on the Adoption of Cyclical Behaviors SAHAR MALEKI '23 Throughout the story of The Great Gatsby, Jay Gatsby is known as the elusive, wealthy character who lives a dream life, or at least that is what outsiders perceive his life to be. This, however, is far from the truth because in reality, Gatsby's life consists of a never ending cycle of hosting parties that he gets no pleasure from, but continues to host, expecting a different outcome each time.

Gatsby keeps up this process of organizing and hosting extravagant events and meaningless parties, hoping that his love interest, Daisy Buchanan, would eventually attend one of them.

His efforts, however, prove futile time and again, and the outcome always disappoints him.

Although the main theme of the book is to draw parallels between Gatsby’s wealth and the American Dream of wealth and success, the story goes further and outlines how Gatsby, striving to be with Daisy, based his whole life on a dream that never materialized but instead resulted in his untimely death. This might be a familiar experience to most of us, as repeating mistakes in the hopes of a different, more positive outcome, is part of human nature.

In our modern society, we are exposed to a variety of different views depending on our environment, media, and the people that we surround ourselves with. All these exposures help shape our ideals and beliefs, and force each of us to build an image of what our lives or even our bodies should look like, and how we should behave. For instance, pick any coming-of-age movie, book or programming or talk to any teenager and they would tell you that your teenage years are supposed to be filled with a group of friends who accompany you to different parties every week, and are with you on this adventurous journey called highschool, while you experience the “best four years of your life” and figure out who you are and what you are passionate about, before going to college. While this may be true for some teenagers, for others, these “quintessential” high school experiences are both overrated and hyper romanticized, and the pressure to participate deprives them of the opportunity to explore their own interests, burdening them with the repeated suggestions that they will regret missing out on these moments. As a result, the majority of high schoolers follow the same path even when they don’t get any pleasure from such experiences, or worse, when it becomes harmful to their mental or physical health.

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As the fall season begins and Friday football games, dances, and organized group photos consume the minds of teens around our nation every year, one tradition, homecoming, becomes the epitome of the “American highschool experience.” Starting highschool, I was aware of these events but never inherently interested, preferring to spend time participating in basketball games or competing in speech and debate competitions, as well as finishing my school work on Saturdays in order to have a relaxing Sunday before the start of a new week.

While I was secure in my decision not to attend the freshman year homecoming, I was often faced with discussions about who would be going to what dance and with whom or where everyone was planning to have dinner before or after the event. These plans seemed, quite frankly, exhausting to organize and not worth the hassle, but I found myself sucked into such conversations anyway. It was inevitable, homecoming seemed to be all anyone talked about around that time of the year. Even though I was certain of my choice to skip the dance, my friends were adamant, “You need to go, it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity! You’ll never get back your freshman year homecoming dance experience and you’ll regret missing out!.” My mind however, was made up and I am pleased to say that I have not regretted my decision yet, as I spent the evening comfortably lying on my bed, enjoying a new book, and feeling the serenity that can only be gained from a quiet, relaxing night at home with no more work to complete.

Studies have shown that humans often repeat their past behaviors and experiences, hoping for better results. They do this either out of curiosity to test and see if repeating the same behavior might change the outcome, or out of familiarity because we are creatures of habit, and we tend to repeat what we have been exposed to over our lifetimes. The cycle of repetitive behavior is something that has been closely studied by psychologists and sometimes even referred to as Einstein’s insanity, as he was quoted saying “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results” (Wilczek 15).

The futile cycle of repeating the same behaviors while hoping for different results, might explain why people repeatedly get into toxic relationships, or why they make the same career or personal mistakes over and over again despite being unhappy with the results.

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Even though this might seem like an easily fixable problem, psychologists tell us that our brains are wired to suppress unpleasant memories to preserve our emotional and mental stasis.

These “hidden memories” are often inaccessible in our normal state of consciousness, and remembering those moments requires being placed into the same situation and experiencing the same emotional state as before, or more simply, repeating the ordeal yet another time (Northwestern 15) . Without active access to those negative memories, humans are often unable to analyze and comprehend the reasons as to why they should not repeat old behavior, or to recognize that the repetition of such behavior can lead to an identical negative emotional response. Thus, they repeat the same old, familiar behavior, and end up in the same situation that they were previously in, unable to change or advance.

In the story of The Great Gatsby, despite Jay Gatsby’s wealth and social status, he prefered solitude, and though he constantly hosted fanciful parties, he rarely attended them and never enjoyed himself. In fact, Gatsby would often disappear into thin air when speaking with others or surrounded by acquaintances, demonstrating his desire to escape social situations,“‘I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.’ I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there” (58), and, “When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness” (19). As is evident by these examples, Gatsby was an introvert who took no pleasure in prolonged conversations or social interactions with strangers but still, he continued to host events and parties for the sole reason of keeping up appearances and in his pursuit of his unattainable love for Daisy.

While Gatsby’s guests had the time of their lives at his parties, he himself chose to be alone rather than spend time with those he had invited. In fact, his main wish while throwing all the parties was to get a chance to spend time with Daisy. An effort that proved unsuccessful, time after time.

Even though Gatsby’s actions may seem romantic on the surface, in reality Gatsby was spending his time, money, and energy on a seemingly hopeless endeavor that had brought nothing but agony for him in the past, “He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their wedding trip, and made a miserable but

irresistible journey to Louisville on the last of his army pay” (117). Since getting seperated from Daisy, Gatsby had created a version of their relationship in his mind that was far from reality.

In this romanticized version of his love, Gatsby, disregarding the changes that people go through over the years, viewing Daisy with an idealized perfection that she never possessed. This unrealistic dream and all-consuming passion, fueled his actions and in the end, his failure to recognize the flaws of his dream, led to both his misery and his death as he passed away without knowing whether or not Daisy would ever accept his affection and love.

Even though Gatsby’s parties in the summer of 1922 and the homecomings of 2019 may not have much in common, the experiences and outcomes are more alike than different. For an event so highly anticipated, my friends’ experiences with the freshman year homecoming fell flat in comparison to what they had anticipated it would be like. The Monday after the party, I walked into school to a sea of faces sporting dark circles and tired looks, making it clear that they had stayed up late and didn’t want to be in class after the weekend’s events. My initial thought had been that everyone would enjoy their time with each other, and the drama (there were copious amounts of it), stress, and organization had all been worth it. The reality, however, was that many of my friends didn’t even like their experiences saying that, “it was more hassle than it was worth”. Those clearly “glowing” reviews of homecoming further cemented my decision to not attend events that I don’t anticipate enjoying, and I now look back fondly on the calm, relaxing evening I experienced, comfortably reading a great book and spending my time the way it would be pleasurable to me.

to go against the majority or what has kept me from following others?

While hidden memories contribute to the occurence of behavioral cycles, another facet of the science behind repetitive behaviors stems from the fact that evolution may have implanted a seed of optimism in the human mind throughout the years, slowly developing into a species-wide inclination to “look on the bright side,” otherwise known as the optimism bias, or “the belief that the future will be much better than the past and present” (Sharot 11). Even though this contributes to our happiness as a species, it can also be detrimental when we allow ourselves to enter into cycles of abuse, emotional trauma, and pain. As humans, we do this because our brains are wired to think that situations improve and will get better eventually, or that we have the ability to change someone else’s actions and ideologies, which often leads to enduring suffering at the hands of others, or even ourselves.

Both hidden memories and our own optimism bias allow for humans to continue to overlook the negative and walk into an experience they’ve already had, hoping for a different outcome because they simply don’t recall what has occurred before. In other words, our minds become our greatest threats when it comes to repeating behaviors that deprive us of the health, happiness, and safety we all deserve.

Additionally, societal pressures as well as our own self-imposed idealization of an experience, can all contribute to the creation and persistence of such detrimental cycles in our lives. The only good news is that these cycles can be broken. As

it turns out, exposure to different ways of thinking have the potential to enable the brain to think uniquely, preventing us from falling into the trap of repeating toxic behavior. This might help explain why as the daughter of two parents from two different cultures, I have been able to carve my own path in life rather than feeling pressured to follow the ones others lay before me, and have had the freedom to define what is joyous to me as an individual. If Gatsby had had the same opportunity, he would have been able to see the true reality of his love for Daisy, rather than believe the romanticized version that resulted in constant misery and his untimely death. In fact, under different circumstances, he might have been able to use his life and wealth in a more meaningful way to leave a lasting impact.

Works Cited: Fitzgerald,F Scott. The Great Gatsby - Winston-Salem/ Forsyth County Schools. https://www.wsfcs.k12.nc.us/cms/lib/NC01001395/ Centricity/Domain/7935/Gatsby_PDF _FullText.pdf.

Wilczek, Frank. “Einstein's Parable of Quantum Insanity.”

Scientific American, Scientific American, 23 Sept. 2015, https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/ einstein-s-parable-of-quantum-insanity/. Northwestern Medicine. “How the Brain Hides Traumatic Memories.”

Northwestern Medicine, 17 Aug. 2015, https://www. nm.org/healthbeat/medical-advances/ how-the-brain-hides-traumatic-memori es.

Sharot, Tali. “The Optimism Bias.” Time, Time Inc., 28 May 2011, http://content.time.com/time/health/ article/0,8599,2074067,00.html.

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Since then, I have stayed committed to my decision not to attend events or gatherings that don't add to my life’s pleasures, regardless of how much my friends try to entice me into joining them. Of course, the pandemic has only added another reason to the long list of reasons as to why homecomings are not particularly enjoyable for me. Don't get me wrong, I am not antisocial, and I have participated in my share of stereotypical teenage experiences and at times, have even enjoyed them. However, as I grow older, it seems mind boggling to me that my friends participate in activities that they don't enjoy much and do so just because of an image that they have formed in their minds as to how they are expected to behave or feel as teenagers. It is intriguing that they repeatedly do things that they complained about the prior year and expect a different outcome, hoping that maybe this time they will enjoy an evening like those depicted in the coming-of-age movies they pressure themselves into emulating.

The question then remains: how have I been able

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Letter from my eyes to my heart Please slow down,

The world is not ending, your person isn’t dying.

You are here, so be present for her.

What must it be like to be anchored within the warmth of the body? I wouldn’t know.

You rattle and cry at any slight disturbance, and sometimes you even tense at the thought of something.

But at least you have not yet failed her.

All of us will eventually let her down,

and return to earth we crawled up from.

What I’m saying is - it’s up to you; to be the last to break.

So please, help me give her a long, colorful time on this planet.

- the twins

Letter from the heart to the eyes I envy the way you get to rest for 7 hours everyday.

But you are one of my closest companions, I will not deny it.

When I beat - you widen or contract, and all of a sudden the world can see inside her.

Our person. She wants so much from this life,

I can feel it. But you can see it.

Maybe not perfectly, but you have done your best.

Please be gentle with yourself - I love her glasses anyhow!

You have always been so curious and delicate, things I suppose we have in common.

Please never lose your timeless charm.

- the heart

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The World Moves On Without the Children COLLEEN NAKHOODA '24 Walking through the school halls, we remain unaware of the world of possibility, we cavort around like toddlers at a playground, Unaffected by the world around us. we remain optimistic, for the opportunities are endless, and the dreams string on for miles, and the innocent fun we know will last forever, because that stuff does not happen here.

Walking the halls in fear. we remain sensible to the possibility, we hide beside the walls of a place that once remained safe, and bow our heads to the solitude of weariness, and a night with no sleep. we preoccupy are minds with the unknowns that remain endless, and the nightmares find us as exhaustion consumes, and our ears find the clicking noise of the fan and hold onto its consistency for it happened here once, and now it can happen again. together we ask you this. when asked about rights, you choose to spend your time telling women what to and not do,

and you choose to keep them silent. together we ask you this, when all should be given the right to walk the streets, without fear and prejudice, given the right to learn about the theories, that bring all shades to attention, and keep the next generation educated, you shut them down without a question. together we ask you this, Why bother to make any choices at all when you leave the children to suffer anyways? yet you hand them the danger willingly. you hand them the right to kill. you hand them the ability to harm, and to maim mass groups of your children in seconds. you provide the hate, the scandal, the controversy. you strip us from our sanity, you take the feeling of safety from our backs, and poison our mind with the neverending fears of not walking back out of those halls.

You are killing us, You are scaring us.

How many more will it take to realize enough is enough?

perhaps a couple hundred marches more, but the candles are starting to lose their flame, flowers begin to wilt, and the cars carrying families to the ceremonies cannot bear the weight.

Together we need to stand to the opposition of safety, Together we need to hold each other’s hands, Together we need to walk through open doors, hallways, classrooms, and cafeterias, and when we do, together we want to remain unaware, Together we urn to feel unafraid, for the possibilities need to be endless, And the lives of us, the children, shall grow old to our desires.

And when the next hashtag comes to life, and the new clouds with the faces of the fallen rise inclined, Together we ask you to remember, That the world cannot go on, With the children being left behind.

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44 Green Girl by Perin Romano '22 45 Faces by Lizzie Kasubick '23 46 Fear by Audrianna Imka '22 W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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The Dangers of Selective Portrayal of Reality through Chartkov’s Art in “The Portrait” MEREDITH STEWART '23 Nikolai Gogol’s short story, “The Portrait,” is often viewed by readers as a cautionary tale about the dangerous, almost supernatural powers of great wealth. However, Gogol also tries to convey the message that only portraying what one wants to see through art is dangerous and misleading.

The main character, an artist named Chartkov, struggles to profit from his work until he finds a bag of money within the frame of a mysterious painting. Chartkov abandons his usual depictions of ordinary subjects such as his servant Nikita or his messy room and transitions to a much more lucrative style. He chooses to paint only elite members of his society and, instead of portraying them accurately, Chartkov listens to his subjects' demands for their flaws to be excluded and their positions to be highly staged. In the end, he realizes he wasted his talent on creating deceiving images of people who don’t even exist because of all the modifications he made to his portraits by request of their subjects. Chartkov’s former paintings of peasant life and average homes were true to nature and a more accurate depiction of most society. Unfortunately, Chartkov fell into the trap of only representing what is deemed “worthy” by the highest members of society. Gogol shows this in a variety of events throughout the story including the landlord’s refusal to buy Chartkov’s ordinary art and a certain client of Chartkov’s insisting that he exclude her daughter’s flaws in painting her. Art should be an accurate representation of subjects varying in class and appearance, however, societies like Chartkov’s only choose to portray the most ideal and pleasant scenes which can lead to the censoring of real issues within society and a false perception of what beauty can look like. “The Portrait” conveys the message that nature should be depicted exactly as it exists through art to avoid creating false realities in the minds of its viewers.

When the landlord refuses to buy Chartkov’s paintings of his messy room or his servant, Nikita, Gogol is sending the message that society only wants to portray its wealthiest and cleanest members. Unlike the artwork one imagines being displayed in Buckingham Palace, Chartkov’s work depicts ordinary scenes of poverty in his daily life such as his small flat or his poor servant. Chartkov often references “the fashionable painter.” The fashionable painter is the painter who depicts grand scenes such as ballrooms or beautiful, rich ladies rather than “the antique, or, from life class, or my unfinished Love of Psyche, or a perspective of my room, or the portrait of my Nikita” (Gogol 347). Oftentimes, the fashionable painter brightens his colors or adds pleasing details, so his art is more pleasant to look at even though those colors or details don’t actually appear in the subject or scene. Early Chartkov depicts reality. He doesn’t choose what to and what not to include because he simply paints what is present in his subject. He knows that his works are technically better than many great painters, but no one wants to look at a portrait of a servant such as Nikita because he represents the vast disparities and poverty present in their own societies. Poverty is deemed as ugly and unpleasant, so people choose to ignore the issues it presents even though a significant percent of any society’s population is poor. Many people lead lives similar to Chartkov’s and Nikita’s money wise, but they aren’t depicted in great works of art because they are deemed unworthy. Most people would much rather gaze upon a portrait of a lady in an elegant dress or a castle than a portrait of a servant or a small, untidy room. The “fashionable painter” creates beautiful works of art, but they can deceive people into believing their subjects

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represent the whole of society causing the struggles of living in poverty and in a lower social class to go unnoticed.

One person that Gogol uses to demonstrate society turning a blind eye towards the poverty and struggle present in it is the landlord. When Chartkov gets in trouble for not paying his rent, his landlord and a policeman come into his home. The policeman suggests paying the rent with some of Chartkov’s works, but the landlord refuses to take them saying “It would be fine if they were pictures with some noble content, something that could be hung on the wall, maybe a general with a star, or a portrait of Prince Kutuzov, but no, he painted a peasant, a peasant in a shirt, the servant who grinds paints for him” (Gogol 353-4). The landlord believes that in order to be the subject of a work of art the person or scene must be “noble” even though most people aren’t. He thinks works of art can only be “hung on a wall” if they depict the rich, powerful, and elite members of society. Most of the art the landlord probably sees in places like museums portrays empowering and regal content which is comforting and familiar. The landlord doesn’t like Chartkov’s work because it is uncomfortable. The art he usually observes represents the small portion of people who live without everyday struggles regarding social status and wealth. However, Chartkov’s work deals with the real world and recognizes the struggles of ordinary life, not just a select few who society deems as “successful” and “noble.” Most people only want to see the best in their societies, so people like the landlord reject Chartkov’s paintings because they don’t depict the glamorized version of life most people want to live.

The landlord doesn’t want to address the issue that most members of his society are not powerful generals or wealthy princes and that serious struggles do exist all around him.

Chartkov’s later works don’t portray the simple scenes of poverty or struggle, but rather the ideal beauty standard. In representing only what is ideal, Chartkov strays from the actual nature of his subjects by only painting what his subjects want to see. An example of this is when he paints the portrait of his first client, a young girl, by request of her mother. As Chartkov paints, “He picked up every nuance, a slight yellowness, a barely noticeable blue under her eyes, and was even about to catch a small pimple that had broken out on her forehead, when suddenly he heard the mother’s voice at his ear. ‘Ah, why that? There’s no need for it’” (Gogol 362). The mother doesn’t want her daughter’s flaws to be represented because they aren’t pleasing to look at. She feels pressure from society that her daughter must embody everything that has come to be known as beautiful. This is dangerous because it doesn’t represent what most people look like. Youth can get a false impression of what they should look like through art like Chartkov’s which leads to the development of the “beauty standard.” This standard is dangerous because imperfections and different types of people can be beautiful, and those people should be represented.

When the girl’s portrait is almost finished, her mother gets confused and thinks an old portrait of the goddess Psyche is the depiction of her daughter. Chartkov, not wanting to offend the mother by saying that her daughter doesn’t look like a goddess, chooses to just touch up the image to at least show some resemblance between Psyche and the twelve-year-old girl. As he paints, “the features of the young girl did finally begin to show

more clearly through the image of Psyche” (Gogol 364). It is highly unlikely that a twelve-year-old girl looks as sophisticated and developed as a goddess, however, her mother wants to see her in this light which is why she is tricked that the portrait of Psyche is actually her daughter. Psyche is the beauty standard she wants her daughter to live up to to be popular in society. Embodying a goddess is literally impossible which is why I think Gogol chose Psyche to represent the beauty standard. The mother should be content with the reality of her daughter’s looks, but she is so used to seeing the most beautiful and ideal women portrayed in high art that she deems her daughter’s flaws as unacceptable and feels the need to hide them through showing her daughter as a goddess.

In the end, Chartkov realizes the superficiality in his art and suffers knowing he failed in staying true to the nature of his subjects creating false realities. I believe he ultimately died of guilt. He regrets wasting his talent becoming “the fashionable painter” because he realizes he never dared depict anything unusual or uncomfortable even if that meant sacrificing the accuracy of the image. He wishes he had shown his society the realities of poverty and the simplicity of his servant Nikita while he had the chance.

He was swayed by society into painting only what they wanted to see for a profit after his encounter with the landlord who wouldn’t buy his honest art. These paintings failed to demonstrate the larger issues within

Charkov’s society like his former ones did. Instead, they depict society as elite members only turning a blind eye on greater issues. The elite represent a relatively small number of people in most societies, so only letting them be represented in areas such as art is unfair. If societies choose to neglect issues such as poverty in their cultures then the problems will never be addressed and could possibly worsen. In painting a young girl, Chartkov captures the ideal beauty standard paying the price of disregarding nature and reality. He excludes certain tones and small blemishes for the mother to see her daughter in the light she wishes to see her in. Creating an ideal beauty standard though art leads to a false perception of what beautiful can be. This can result in ordinary people feeling the need to change themselves because their features may not be portrayed in high art portraits. Chartkov is just one example of a “fashionable painter.” Throughout the entire history of art, kings, castles, and beautiful women have dominated paintings. Art like this is a major contributor to the issues around poverty and beauty standards we have in our own societies.

Works Cited Gogol, Nikolai. The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol. Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, Vintage Classics, 1999.

47 Overlooked by Alexis Everett '24

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Groin TO

Grave

SOFIA DEWEY '23 i am full of it.

i have never denied this– maybe only to the men who have spit the words out just short of a reaction to acid reflux;

to the tall people that stand grand and dark in doorways like the room is their’s for the taking.

i am full of rain and 80 grit sandpaper,

the incomprehensible need to become smaller, to grind my way through walls and slide past the outstretched arms

48

of people trying to kiss me.

i think one day i might grate off the lock around my neck and slip inside the nearest mirror.

48 49 50 51

perhaps losing my reflection as well as

Flip Side by Natalie Crowley '23 Release by Lily Botros '22 Lost in Thought by Saija Shah '23 Strength by Isla Rollinson '24

my shadow would be good for me–

i think i am too heavy and awkward in this place to be taken seriously.

full of sailing rope and empty snake skin coiled around my knees,

i am swimming to the surface

of a silver lake and the bottom of a darkening January sky. i hate the cold.

and we are told confidence is key: that is, unless you are

woman, born out of pain and pushed into it head first– bleeding like there is no tomorrow but,

there you go, waking up again. and i am full of it again.

strange i have not sunk through yet. maybe that is all i need to do: exist as less than i can,

wither down like spring floods and artificial dirt,

become bones without man.

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full of it,

from groin to grave.

Tear Me Open

and Anger Falls CARYS BOWEN '22

Out

Why must you make me talk about the past?

I am angry at you for belaboring this topic.

I feel beset upon every time you tell me “reflect on such a worldwide calamity and start to understand—” I’ve reflected enough.

I want to look towards the future.

Stretching my limbs, getting ready to climb the ladder, poising myself to not just jump but fly— the future is all I have.

Don’t make me forget my wings.

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Kathleen by Audrianna Imka '22 Who Made Your Clothes by Mia Howe '24 City Girl by Tori Marguiles '24 Awkward Moment by Allison Fritz '22

The Child REMADE GAURI GANDHI '24

somewhere, a child is born. he’s fierce and wise and holds a love that can never be smothered burning bright into the souls of those he meets. but he cannot remain a child forever and he unwittingly follows a trail into the darkness. he’s bouncing around ten, memories wiped of joyful times echoing like dreams in his subconscious. the signs mark pain but a naive child only sees burnt colors and explosive symbols even as he steps onto a hidden wire and his foundation blows out from under him. he’s teetering over eleven. empty space rises unforgiving metal meeting his face and stone scraping painfully

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as he missteps over fear and he can do nothing but fall and hope the jagged rocks fail to break him. he’s reached twelve. ancient words grasp his heart and he chokes on his own breath as the ground melts he cracks under the pressure and the earth crumbles down with him he’s finally thirteen. the clock rewinds ticking ever closer to darkening days and a flurry of emotions that turns into a stinging, sharp pain harsh, cold, dusted lies pile around him. he’s barely fourteen. the fall approaches as he stands in front of them hands shaking, eyes alight with unshed tears an anger wet and fierce brewing under his skin.

a love letter gh the assed throu has never p slot cut into my brassy mai l t door. fron velope a manila en aper w ith p ed n li encasing of devotion s n io at your affi rm er rested has nev s, in my hand s have ip rt ge but your fin k nuck les, y m ed graz ind me as if to rem uch is to y that ever le ab ll sy a olen glance and ever y st ssion fe n co is a n personal ow r u in yo tter. le ve lo

he’s nearly fifteen. laughter swells rising from downstairs in a tumultuous crest spilling into an ocean of night ignoring his pleas for comfort and he futilely resists the claws of the deep crushing him only to let it rush in and drown his sorrows. somewhere, a child mourns. he’s breaking at the seams and crying night after night until his eyes run dry and his parents mock him for being scared and for fading away into shadows. he could not remain a child forever. he tried to break away from the trail but he is deep into the darkness and now a child is lost.

love letter

PER IN ROMAN

O ’22

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Too

Closely CARYS BOWEN '22

I used to hate my hands.

My long long fingers that ended in stubs.

I wanted them to taper, like a lady’s.

Practical short nails only served to emphasize their lopsided square shape.

The shape modeled from my father’s fingers; it fit him in a way it never did me.

Same with my blotchy skin; his was even, worn and calloused.

We shared square palms too.

We had Artists’ hands.

I only ever liked mine when they were smudged with clay.

I think I have learned not to look at them too closely anymore.

56 i am a very good swimmer, and i think i am drowning. my nose is above the surface and i am begging stop/its not worth it/we are going down.

Fax to a Coastguard;

Conversations with My Mother

SOPHIA DEWEY '23

we may well be, but my body is stubborn and starving, thrashing and losing, and in the end only one of us will resurface. then again, how will the coast guard tell the difference between that and a floating body? remind me, i say to the woman afraid of drowning, of black water, of not coming back up. what my name means. it is tired, and old, and familiar, and still i am sinking out of spite. wisdom. still, i have no footing, no faith,

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and the dirt clay beneath me has fallen away. the birds have stopped singing. maybe it is the salt caked inside my ears, but i think if i opened my eyesblack and angry to the suni would still be surprised that they have left. i am drowning. i know it. the lonely planet has taken me, in quiet violence, with fingers bloodied from years of scraping the bottoms of barrels. have me, i choke it out like a final plearidden with worry over the chance that perhaps the earth has changed its mind and will spit me back up onto the cold sand that i crawled out from. have me now, or never again.

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56 My Friend Lucia by Brooklyn Napolitano '22 57 Stare by Lóa Schriefer '22 58 Bamboo by Allison Fritz '22 59 Self Portrait by Zoe Bennett '23

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SHE

TESS HAYS '22

she is only seventeen, just a girl but somehow has been thrust into womanhood an eldest daughter no more she sits across from her mother at the dinner table the absent father, no longer absent she bandages scraped knees and goes to soccer games and she never thinks of herself, only those around her because if she doesn’t, who will? not him, she thinks, not now so she takes her sorrow and makes it small she shoves it into a dusty corner in the back of her mind and she collects herself off of the floor piece by shattered piece she must be woman now a birthright come too soon because there is work to be done and no one else to do it

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Butterflight by Fiona Liu '24 Heart of Gold by Grace Mansour '22 Lights by Allison Fritz '22 Christmas Melody by Fiona Liu '24 Unwinding by Lóa Schriefer '22

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White

Emptiness

CHRISTINA BENCIN '23

I envy poets.

I envy the way That they can express Their sorrows and joys As separate But equal.

I envy that they mustn't Be flowery or concise When swirling two opposites Into an intertwined truth Of pure white light To move and resonate.

I envy the way that I cannot Be like them.

The romantic inside cannot Communicate after the years and years of only logic and only suppressed feelings My consciousness and freedom Are weighed down by white emptiness.

65 65 Hollow by Lóa Schriefer '22 66 Blue by Suzy Schwabl '22

66

I read poetry often now To find a deeper introspection My scarred soul couldn’t have concluded And to indulge in the language of the Hurt and loved.

I read poems that so vividly paint pictures And masterfully combine elements of Persimmons with pipettes And motherboards with Shostakovich And wonder why I too cannot fall into a place Of meta connection, of flowery fullness.

My English teacher can see through me like tissue paper.

She knows I don’t speak the truth in my style.

She knows I spend hours deleting and deleting and fluffing up Crude sentences into artificial poppies.

She urges me stop and for once, just once, use my true voice But when I try - I cannot find it in the depths of nothingness.

All I find is my white hot envy for poets How they can heal and find themselves By connecting the pieces of their life puzzles With a Bic pen and a Dollar Store moleskine.

I struggle to connect the bounds Of myself into an entity.

Hockey does not flow into biracial As violin does not flow into math I don’t fit with her And she doesn’t fit with me.

Together we are white emptiness.

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Annie by Lucia Passarelli '22

YELLOW

01

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AT

Sunrise EVELYN BURDSALL '22 I call out the names One by One Longing them to be real But they never are Eveline Life

death Josephine grow

before she even had the chance Jacqueline may God protect he did not But then there was Rose Little rose with her beautiful blue dress I kiss her face Pretend she is my own I want to dress her in my baby’s dresses The ones I never got to share Fails I failed The baby My baby My Rose ROSE ROSE With her purple lips Cracked skin Flies swarming to her body The smell so horrid I could not kiss her goodbye Rose She was supposed to be like her name Grow Grow Grow Live a long life She was supposed to be spring But like my godmother Lili She fell There was no picking her up Lili was gone Rose was gone The eternal spring frozen by winter Dark in a night so black not even stars peak through All that was left were two black butterflies on their graves.

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02 03

02 Angel by Morgan Kennedy '22 03 Escape to The Sunrise Over The Sea by Colleen Nakhooda '24

FALL

RISE and

The sun rises on one side when the other sets.

Someone gets out of bed when the other gets in.

The goods and bads of life, The ups and downs of the roller coaster, Show up on both sides of a person.

Insecurities and flaws Are real, painful, and overwhelming at times.

We all have them.

We are all not perfect.

I’m sorry to tell you But life lies to us.

Through the moments of truth, Through the moments of friendship, And through the moments of success.

Not everything appears one way

SUMMER MU '24

Or the other way around.

But trust will always be there.

Your trust.

Even if it means We must lie to get ourselves to trust our dreams and our life, Just do it.

Because we are not perfect, But we are all beautiful, And every little insecurity or flaw, Shows you.

So when the sun rises Or sets On your side of the world, Let it open up and close out The beautiful you.

W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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Ciuni's Secret Chess Life SUFLEI '24

DISCLAIMER: CIUNI IS GREAT, HE'S AMAZING. THIS ARTICLE IS JUST FOR LAUGHS AND IT'S COMPLETELY FICTIONAL.

Context: written in the perspective of Ciuni we get a glimpse into his chess life as he plays chess against suflei the chess master. (the ‘he’ in this piece is suflei aka I the writer of this article) Thunder cracks, lighting cackles in the distance, the room is suddenly dark. Rain starts pouring on the roof of the atrium.

Everything around me doesn't matter anymore. The only thing I can hear is the sound of my opponent’s fingers tapping on the table. The only thing I can see is the chess board illuminated in front of me. The chatter of the atrium during lunch fades into the background. My hands tremble as I reach to make a move, but I suddenly pull my hands back, what if I'm about to make a blunder? What if this isn't the right move?

My opponent smiles sinisterly. He taunts me with a smug and confident smile. He is leagues above me in chess but still I must try to beat him.

I’ve been trying to beat him for the past year, I do finger pull ups to train my muscles to move chess pieces the most efficiently, I carve chess pieces out of soap, I even started watching chess anime in hopes that it would improve my skills but nothing works. No matter how hard I try I am always beat by him. No. Today will be different. I see what the right move is. By moving his pawn he left his queen hanging, theres no way he can recover after I take his queen! I reach out and make the move confidently, “what are you going to do about that?” I say. My opponent responds immediately moving so swiftly as if he'd planned what to do hours ago. “Checkmate” he says. I can’t believe it, how is that checkmate? There's no way its checkmate. I look desperately for ways to get out of it but there’s no moves to get my king to safety. My fists clench and unclench as I realize he purposely sacrificed his queen in order to get a checkmate. I’ve been beat again. I sigh loudly, I was so sure this game would be the game that I finally win. Maybe I need to start eating chess piece shaped chicken nuggets I think to myself. I stand up and say I need to go to my next class but it's a lie. I head towards my office with tears rolling down my cheek, I write a letter to my wife telling her of all the struggles I faced today. “I may have lost this battle,” I write. “But I will win this war.”

Hello all! Some of you may know me, some of you may not, but if you've ever heard someone yelling from across the hallway and wondered who can possibly be that loud, well it's probably me, suflei. Me and Ciuni play chess every single Friday during lunch (ok most Fridays, sometimes Ciuni has pop up meetings and can't make it ). I have been playing chess for 5 years…. And well, Ciuni is basically a beginner. He's actually been playing chess for a year but his 8-year-old son can beat him, so take that how you will. Here's some stuff I can brag about cause why not.

• Beat Ciuni without my queen, both knights and a bishop • Beat Ciuni blindfolded • Beat Ciuni without castling • Beat Ciuni at pawn football • Crushed Ciuni’s chess ego down to size Ciuni demands I play him fair and square now and to not do any challenges but we all know he's just trying to save himself from the extra embarrassment >_< Right now me and Ciuni are playing a match online, Here's the link if you'd like to spectate the game: https://lichess.org/orJiowsgFo2e (spoiler alert I’m winning and Ciuni is losing)

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04

04 CMA In Its Element by Saija Shah '23 05 Flower Power by Lucia Passarelli '22 06 Tarot Cards by Lucia Passarelli '22

SPEAKING WITH THE DIGNITY

she deserves KATIE GREPPIN '22

NYX’S CURSE

EMMA WILSON '23 one so touched by words curses or metaphors of some go unheard for you it seems was hidden under smeared glass the overcoming actions that come are one pass and goes, but light shines through at one point a blaze flies and dust swarm from small nooks over growing becoming sharp hooks rip and tears on our skin for one understanding and other in distress it collapses, but regrows from mournful stress nyx ceases and dawn’s rosy tipped fingers a new

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Untitled CARYS BOWEN '22 The darkness of the gym at graduation was the same undying warmth as the sun under the flags that my neighbors fly in allegiance to progress.

The sun on my face; The sun on my back The sun smelting my iron-dark hair into copper tiger stripes.

There is no sun better than this one that drenches the forsythia in a yellow blaze that sees the September locust leaves rain down in a blizzard of gold that lights up the chartreuse teardrops on trees so that they look like velvet.

There is a reason that living room, attic, kitchen all have yellow walls we are as small and daring and plucky as the winter aconite, so faithful that spring will come & so willing to help it get there.

07

08

EXCERPT OF MY FAVORITE TESS HAYS '22

Essay

I have always believed that we cannot feel joy without pain, and I think the universe must agree with me, because for every breakdown and every dark thought, there is a gold-coated memory, shimmering in the back of my mind.

They’re not always important in the way that I feel sorrow is, but they are beautiful in a different way, floating lightly on a shimmering breeze instead of the sinking importance of sorrow. I feel incredibly lucky, in fact, to be able to look back so fondly on a normal night with friends and see it as some glowing reminder of teenagedom and how it feels to truly not care about anything other than that moment.

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07 Cherry by Allison Fritz '22 08 Piece of Pie by Taryn Kucharski '23 09 Produce Aisle by Vivienne Forstner '23

SUP ER M AR KET

Cans of tomato soup sit on the aisles, almost sold out.

I wonder if I should choose one. They are all labeled the same way, neatly.

We make tomato soup at home Sliced cherry tomatoes sizzle in a pot Water boils, we wait for the tomatoes to soften, add a beaten egg.

Every step is completed meticulously.

The result comes out—it needs salt.

It’s still better than the cans.

It’s easy to fix. A pinch of salt changes everything.

Oranges that are not the best but still good.

They look ugly, but peel them and they taste delicious.

Like them, you’re not perfect, but you’re still good enough.

Bananas rot easier.

We buy them before they are ripe, before they are ready.

Green skin that is too tough to peel.

By the time we remember the bunch we bought, The yellow signal has already turned dark brown.

Flies flit around, impossible to swat, like our regrets.

We have a choice of eggs.

White or Brown? Small or Large?

I just want a carton of one dozen, it doesn’t matter as long as the eggs are intact. I pick up a box to check, walking over to my cart.

It’s as if gravity fights against me, and suddenly the eggs are cracked.

It wasn’t until you cracked under the pressure that I realized it was what you needed all along.

Roses and carnations decorate a small insulated refrigerator.

Everyday they look flawless But most people pass by them, in a hurry to get to the cashier.

I want to remember your efforts before you’re forgotten.

Give you flowers whenever you need them, Not just when I feel sorry when you’re leaving.

You probably think that you are ordinary, But I want you to know that you are actually super.

ALLISON FRITZ '22 W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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How Biden’s Supreme Court Pick Could Change Our Country Forever.

SAM BOYCE '25 Justice Stephen Breyer, who had served on the US Supreme Court since 1994, has officially announced his retirement. First nominated by Bill Clinton, Breyer has served the Supreme Court for 28 years. Breyer’s service on the court will be remembered and honored in our country.

But the more exciting aspect of his retirement is Biden’s pick for the next judge.

It has been said that Biden has promised to nominate a black woman to the Supreme Court.

This pick would be monumental to our country, as the first black woman on the US Supreme Court. Democrats across the country are pushing Biden to do so, but he hasn’t officially said anything as of this moment. Democratic Representative Ro Khanna says, “My first thought is just that it moves us one step closer in a long journey towards racial justice, it’s really about what you want America to be over the next 50 years.” This quote demonstrates a small aspect of why Democrats are pushing for the pick to be a black woman. The first black woman to serve on a federal appeals court in the US was

appointed by President Jimmy Carter in 1979.

Since then, only seven black women have served in the same position. Biden’s promise, however, can not be taken with a full heart by most.

LaTosha Brown, a co-founder of Black Voters Matter, is especially skeptical of his promise. She says, “Black women have stood on the front lines of democracy, not just for ourselves but for others.” She is referring to the promise Biden made to voters of South Carolina in his early campaign. So sure, this promise of electing a black woman to the Supreme Court is monumental, but only if Biden will live up to it.

The election of a Democratic judge will do little to balance out the conservative:liberal ratio of the judges. During Donald Trump’s presidency, he appointed three judges, making the ratio 6:3.

On the short list of possible picks are Ketanji Brown Jackson, a graduate of Harvard Law School, a clerk of Justice Breyer, and a judge for the US Court of Appeals in Washington DC, and Leondra R. Kruger, who graduated from Yale Law School, clerked for former Justice John

Paul Stevens, and is a justice on the California Supreme Court. J. Michelle Childs, who Biden has recently nominated to a court of appeals, is also seen as a contender. The election of a black woman to the Supreme Court may not do much to the political stance of the court, but would change America for years to come, and as Representative Khanna said, “moves us one step closer in a long journey towards racial justice.”

Bibliography: Brownstein, Ronald. “Analysis: The Surprising Liberal Consensus Emerging about Biden's Supreme Court Decision.” CNN, Cable News Network, 8 Feb. 2022, www.cnn.com/2022/02/08/politics/ supreme-court-nominee-qualities/index.html.

Michael. “Biden Expected to Nominate a Black Woman to the Supreme Court.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 27 Jan. 2022, www.nytimes.com/2022/01/26/us/politics/ supreme-court-nominee-black-woman.html.

Rogers, Katie, and Annie Karni. “Breyer's Retirement Gives Democrats a Dose of (Cautious) Optimism.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 27 Jan. 2022, www.nytimes.com/2022/01/26/ us/politics/democrats-stephen-breyer-retirement.html.

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n eg yx O O

O

O

O

O

O

O

O

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O

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10 Dog on Table by Morgan Butler '23 11 Clouds by Sophy Gao '23

ENVY DRAWS SECLUSION, EMPATHY EMBRACES HUMANITY. KATIE GREPPIN '22

O

KATIE GREPPIN '22 I am typically someone who seeks a thorough answer to uncover hidden explanations, yet when I sing, the honest and emotional response I feel supersedes my typical emphasis on scientific reasoning. I breathe more deeply, increasing oxygen in my bloodstream, and enter a state of tranquility and creativity in which my analytical tendencies drift away.

When I sing in harmony, my heartbeat synchronizes with others as our pulses speed up and down at the same rate. I love the duality of our external unity through sound and internal unity through such a vital organ.

Ms. Webster has always emphasized that music is much more than entertainment; it’s a force of connection. I came to see music through the same lens when HB Singers connected with the Jordan Community Resource Center, which empowers female survivors of human trafficking, opioid addiction, and re-entry, to form a combined choir called the Blue Diamonds. Singing releases oxytocin, a neuropeptide thought to influence trust, but the scientific explanation for why we were able to be vulnerable with each other and bond so deeply felt insignificant compared to the community we created. I was heartbroken to listen to their stories as survivors of human trafficking and grateful to have singing as a means of common ground for connection and support. As someone driven to make the greatest impact, I’m inspired by the compounding potential of music.

Community is my greatest source of joy, and I’ve come to see the powerful way music builds that connection as our voices together create a stronger force. I will continue singing to experience the joy of connecting with people throughout my life.

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12 Just Around the Riverbend

by Rhea Mahajan '22 13 Reflection by Sophy Gao '23

CRUSH CARYS BOWEN '22

I watch the beautiful day happen from my perch on the dresser; at the back of the dresser, no one really knows I’m there.

Every day is different and I try to love it all, the wind and rain and blowing trees, from lonesome dust bunnies to opening and closing shades,

but there is nothing that makes me smile so much as seeing you.

It’s always a surprise, when I see the golden light before me.

Fleeting and special.

Sometimes I wish I would try and talk to you, but I am voiceless and inanimate, and I think your glow would burn me.

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12 LIV BOYER '22

s t n e m o M e l p Sim

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wonder: is it definition alone ma kes me “great pleasure.” But the as to visualiz e? ply c sim cifi spe ned it defi kes is t ma Deligh of the definition what ity plic sim the is ter just got tired.

Or wri intentionally vag ue? cribe it, or maybe the re than two words to des mo no thought. I find r ds ate nee gre e ling olv fee Maybe the , attempting to not inv ion nit defi of ity not. This plic sim moving, but my mind is This tiredness created a ’t involve the mind. I’m don t tha ks nt. tas me in mo ts n igh ow many of my del , and just be me in my m my past and my fut ure allows me to feel free fro lly wa lk around my since 6th grade. I typica ry evening without fail eve lk r it’s a random wa y the htl ano , nig a est for on e I’ve gon nder. One day it is the wa to ide dec I es ds of nights. etim kin I have two favorite neighborhood, but som up and dow n for hours. ay, vew dri r skin for a my you t on jus ss it’s t pne street, the nex have a thin layer of dam to ugh eno t jus , hes mid Hu h leaves on trees and bus The first is a wa rm one. clean. I can hea r the lus ling fee the in you d g roa vin a n lea r, is icy. Wa lking dow breeze to wash ove h the wind. The second ngs. wit ndi g rou vin sur mo s, ght thi bri te ly wri den I rustling as reflecting off the sud ts ligh et stre feet r the m you er fro und out re is a sof t press night, but it’s stil l light w hasn’t come yet and the t on plo a res w, the sno ing h wit join , ded sky The streets are floo fall carelessly from the to ue tin con es get for flak I lk Big snow. in me. When I wa from the imprint in the different form of ecstasy a ate cre se the the y onl like t, nts pas ure, no the ear th’s floor. Mome m of myself; with no fut life. I become a truer for different personas for g atin cre es, about everything in my liti rea te stories for ight in the idea of alterna all my days ma king new present. Sometimes I del moments. I cou ld spend ” ___ s wa I if at . “wh lity myself, hav ing the I get pul led back into rea rises faithfu lly, and thus myself. But alas the sun of yea r to do nter is my favorite time matter the weather. Wi no n y with every dow s bod r dow you win h the oug I drive with this, flushing ice thr ut abo y risk y abl ing thing. rib esc sat ind n is an especially isfy this. There’s something hav ing the windows dow ile wh the st h bla oug on t thr hea hes the pus breath. Turning rm, welcoming air skin the same time as wa re can r atu you per o ont tem lt in me nce air ere icy Having by this is: the diff ed for wa rd. What I mean wind create a new vents, thus you’re thr ust wa rmth and whipping of ng ngi cha The e. tim and ce spa the price I’m wil ling h rth oug propel you thr windows dow n is wo the g vin Ha e. stick tim in nt me and get ting caught in the rea lity, a single, silent, mo your hair flying around le, mp h exa oug For thr nt. ng me biti mo n and to pay for this silent wind rush over your ski g uriating, but feeling the nothing bet ter than drivin re’s the t of chapstick , which is inf tha is at g tin get I’m at wh lly ica Bas your hair is well worth it. yet in a coat. and ever since, it’s been t time in seventh grade, firs the a way I for in y ely bod itiv pet and d com I started running itively pressures my min pet com ng nni Ru mans d.

Hu . m my min pure human nat ure another escape route fro of freedom embedded in t sor a s in g ate nin cre ne run of alo g ion the pushing sensat don’t appreciate; runnin . . This allows me to base ngs free bri be g to nin t, run hun to dom ve, free were built to mo takes away from the ing pet com of my ent on ct gem jud ns the effe what I was built to do. The ed and timed to others rui pressure of being compar sing out. Pure pas of ge ver the on What I mean by this is the ’re that’s almost as if you ling fee the but being alone oy on, enj g hin ally eci pus mind. I esp r body needs to keep You n. rtio exe l You can sica phy of g the body move for ward. thoughtlessness by way t energy towards makin tha er hes pitt pus the r, and hai ay, r aw you takes all thinking d brushing through tly ligh d. The wind you’ve create rt hen shi r pre you y com ’t wa can the , you feel, but h a little splash at the end wit n ent ow em r pav t you in we the lost pening, but you’re patter of your feet on push for ward. It’s all hap you as ch t. ma igh sto del r a you ly t presses agains moment, and that is tru . Nothing exists but this stil l snapshot of a second all a par t of our fut ure doesn’t exist, it’s everything in the past and t tha s why all of these tion thu m, liza rea edo a fre to had I once sent moment is key pre the in lf rse you edom from the g rin Fre inner dia log ue. Cente is defined as freedom. del ights. Delight for me st ate ybe from the gre ma my or t, be to pas up things add ortant ly freedom from the imp st mo and y, bod mind, freedom from the self as a whole.

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The Delight in the Human Eye

14 Something There by Rhea Mahajan '22 15 CMYK by Jayla Pittman '23 16 Basketball Star by Carolyn Jiang '23

MEREDITH STEWART '23 You can tell so much about a person from their eyes. Eyes hold a wealth of emotion that a curl of the mouth, scrunch of the nose, or reddening of the cheeks could never convey. Next time you want to know how someone is feeling about anything their mouth refuses to disclose, look at their eyes.

Wondering what your peers got on a test? Look at their eyes. The girl whose eyebrows raise as her pale blue eyes widen into three dimensional spheres surprised herself with an A or B. The girl whose chocolate brown eyes stare blankly at the paper, like those of a deer in headlights, is unfamiliar with the C or D scarring her assessment. Your friend crinkles her green eyes at their corners as she flips her paper over slowly to peek at the first line segment of the letter on the other side. She is not surprised that her test earned the third or fourth letter in the alphabet, but she clung to the hope that if she turned the paper over slowly enough, the letter would have enough time to rearrange itself into a B. Through communicating such vivid emotion, our eyes connect with others via a secret language. A quick, sharp glance at the girl to my right during a physics lecture means, “oh my god, when does this class end?” A subtle squint aimed at a girl passing in the hallway means, “Hi. I hope you’re having a good day,” and a soft lowering of both eyebrows as a friend tells me she’s in a fight with her mom means, “I understand and will do all I can to support you.” It’s through these small gestures that eyes make their impact on the ones they see.

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Eyes are delightful because they can convey surprise, fear, indifference, even love. I’m fascinated by the fact that our pupils actually grow when we look at someone we admire. How is it that two black holes in my face understand how to display such a complex and sincere feeling as love? But if pupils only enlarge when looking at a loved one, then why do my pupils always seem to be colored in with an extra thick sharpie? I suppose all eyes are different. This diversity contributes to the wonder and beauty of the human eye. Right outside of my deep, cavernous pupils sits a dark blue hue. This blue bleeds into a baby blue shade before all color is lost to a cloud of white. The pale blue in my eyes resists the light of sun rays shining through a window. My friend's eyes are brown with speckles of green and gold which glow in the summer sun. Her pupils are hard to see since they blend with the black coffee-like shade of her irises. There’s no such thing as a boring eye. If you look closely enough, you can find something rare and valuable, like a streak of yellow or a tinge of gray, in even the bluest, brownest, or greenest of eyes.

It’s comforting to know that eyes are such a wonderful source of joy and entertainment since I’m surrounded by them daily. The sarcastic glances at friends, shared looks of dread when receiving grades, and non-verbal “hellos” in the school hallways ensure that at least one moment of every day is delightful.

Why You Should Care About Latin GRACE GILSON '24

When I tell people I take Latin, I always get some reaction.

“Of course you take Latin.”

“I just don’t see the point.”

“It’s a dead language.”

But what people sometimes don’t realize is that Latin is the foundation of so many things. As an English speaker who takes French concurrently with Latin, I can confirm that the language is so helpful.

First off, Latin vocabulary will expand your speaking vocabulary immensely. For example, the Latin word for all is omnis. Omne and the Latin word for powerful is potens. Therefore the word omnipotent means all powerful, obviously. This is just one example of the application of Latin vocabulary in the real world.

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Another application of Latin is in grammar. The main Latin noun groups are nominative, genitive, dative, accusative, and ablative. The nominative case is for subjects and predicates; the genitive is for possession and other words with ‘of ’; the dative is for indirect objects; the accusative is for direct objects and select prepositions; and the ablative has a lot of uses including select prepositions. Although this sounds incredibly confusing, in practice this knowledge has helped me understand the different uses of nouns immensely. Let’s take the genitive case. It is concerned with possession and the word ‘of ’ of general. In English, we could say “she is brave” or “she is a girl of great bravery.” In the second example, the genitive case is used, and it completely changes the tone of the sentence. Both are correct, but both have very unique meanings.

Grammar application reaches beyond just nouns.

The understanding of verb tense, voice, and mood is greatly developed by Latin study. When we began learning about more complex verbs in French, like the subjunctive and the passive voice, I already understood the concept because of my time in Latin, even while some of my peers were somewhat confused. Because of the formation of the passive voice with the verb ‘to be.’ Similarly, Latin has given me the concept of how the subjunctive is used and what its use signifies.

Beyond the vocabulary and grammatical applications of Latin, the historical prominence of the language in the evolution of language is fascinating. If you have any interest in seeing an earlier version of the language that evolved to become our own, then you should care about Latin.

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In the Absence of Ceiling and Ground by Saija Shah '23 Always in My Head by Claire Hudson '25 Landscapes by Lóa Schriefer '22 Paradise Found by Kailey Takaoka '22

GENEVIEVE COMAR '24

S weat and Rain and Dust

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Rain mixed with sweat mixed with The stuff that is born of thousands of hours Day after day Year after year of pounding, grounding, pushing our legs Our sinewy muscles that bend/contract straighten/relax Hundreds of times per minute off the ground and BRACE for impact The muscles in our calves aching our quads screaming our lungs scraped raw of air and life yet Somehow our entire being is alive teeming, breathing, spilling over into an endless repetition of right-then-left-breath right-then-left-breath.

Rain mixed with sweat mixed with Spattered mud carving dark trails through our skin, ribbons of pain weaving over-under, around and through our legs dancing up to our arms skipping across collar bones and

severed airways until it wreathes our entire bodies in flickering fire stretching from the before: anticipation.

To the after: hot shock of ice applied to trembling joints and tattered muscles.

Rain mixed with sweat mixed with steel-eyed determination All too soon the only fuel left for our bodies, no ATP fed through intricate, intrinsic cycles only the lactic acid feeding our oxygen starved muscles and

punching fist-sized craters into our sides as we somehow manage one more foot in front of the other just one more again and again until somehow someway the impossible occurs and that one more becomes the this is it, all you’ve got left and some unknown reservoir of energy becomes known to you and your legs turn faster expanding and contracting lungs screaming entire body a whole universe of pain and ache of determination of blood staining the back of your throat of eyes squinted zeroed in on that final destination, and then its over.

You crossed the line and you’re no longer running but you are.

Your mind is lost in that race that run and it's only when the begging pleas of your exhausted body become too LOUD to ignore do you focus on yourself as the rain mixed with sweat streaks down your face and burns your watery eyes dribbles into your sticky cottonmouth that is somehow cracked into a brilliant, blinding grin even amongst the red arrows of pain because despite all of it, you love this sport.

You love what you do to yourself over and over day after day each footfall splintering our bones just a little bit more until all that is left is steel-eyed determination mixed with rain and sweat and dust.

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PERIN ROMANO '22

OUR COMMUNITY

It’s hard to understand privilege when it’s all you have ever known. I grew up in a west-side suburb of Cleveland. With a 95% white population and my deposit down at the Catholic school down the street, my life and my understanding of my identity could have been drastically different. I can almost guarantee that the little bubble I live in would have never been popped if it weren’t for my parents’ desire to give me the best education they could find. And while I was taught to understand that my privilege is something that I have to recognize, accept and grow from, I am just now beginning to understand why exactly that privilege exists.

I grew up hearing stories about the nasty insults my Italian ancestors were bombarded with when they made their move to Rome, New York from Calabria, Italy. I listened to my Polish grandpa discuss how he was turned away from a job because of his origins. I have heard every hardship that used to plague European immigrants, yet I heard them from my spot at a grandiose dinner table dining by candlelight. I have researched family records from my queen bed on my new Apple MacBook Pro, and the sign from my great grandfather’s Italian grocery store now hangs in my family room in my lakefront home. The hardships that I have learned about are a part of my family history, and therefore they are relevant, important, and not to be overlooked, but the fact of the matter is that I never experienced any of them. I was born privileged in that way. I have the privilege of growing up in a stable household with my two married parents, an education at an elite private school, and a car to drive me there. I have the privilege of going through my day and bragging about my Italian heritage rather than hiding it for fear of the stereotypes that used to affect my relatives. That privilege is undeniable, and I would probably be condemned if I were to deny that. So why is it so hard to recognize privilege on a larger scale?

The true problem with privilege in the United States is that we refuse to accept that certain characteristics give certain people an advantage over someone who does not have that same characteristic. In the days of my great grandfather, he might not have gotten a job because his last name was Gualtieri, and we can look back on that now and agree on that phenomenon. In a community like the United States, there are bound to be distinct differences between each of us. We can celebrate those differences all we want, but what do we do when

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those differences are the reason for so many of the hardships that our community is so known for?

What we first have to recognize is that we are a community. A community is any group of people that live in the same place and share a characteristic, so why do we never hear of our country as a community? The truth is that once we apply that definition, a certain obligation arises to protect our own. We fight for each other as Americans, we laugh with each other as Americans, and we appreciate each other as Americans, yet we don’t. We don’t because as humans we let our walls come up; a knee-jerk reaction. When something is criticized, it takes a lot to listen to that criticism and wonder whether or not it’s warranted. We let the criticism of our country offend us, becoming defensive with each blow, but why not try to make real changes.

Living through a pandemic has introduced a new concept to me, misinformation is an epidemic of its own propriety. Every corner I turn, I recognize a time when I've been misinformed whether it be intentional or whether the misinformation happens to just exist because no one’s ever had the guts to question it. Our generation has a habit of complaining. It’s obvious that there is always something wrong, and while our complaints may be warranted, it’s hard to actually attack the problems head-on. In certain instances, there are clearcut methods to do just that. We complain about COVID, so we wear our masks and get vaccinated. We complain about our sports team being out of shape, so we schedule more conditioning practices. At HB, we are taught from the beginning that we are not only in charge of our own future, but we are vastly in charge of our present. That concept is a weird thing to think about, as so much of our young adult lives are centered around the future. However, we should be learning to focus on who we are as individuals and as communities right now.

Presently, you may be reading this wondering how you can make changes as a 16-year-old, unable to vote, but there are things you can do. I don’t mean reposting an infographic or attending a protest, because while that is important, we often skip the first step. The first step is to recognize what it is you may not know and learn to be open to changing your mind. It’s so easy as young adults to listen to our parents at the dinner table and decide to agree with whatever they say, but it makes no real difference. As technologically engaged teens, it’s so easy to read an infographic posted on Instagram and repost it because our

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friend who probably “identifies” with the same political party as we do, posted it, but that makes no real difference. The truth is, Americans attack the idea of privilege because we feel guilty and we get defensive. Our time in the classroom is a gift and a privilege we as HB students all know we have, so we should use it. We have teachers who tell us to form our own opinions as we exit the classroom and a newspaper just like this one where our own voices are amplified. The method to making the change we all crave isn’t trying to convince our foes of our own opinions, the method is to convince them to really form theirs.

When discussing the concept of privilege, there are even multiple sides to that argument. While white privilege is an obvious thing that exists in the US, some argue that recognizing white privilege helps to advance and progress our country’s attitude towards our racist past, there is another argument that recognizing white privilege just further perpetuates the idea that there is a superior white elite. The right answer is not clear and attainable, and while there are 332 billion minds in the boundaries of the United States, a ‘right’ answer will never be determined.

If you take one thing from this article, it should be this. When a ‘right’ answer is undetermined, we try our best to craft it from what we know.

Past experiences as a community are what guide us to make choices that matter for our future. So what is our shared community experience? The answer is history. It’s a popular concept that history is a teacher in itself, but it is constantly under fire for “teaching the wrong lesson.” In a country that pledges allegiance to freedom of speech and expression, why is it that we are even debating censoring our youth from their community’s past? As students, we should feel as if our rights are being threatened. Why is it that a curriculum that teaches our country’s history is under fire for being “divisive” when our country is more divided than ever? As students, our weapon is our voices and our dedication to learning.

Whether or not you agree with one side or another, I challenge you to use your privilege as an HB student to develop a voice of your own and to fight back against a group that attempts to steal our power from us. In the end, knowledge is power, and recognizing our privilege as educated individuals is recognizing that our most important tool is our mind, and a mind is a weapon we all have the ability to wield.

PUT FORTH

GOOD VIBES FOR REAL CAROLYN JIANG '23

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21 Cinderella by Lily Botros '22 22 Doodles by Audrianna Imka '22 23 Ethereal World by Morgan Kennedy '23

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MUD

SHRUTHIKA ARASELVAN '22

As a child, I lived in a bubble of ignorance. Unaware of the opinions or judgements of the world, I was unable to defend myself or others around me. In elementary school and middle school, I experienced many racial microaggressions. At that age, I did not know the true meanings behind these statements. I honestly don’t even think I heard of the word “microaggression.” I was taught that racism was to intentionally discriminate against a race, like the Jim Crow laws against African Americans in the 1960s. I thought that to be a racist, a person had to say or do something with the intention of degrading someone of a different race.

One memory that very vividly stands out to me from elementary school is my music teacher calling me “mud.” At the time, I knew that the reason for this name was because my skin was darker than everyone else’s.

However, I did not fully understand the racial implications behind his actions at that age. By calling me “mud,” my music teacher not only was associating my name, and in essence, my identity, with the color of my skin, but also giving this trait a negative connotation. His action was one of many that made me aware of the differences between myself and many of my peers. Over time, as I experienced more racial microaggressions, I became more and more ashamed of my differences, letting other people define my identity through my appearance. I desperately tried to change my appearance to better fit the standards of conventional beauty, a beauty that does not take into account all the different people in the world. I lathered my coffee-colored skin in sunscreen to prevent it from becoming darker, I pinched my flat nose in hopes of it changing into a longer, more narrow shape, and I even once put red food coloring on my lips after a friend asked me “Why are your lips so dark?”

When I transferred to Hathaway Brown, I was in an environment where people discussed topics such as racism more openly. While my school is definitely not perfect as people can still be insensitive of others, I don’t think I ever experienced any microaggressions (I know this is not true for all students). The people at my school make more of a conscious effort to treat people fairly. If a person says something discriminatory, other students are not afraid to speak up. Contrary to the past, the actions of my peers inspired me. At 13 years old, I was a timid freshman, but I dreamed of one day breaking out of the shell I created around myself at a young age to be as bold and outspoken as those around me.

At times, I replay the “jokes” that others have made of my Indian identity. I become angry at both myself and the people who have relentlessly taunted me. At myself, for never having known how to defend myself and at others, for never realizing the pain that their ignorance caused me. I wish that I could go back in time to teach these people to not say the hurtful “jokes” they said out of ignorance. Teach them that their “jokes” are in fact, really racist. The microaggressions others have said about me in the past remain my insecurities to this day. However, what has changed is my awareness of the wrongdoing of others. I am no longer left doubting the validity of my hurt. While I am sometimes a little reserved, I know that I now have the confidence to defend not only myself, but others around me.

Armed with the pain of the past and inspired by my peers around me, I strive to one day, be able to teach the world to not be hurtful out of ignorance.

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Bathroom by Meredith Stewart '23 Sun by Lucia Passarelli '22 Fantasy by Alex Wolf '22 Static by Tori Marguiles '24 The Start to the End 1999 by Somerset Collligan '22

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DAWN ERASES OUR ENSEMBLE OF STARS ABBY GEMECHU '24

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The Ocean OF FRANK CAROLYN JIANG '23

As I’m sitting here thinking about what I should write about, Frank Ocean songs play quietly from the speakers of my computer. Then the idea struck me: why should everyone have Frank in their life? I mean we have all definitely heard of Frank Ocean before, and if you haven’t then here’s a little overview of what you missed while living under a rock since 2011.

Frank Ocean was born Christopher Edwin Breux, but after he started gaining fame he started operating under the stage name, Frank Ocean, which he later made his legal name. The first time I ever listened to anything by Frank Ocean was in 6th grade when his song “Thinkin Bout You” became a vine, which was another dumb app of 2012 which included short 10 second clips people made. Because the song was used so much in pointless internet videos I grew tired of it. I strayed away from his music. It was truly a questionable time in my life. But of course, the universe, fate, or whatever is in charge of that kind of stuff pulled me back to Frank Ocean during freshman year.

When Frank Ocean was reintroduced to me, the first song I listened to was “White Ferrari” at the school’s annual dance concert in a piece choreographed by a senior. I found her on instagram right after the concert and immediately messaged her asking for the name of the song. After she told me, “White Ferrari” played nonstop for four hours. I then went through a deep dive of Frank Ocean’s entire discography, starting with the

Blonde album. What first caught my attention was how many different emotions just one of his songs could convey. The songs on Blonde all are very different in their own way but in the end they bring across the same feeling. Throughout the entire album he brings across a nostalgic feeling to commemorate his childhood and bring to reality the fact that he is getting older. There are times where he will completely switch up the momentum and beat in the middle of the song. It adds another level to the already complex song. At times he will dramatically pitch up his voice in his song to portray a younger version of himself, but later on in the song he will go back to his authentic voice.

Another trait that makes Frank Ocean so unique is the intersection of genres he mixes with his music. He infuses a mix of jazz and funk, into a modern day kind of RnB. There are times where I will listen to certain songs and feel this deep wave of sadness and I’ll really understand the lyrics, whereas other times I will listen to the same songs and feel much more joyful. A lot of his music is often carried out by a small group of instruments like a few guitar chords accompanied by a simple beat, the rest is relied on his voice. His lyricism is so powerful, that he doesn’t need to rely on a lot of instruments to carry the song. I appreciate the different styles of music that he experiments with. At times when I need an uplifting song or a slowed down more mellow song, Frank Ocean always has me covered.

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29 Blue Mountain Lake by Natalie Crowley '23 30 Vegan Makeup

by Seema Casey '23

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What was surprising about Frank Ocean was the fact that I have yet to get sick of his music. I love music; it is a very large part of my life.

Unfortunately, I often find an artist and I’ll go through a phase of just strictly listening to their music. After some time, I get repulsed by it. Or for example, I’ll find a really good song, but then I’ll only listen to that song and ruin it for myself. People always ask me why my playlists are so short, it is because after listening to a song about six times, I get sick of it and I can’t listen to it anymore. Therefore I just do a weekly clean out of all of my playlists, and they usually remain about 20-30 songs. But not with Frank Ocean. I could forever listen to his voice.

As I became a high school student, I found less and less time to cater to my mental health. This resulted in me having very bad communication skills and often just those pent up feelings turning into aggression. So music started to become a bigger part of my life because it helped me digest and understand those feelings. It grew to the point where I pretty much relied on it. Listening to Frank Ocean helped me process whatever emotions I was feeling that day by bringing them to the spotlight by hearing a certain one of his songs. Most of his songs are very mellow and they gave me time to process my feelings whether they were good or bad. I would keep all of my emotions inside for a certain period of time and when I felt as though no one would understand them, I’d turn on some Frank Ocean and there just so happened to be a song that would strike the right cord and let all of my

emotions flow out, most of the time through tears. I specifically remember one night where I had an unbearable panic attack and couldn’t sleep so I started listening to music and a Frank Ocean song came on that I had never heard before. That week had been a rough one on multiple levels due to multiple occasions. The song “Moon River” stayed with me that entire night as I laid awake until 5am. The melody, or lack thereof, really stuck with me because it directly responded to how I was feeling. This lack of consistency and control mirrored everything that was going on in my life.

I believe that everyone should sit down one day and truly listen to Frank Ocean and pay attention to all the little details he adds in his songs. I think it is crazy that he doesn’t even know who I am let alone the impact he has made on my life. Even though he hasn’t released an album since 2016, his music is still very relevant because there is yet to be an artist that can convey emotions the same way he does.

P.S here is the link to my Frank Ocean playlist. Enclosed are must listen to songs, please take a listen and provide feedback.

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What is nature?

Other than green, blue, and yellow hue Is it God’s creation, of mother nature whose grace and beauty are beyond a few Of Hawaii, Turkey, Santorini, Greece

There are Always Flowers for Those Willing to See FATEMA DINARY '24 31 32 33 34

Bloom by Allison Fritz '22 Hidden Intentions by Sydnee Dykes '23 Planted in the Studio by Ella Nolan '23 Summering by Allison Fritz '22

What world is this where the gardens have grown.

To dwell in the forest wild, free, and forever green Whether a raging chaos of shrubbery and greenery Or the blissful calm blue seas Ripple after wave, after ocean breeze What a beautiful world thine eyes see The buzzing bee drinking nectarine The chipmunk who scurries across the limbs of a tree A fawn who frolics in a prairie To the soft sweet melody of tweets, chirps of Robinhoods, Mockingjays, Blue-tails of all breeds

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FRANCESCA BURKE '23

WHY BEING IN AN ORCHESTRA WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE

I started 5th grade at Kenston Intermediate School six years ago. This year would be a very important one; it was the year band was offered to students. The only instrument I had ever played was piano, and had been doing so since I was six. I enjoyed making music and wanted to continue, especially because this was one of the few musical arts options available to kids my age.

Kenston offered students the choice to choose between the following four instruments: the clarinet, the flute, the trombone, and the trumpet. I had no idea which instrument to choose, so my parents showed me videos of people playing these four instruments so I could see how they sounded. I have never been good at decision-making under pressure, and at that moment I chose the clarinet. To this day I don’t know why I picked this instrument, but I wouldn’t trade that decision for the world.

Our clarinet section probably had about thirty kids in it, the largest of all the sections in the band. When I started the clarinet it came naturally to me. I had been reading music for four years on piano, and it all seemed very basic.

Once I was taught to finger a note, I could play it and didn’t need to be taught it again. Some of my proudest moments at the time were when kids were individually called to the front of the class to play a piece like “Hot Cross Buns” and I could do so without making a mistake. I truly started

After that year I left Kenston to attend Hathaway Brown School. This was a completely new environment, one of the most drastic changes being that there was a middle school orchestra instead of a band. I was so excited that I could be a part of a larger group of instrumentalists who shared a common passion, and became a clarinetist in the orchestra that year. This was truly a moment of growth for me not only because I was being challenged more but because I felt like I had found my place and the drive I had been lacking for so many years. I had been wandering trying to find a talent, and being in an orchestra finally opened my eyes to the fact that I might be good at something. I had never applied my music reading skills in an environment like an orchestra before and saw how much I could accomplish when I was challenged in this way. In sixth grade I was the only clarinet in middle school, which was nerve-wracking after being one of thirty ten year olds who played the same instrument. But at the same time, I enjoyed the independence, and felt that I was finally developing a talent that only I possessed. Being a part of that orchestra opened my eyes to the beauty of music. Even when we tuned at the beginning of class. I thought we sounded just like the Cleveland Orchestra. My proudest moment had gone from playing a basic piece for my band class to playing the bass clarinet with the Upper School Orchestra when I was in seventh grade.

I have been in Hathaway Brown’s orchestra for five years and I love it just as much as I did then.

Even though the Upper School Orchestra has

about six clarinetists now, I still feel that passion and individuality every time I play. The sound of different instruments flooding your ears while you blend your part with theirs is a truly magical experience. That feeling when the entire ensemble strikes a perfect chord or tone cluster (or any dominant seventh chord, in my opinion) is a moment when the world and all its stresses fall away and the only thing that matters are the little black notes in front of you. I love it so much that I joined an out of school orchestra this year as well. Orchestras have made me realize that I have a talent for music. The fact that I listen to orchestral pieces and try to piece apart each instrument and their part makes me feel like my knowledge for music is growing because I get the opportunity to play with amazing ensembles.

Undoubtedly there are kids like me out there who aren’t good at athletics and have given up on finding something that makes them feel talented.

The world has become so centered around sports that, if you don’t take a liking to them from a young age, you are deemed less important. This is especially true at any school you attend, and it is still something I am struggling with now. It is hard to recognize that finding a talent takes years of uncovering different layers of yourself.

However, once you find that ability, whatever it is, it will resonate with you and create a new sense of pride and exceptionality. I recommend that any instrumentalist join an orchestra because it will give you confidence and make you a part of a community of gifted people with common interests. Once you find a safe haven, like being in the wonderful atmosphere of an orchestra, you find your talent will shine through on its own.

Y DESPE B D E T R A AT IV

, ION

35 Lava by Lóa Schriefer '22 36 Moon by Vivienne Forstner '23 37 Golden by Lóa Schriefer '22

loving the sound of the instrument and band class became something I looked forward to every day.

CAP T

I have always found it hard to find something I am good at. When I was little and my parents made me play soccer, I would stand on the field and wander like Ferdinand the Bull while the other kids would be running with purpose. I did not experience the same drive when it came to athletics, which was difficult because sports was what had the most value in my school life.

DRAWN TOWARDS DARKNESS. KATIE GREPPIN '22

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Why I Was So Wrong to Think Was Underrated

Self Care ZOE BENNETT '23

How society has tricked all of us into thinking that two hours of self-preservation is a bad thing, and the moment I realized I was being tricked.

as me probably believes the same thing, right?

Well, you shouldn’t. Because one day, I malfunctioned.

I don’t think it’s in our nature to actually take two steps out of our life and actually do something for your mental health, as societal norms practically eliminated this crazy idea from our minds, including mine. Nowadays, the workplace and school are holding seminars and classes aimed at helping us busy people with self care, almost as if they can tell that almost nobody is doing it themselves, making the only time they do it is when they are awkwardly forced to sit on the floor and meditate, undoubtedly thinking, “I could be finishing my sales pitch,” or, “Imagine how many of these spreadsheets I could be doing now instead of sitting here.” And even though I’m only seventeen, my gears operate just like this.

I badly malfunctioned: there were sparks, an inferno, destroyed gears and latches; I would say I was completely broken down into bits and parts and gears. It hit me days later: maybe I need to reevaluate myself just a little, or at least take a good critical look in the mirror and ask myself the question, “What am I not doing that would help me?” The answer, ironically, was on a Post-it note I’d stuck to the wall at some point or other time that was lost on my memory card. Positive post-its were a suggestion from my therapist, strangely, but I only did them for credit. I never really took them seriously; I just wrote positive things on the colorful squares of paper and taped them on either side of my mirror–which I almost never use. I actually groaned when the thought that self-care was a good idea became the dominating idea in my brain, because I’m thinking, “What part of it I am not doing right?”

Turns out it was the “self ” part, since I don’t really do some of my hobbies to enjoy them for them, but for other, possibly malignant reasons I wouldn’t impose on anyone else.

Up until about two months ago, my life ran like clockwork. I woke up at seven in the morning, washed up, got dressed, kissed my sleeping mother good-bye with the customary, “I’ll call you later,” farewell that she mumbled through her half-sleeping body, made a makeshift breakfast that I would eat in my parked car sitting perfectly adjacent by the school’s entrance, walk up to the doors at around 7:50 a.m., sat through each and every one of my classes like a mindless robot for most, unwinded carefully at lunch, powered through my remaining two classes and prepared for the evening hours; long story short, I wanted to tap out early, yet some of those days I forced myself to scream out my pains deadlifting almost two-hundred pounds at the gym, others I got caught up watching some episodes of Modern Family. The days melded into a single machine assembly, putting me together inevitably into the machine who productively ran through the day smoothly, without any hitches or bumps.

This not-so alarming fact, that life goes according to my clock, and doesn’t often do anything out-of-the ordinary, had already circulated throughout my brain by that point.

It’s that way for all of us who follow a schedule in their lives; whether we recognize the fact that life is practically a schedule that, if tampered with, will completely upset the natural order of things and bring forth what we treat as “the apocalypse.” And I thought, “Why don’t I mix things up a little?” But the answer was already there: I had no time to mix things up. I work by a schedule that I spent probably a year and a half

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formulating, and I didn’t wanna risk messing it up. Because do you know what would happen if I messed up? I’d forget an assignment, lose precious minutes doing that forgotten assignment where I could be doing something else, have to rearrange everything else in accordance with that error, and I would never get anywhere.

Both my mother and therapist said that if I kept this up, I’d burn out by thirty, and that would be a sad waste of effort. Even at my last checkup she asked me the fairly startling question: “Do I take part in self-care?” My first thought was, “Duh.” Of course I did, but a subsequent conversation made me realize that I had absolutely no idea what self care actually was, but rather a twisted version of it: simply doing things you like. I mean, that’s a minor aspect of it, but really, not the entire package.

There was a whole seminar about it in school: how society as a whole rarely makes time for self care and then they ultimately enter a long, dark road of mental challenges –something I am no stranger to. So here I’m thinking in my ignorant mind, I do self-care all the time, I don’t need to go out of my way to make time for it; I can function properly without it. Anyone who’s been in the same boat

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The whole purpose of this is to tell you NOT to wait until you have a full-on mental (or emotional) episode where you completely lose your **** and it hits you right in the head that you need to evaluate yourself and decide, “Do I need to work on my self-care?” High chances the answer is yes, but maybe you simply need to readjust your parameters. I’m still in the process of reprogramming myself to do all the activities I like for the right reasons. It isn’t easy; nothing is ever easy at the start. Doing something that is supposed to be a source of relaxation and enjoyment should not be exploited for a purpose that only serves to harm you, whether it’s with the monsters inside your brain or the demons staring right at you from across the room. I like to think this inclination is merely instinct or a crutch. Who knows, maybe you’ll find great satisfaction in sweating out all your grievances while trying to bench-press a hundred and fifty pounds, instead of imagining yourself exerting that same amount of force to smack the face of someone who recently pushed you to your breaking point. Currently, my brain’s malignant function remains in place, but every day I manage to make a small change to the code.

How? Satisfying my needs positively, being positive; that’s a censored version of my motto.

The real one? Can’t say it. But you can guess.

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I love to write phrases.

Sticky Note Stories JERMANI JONES '23

The ones that get sauced up in my brain, like noodles in a spaghetti pan.

The ones which I serve up on the plate of sticky notes.

Colorful squares that look like a quilt if I arrange them correctly.

My poems fill up inside of me like a glass of water, making small spillages into text messages and sticky notes, then overflow onto the page to make its debut as a river.

Enthralled by a hope that the sticky notes rip through those confines to evolve into a sea of pages with limitless words.

Not wasting away in the space I have made for them on my walls, dresser, and pen organizer.

I want them to meet their brothers and sisters to come together as a family of work. I will take them to more places than this ocean of debris.

They will go to computer screens, bookstores, and magazines.

All these families of words that flowed out the spout of their mother’s pens.

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A Horse’s Race

NOEL ULLOM '23 All in line…

You stood behind the stable doors that defined your world for seconds, you stood above a ground of dirt that ached to be turned to dust. You stood under the control of someone else’s hands for now: a rider who looked downwards at your mane made steady. You stood, unknowingly, before a battle you could not win.

And ready for the start…

“There’s ours, #6!”

My grandmother pointed a wrinkled finger at the television screen, one blurry with age yet bright with energy. It sprung sharp beams of

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light across every face that clenched: my grandpa’s furrowed brow, my brother’s squinting eyes, my mother’s pursing lips. Even my father, who prided himself on patience, looked down to examine his shifting feet. I sat in the back of the living room and let the weakest glow hit my face - how disappointed its light must have been to find my blank stare.

They’re restless in the starting gates…

The truth is, I’m certain my family could have guessed the outcome. We had sat like this before.

Packed into a room crowded with dusty books and crooked furniture, staring ahead at a screen projecting what we loved to pretend was

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uncertain. What we loved to pretend would change each time. What we loved to pretend you would change.

And they’re off!

With the sudden opening of the gates came a flood of soaring hooves, devastating the calm desert that once made up the track. At least the mighty stampede soon became yours; you quickly found your footing amongst those who ran alongside you. It was only the devil of time that made you competitors as you watched those around you advance, as you watched yourself fall back into the spits of dust left behind countless hooves.

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And yet, did you even notice the fall? Certainly you had forgotten the word’s meaning - your stride, your grace, your soaring hooves that mocked the ground seemed to forget the danger of losing your place. Or perhaps you thirsted for it. Your kicks had become a dance for the sun, forgetting the clouds that devoured you; your soars had become a reach for Heaven, forgetting the Earth that had claimed you.

My family, of course, witnessed this event with increasingly dispirited eyes. Grief naturally follows after every battle, but perhaps this memory deems such an immediate response unfair. There is no doubt my family mourned a

joint loss, but only for a surrender that hadn’t taken place. Instead, you had redefined both battle and warrior; you had become a creature increasingly molded by liberation with every foot you fell behind. You had forgotten you once escaped the gates simply to be observed, you had forgotten you ran alongside clocks and dust and limbs.

Your presence still follows me as I sit before my grandparent’s fuzzy screen today. It has been years since this memory took place, but your gallop has found a home in the newest horses that soar backwards and reach for the same sun you once claimed. Time itself has even begun to

47 My Car by Natalie Crowley '23 48 Galacticy by Camden Kitchens '24 49 My Friend by Maggie Abrams '22

yield more freely. Or, rather, I have forgotten the weight of its bonds along with you. I continue to grasp my grandma’s hand in enthusiasm for the horses she has chosen to pity, to squeal out the numbers that make their way downward on each leaderboard. And as I continue to cheer on every competitor that loses their footing or searches for their finish line elsewhere, I pray I may leave behind the lines marking my own beginnings and ends alongside you.

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50 50 Uncle Brent by Maddie Bucci '23 51 Sign Language by Anna Sharkunov '22 52 Sands of Ethan by Fiona Liu '24

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Haiku 17

ANJALI DHANEKULA '22

I’ve grown up to see

That the person I’ve become Is not who they need.

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YOU CAN DISSAPPOINT NO ONE COLE URBAN '24

You can let your hair grow wild release that breath you didn’t realize you were holding grip my hands tighter so you know I won’t drift away You can dirty up that kitchen fuel your love for the scientific world forget about who you were before this all started You can walk through the snow and rain sit in that chair the way you’re not supposed to laugh that open mouth, tummy jerking laugh You can smile that crooked, eggshell smile plant those flowers even if they make you sneeze cuddle pillows until your muscles are tight and weary You can cause problems on purpose make yourself as big as the city skyline shout from the rooftops that you are here to stay You can let people down throw all of your troubles into the lake learn to trust the people that you want to let in You can be you

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The POWER of POWERPoint AVA KERESZTESY '23

There are many art forms in the world. Some paint beautiful landscapes that flow through water color, others meticulously chip away at stone to compose larger than life sculptures. But me, my medium of choice is PowerPoint. Yes, PowerPoint, the Microsoft Office program used by students and office employees to create slideshows. When most people hear PowerPoint, they don’t think of art or beauty or anything remotely like that. Typically, making a PowerPoint means putting together a couple of slides and dreading an inescapable presentation. However, when I see that blank slide begging me to click to add text, I see an opportunity. It’s a blank canvas for vision to come alive.

I’ve been a skilled PowerPoint connoisseur ever since I was young. Like any child who doesn’t know how to use a computer, I would click around on random icons, opening every program at once and messing around on them for a while. My favorite was PowerPoint, but Microsoft Paint and Word were strong contenders. It was like Word, but a better, improved version where I could make pictures spin around. I never saved any of my work (regretfully so) but I can guarantee my first slide shows were nonsensical, filled with gibberish text and random images I thought were cute or funny. But nonetheless my new passion was born.

IN STRIDE, SHE REVEALED HER RESILIENCE. KATIE GREPPIN '22

Once I started school I took a computer class. Once a week my elementary school class would quietly march down the lower grade hall to the upper grade hall and into the computer lab. We did a variety of things throughout my time there: usually typing or computer safety, but my favorite thing to do was make PowerPoints. In fourth grade, we were given an assignment to make a slideshow on a tree. There really were no requirements as long as you made a PowerPoint and it was about a tree. I distinctly remember two things: I chose the weeping willow tree, and I went wild on PowerPoint. Giving me full creative control of a PowerPoint was about the same as giving me $100 to spend at a toy store. What I loved and still love most about PowerPoint is the amount of options and choices I get to make. For every slide show I have made and ever will make, the first step is to choose a theme from the wide selection PowerPoint has. I can still remember the bright green theme I chose and it’s been my favorite ever since.

After adding words and pictures, most people hit save and finish their project, but to me that’s only the beginning. My tree slide show was the first one I used animations on. Ben, the student next to me, showed me how to add a custom drawn path animation and demonstrated such with a picture of his tree entering the slide on a violent zig zag path. The world of PowerPoint animations is one of the most magical places I’ve ever been and I include them on every slide, no matter the topic or occasion. After animations come transitions, an essential piece of every slide show. I am a firm believer that fun transitions make a PowerPoint ten times more interesting. For every PowerPoint I make, at least 30 minutes are dedicated to meticulously picking a different transition for each slide, something that fits the character and mood of the content. My personal favorite is the vortex transition for no reason other than it’s visually appealing and adds that special something to every slide show.

The final step once the slides are completed is giving the presentation to an audience. Trust me, I dread giving presentations as much as the next person but when I’m giving a PowerPoint presentation I spent hours crafting, it’s like an out of body experience. The magic of the enchanting transitions and vibrant theme colors gives me a godlike confidence. No matter how ridiculous the subject matter may be, I always give 100%.

A few months ago, my sisters and I all gave a presentation on the kinds of people we found attractive. Super ridiculous I know, but I put in hours on my presentation. I carefully selected songs to play for each slide and even prepared some speaker notes to explain the strange choices on my slides. I love making people smile and in that moment when my sister was doubling over with laughter at the pure ridiculousness of the situation as a picture of Anakin Skywalker materialized on the screen while Kesha’s “Tik Tok” played in the background. My favorite memory from all of geometry class freshman year was the time my friend and I gave a presentation to our teacher and class on how we were in a “vibe crisis.” We couldn’t even get through the presentation without laughing. Unfortunately that PowerPoint has been lost to the sands of time, but the memory of sitting after school and diligently putting it together remains.

So I hope that through this essay, I’ve convinced you that the world of PowerPoint is not as bleak as it may seem. While art is definitely not the first word that comes to mind when thinking of PowerPoint, it sure won’t be the last once you dive into what PowerPoint can offer.

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Dive by Brooklyn Napolitano '22

PINK

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WELCOME …

MARLEY LAMMERS '22

A stranger lurks outside my frosted window pain…

Strange… r…

Stranger than the many mornings the dandelions peeked their Sunny heads out from the cracks in my driveway To say “hello!” …

To no one…

So yes, I guess…

These smiling suede boots, that hug the grass like a teddy bear, are a stranger to the…

Fuzzy caterpillar, Stumbling across the pavement, And a stranger to my little peculiar friends, Anxiously poking their frosted noses out from their Nests and gardens and dens and Even from above all the many rows of strong bricks, Which build the sacred wall of my house Anyone… everyone is Welcome Strange… waiting… the silence is jarring, Like a crack of thunder and a strike of lightning…

Yet it is quiet… and the sun is shining… strange The owl’s eyes, preparing to rain…

The single prick of a broken branch would send the Morning dove’s chest to the sky…

The butterflies in the deer’s stomach, Trying to fly away…

The squirrel’s fingernails, trembling in the frigid wind…

His acorn tumbles into the crawling dirt…

Like that small child who dropped his soft-serve chocolate-vanilla swirl Ice cream on the ground, And tripped and gashed his knee and palm so as to create matching Scars… on his 6th birthday party…

Strange… strange… r… still waiting…

This humid, condensed world breaths in slow motion, Like a paused movie.

Her core could spark and in an instant, the ground could shatter…

The beating eyes of the forest drag a heavy sack of seeds across the dewy grass in struggled silence…

Strange…

The particles of stress are floating with all the flies in the crowded air…

Waiting… waiting… sinking in an invisible pit… strange…

Like the peppy pig-tails of a three year old crossing the street, Reaching towards the ground, an invisible force …like the drone of the airplane that so often flies over this house…

The child, dressed in her pink “girls run the world” T And a striped skirt… and her glittering rainbow flip flops, Too big for her stubbed toes to catch a grip…

She is super-skipping the white cross walk lines, Gripping to her parents’ firm hands, hers, Like cardboard, their little monkey, flying above the ground But, this one time, she didn’t leave the ground…

Strange…?

This time, she slipped out of their hold…

In the middle of a street filled to the brim with oncoming traffic, Cars beeping, parents hollering, Her pony tails pulled the girl towards a naked worm, who Stared at her with lonely eyes…

She peeled a leaf off of a yellow line… let it crawl upon this cloud and rod him to safety…

Strange… strange…

Strange… you may think…

But, strange is good… strange is peace, protection, politics, even Strange is… home… this Home is strange and strong… and You, stranger… are strange… r… I hope you. Understand That this place… this home must be protected…

So stranger… go ahead and ignore the caterpillar Who now attempts to form his cocoon upon your dangling shoelace…

Ignore and you are more than Welcome to part from our bubble…

Insult one and you burn all of our souls…

The insults like a screaming child bursting our eardrums… yet, if you are willing, open, kind, if you are this strange then, Welcome… stranger… Welcome… home.

SHE STOOD AT THE DOOR WAITING. CAROLYN JIANG '23 SHE STOOD AT THE DOOR WAITING. CAROLYN JIANG '23 88 x

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A LETTER

to the Girl I OnceWas HANNAH ROWLAND-SEYMOUR '23

my dear sweet child. do you remember when you would tour the city, playing your music? feather wax wings beating strong with the cello, the bookstore air filled with love and joy. those tonal sounds that came out were not quite right, and it was not quite music but you didn’t care. and neither did your classmates, as they watched you in awe, starting to believe in magic. you thought you were invincible, indomitable. you were the leader of the school,

the queen of recess; full of pranks and laughter and joy. how did your wings melt so goddamn quickly? what pushed you further and further into the ground, rendering you stuck to the earth, unable to fly anymore? was it the stark white prison cell of a room, the incessant beeping monitors? the hushed voices? those complicated words swirling around in your little brain, impossible to comprehend? was it the crimson red roses, blooming with a single prick, leaving violent purple bruises behind?

or maybe, maybe it was the tubes coming out of you; acting as your sole tie to survival as well as your downfall. maybe it was inevitable. the wings had to melt, as all good things do. but why did you have to fall so hard? you reached the sun: you were there at the heart of it all but then, in the blink of an eye, you lost everything. falling, falling, gone.

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Valerie by Brooklyn Napolitano '22 Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is by Lily Botros '22 Strings by Lóa Schriefer '22 Violin by Ella Rosenberg '24 Ophelia by Carys Bowen '22

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Wishes by Bella Stahl '24 Daydream by Alex Wolf '22 Lilypads by Kyndall Mack '23 In the Waves by Anna Sharkunov '22

BENEATH THE BARK:

An Essay on Authenticity and Delight MUNA AGWA '23 What I love about nature is that it doesn’t try to convince me of anything. It simply is. I love that nature is most beautiful when it’s not trying to show off or compare herself to me. She’s not jealous of me, and I don’t envy her. She invites me into this space where we both flourish. There’s something spiritual about that. About losing track of the hours, watching tadpoles dance between lily pads under a waterfall of petals from a nearby family of Rhododendrons. Nature doesn’t try to make her life look exciting on social media. Nature doesn’t care what my ACT score is. She just cares that I’m there. That I’m breathing and adding to her ecosystem.

Visiting Holden Arboretum during the summer felt like the shock of an AED, putting my heart- my life- back on beat. Dwelling among the trees in the canopy walk gave me the time to rest and recharge, and going above the trees in the Emergent Tower made my anxiety feel small. Why do we avoid so much of what is natural? I think that so many things are unnatural. But while standing on that 180-foot platform (an unnaturally high height for humans), I didn’t compulsively check my phone to avoid interacting with strangers or aimlessly scroll for something I’d never find. There is no “easy way out” in the middle of the woods. So I soaked up the view with the strangers, and someone even spotted the dull shore of Lake Erie from the deck’s vantage point.

The Emergent Tower’s goal is to simulate the liminal space where birds soar, where every gust of wind, every movement, can be felt. Being that high makes every sound feel faraway. That distance keeps me present, and being present is the first step to being my real self. The world I gaze back down upon looks so still and flattened, and I am reminded of how gorgeous silence can be.

Not everything that is real is beautiful, but everything that is beautiful is real. And every square inch of that arboretum is alive and real and therefore enveloped with beauty. There is something so marvelous to be surrounded by unbothered life on all sides. We as people are attracted to life. I often daydream about turning the atrium into a botanical garden. It seems like the perfect place for the world's largest terrarium.

I often think about how humans were supposed to live in proximity to nature and not in poorly designed concrete cubes. I’ve always wanted to plant vertical gardens on the 4 walls of my room so that my space is always filled with life, so it is filled with constant beauty.

I wonder what trees whisper to each other when nobody's listening, or if they say anything at all. Maybe their presence is comforting enough between them, so there’s no need to talk. Do they make small talk? I hope not. I hope I never get good at small talk. Or at least I never enjoy it. I hope that strangers can cry in my arms and that we can leave tear stains on our t-shirts and let them dry in the golden ribbons of sunlight that tie the skies together. This is the difficulty but importance of authenticity. It is real. It is alive. It is beautiful. Authenticity doesn’t try to convince you of anything. It simply is. I love that authenticity is the most beautiful when it’s not trying to show off or compare herself to me. She’s not jealous of me, and I don’t envy her. She invites me into this space where we both flourish. And there’s something spiritual about that.

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Arrowblossom MARLEY LAMMERS '22

Long ago, in a faraway place, there stood a magnificent kingdom, tucked away into the valley of a grand forest. In this kingdom, there lived a majestic king and his charming queen. All was well and everyone was living a prosperous and happy life until one day, the world fell apart. The arrowmen from across the sea came bearing bows and arrows which they used to invade the royal palace in search of gold. While gold is a harmless object, it was clear, they would not let anything stand in their way. The queen was gardening near the edge of the forest when she heard the horn blast alerting the invasion. Though she knew she was nearest to the invasion, refused to budge until she had finished taking full care of her rose garden. Just as she was tidying up the last petal on the last rose in the last row of her garden, an arrowman snuck up behind her and as she peered up at the terrifying figure before, he reeled his bow back and prepared for his strike. The queen drew her last breath as the arrow slit through her throat and sent her barreling to the ground, blood splattering everywhere into her favorite patch of roses, a single drop of thick, crimson blood landed in the very center petal of a little white rose, the one which the queen had taken such care of over the years and had favored far above the rest. Once the arrowman left, the most miraculous thing happened. Under the watch of the queen’s stone cold face, the flower began to transform and out of the singular drop of her mother’s blood, a petite princess was born.

In the aftermath of the invasion by the arrowmen, not a soul could be found in the fear-struck kingdom except for the small child, abandoned by all and cursed with this gift of life.

However, this story is not as tragic as one may think. The small child lay on her back, staring out at the silenced world, waiting for something, anything, to happen. Suddenly out of the dark shadows of the forbidden forest, there appeared a miniature beast with wide, golden eyes, which shared the same glare of loneliness which the abandoned infant knew so well, as she was born that way. In the distance she could make out similar figures crawling about the forest floor. The kindly creature grabbed her by his mouth and carried her away into the deep woods where nothing could ever be seen or touched by the shy human eye.

Almost sixteen years passed by and not a word had ever been spoken about our beloved princess. For no one even knew of her existence. The king had always wished for a daughter, so when his queen died, he not only weeped for the loss of his wife, but of his daughter too. With the loss of almost half the citizens in his kingdom, all were suffering. And so, this began the era of great sorrow and loss of prosperity. The dark ages had befallen the great palaces of the kingdom in the forest.

Meanwhile, the princess lived a much enriched and exciting life in her gloomy forest. Arrowblossom spent her days swinging about the trees and hunting for her meals with her family. Yes, Arrowblossom did not grow up alone, for she would have survived but one night. On that dreadful night long ago, a family of pack wolves had come to the edge of the forest to see what terrible thing had happened to cover the kingdom in a blanket of silence. They came upon a silent, bloody infant on the edge of the forest.

They had never come so close to a human in their life, though they saw that the child had been abandoned by her dead mother and anyone else who may have once cared for her. So, they decided to bring her back to their cave in the forest and to raise her as one of their own. They provided her with shelter and all the food a small, ecstatic child could dream of. When

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she was ready to stand, they taught her how to walk properly on her hind legs, as humans do. Though she so desired and tried to walk as the rest of the pack so willfully did on all fours, they thought it best that she learn the ways of her own kind. However, they were still wolves and she a human, so there were some things, like the human tongue, for which she had no means of learning. However, in the end, the wolf pack family raised their beautiful daughter to be a resilient traveller, a fierce hunter, and to have a kind soul.

On a normal, sunny day in the inky forest, Arrowblossom could be found hunting for dinner for her pack. She had always been naturally drawn to her spear. She had the best arm of any of the wolves and certainly could be of the best among humans. She especially loved the sensation of piercing her prey with her arrow and hearing the sound of shrill terror turn to silence as they died in her arms. As a young cub, she lacked enough experience to hunt, but always anxiously awaited the return of her family on hunting days. Now, as a grown woman, Arrowblossom much prefered to hunt for herself and others rather than waiting hours on end for the return of her pack. They did not always bring back a meal, too. However, that was never a problem for Arrowblossom as she would never return home without a meal, even if it meant hunting through the night and returning back to the cave eaarly the next morning in time for breakfast.

One early evening, while Arrowblossom was out on her hunt, she had chased an elk to the edge of the forbidden kingdom. She was not supposed to travel this far from the cave on her own, especially while it was still light out. However, she only cared about slaying the beast before her. Her hunger fueled her rage as she pushed forth and snuck closer to the forbidden land ahead of her. The elk, grazing on a patch of crimson roses, had just peered out at the terrifying scene in the distance before Arrowblossom launched her spear thirty feet in front of her and struck the monstrous being. He drew his last breath as the arrow slit through his heart and sent him barelling through the air. In a split second, the forest went from silent, to a hurricane of shrills circling through the air, to the calm silence after the great beast tumbled to the ground with a great ‘thud.’ Exhausted from the hunt, Arrowblossom trudged over to where the elk lay to pluck her arrow out of the beast’s meaty heart. Just before she reached the animal, she was stopped in her tracks by the glow a shimmering flower, which she picked out of the corner of her eye. She reached down to it, though she found not a shimmering flower, but instead a shiny, dead worm with a flower penetrating its side in the center of its body. She was astounded at the sight and marveling at how hard, yet gorgeous the worm had become in its death. She was so mesmorized by its beauty that she could have wandered and lost track of her surroundings.

All of a sudden, a small group of humans from the kingdom approached her. The few of them were gaping at what she had done. For them, it was a disgrace to kill an elk because they worshiped and praised the animal in all its glory. One said, “What horrid thing have you done?” Another came up and pointed out the necklace which she carried loosely in her hand. Some whispered to each other “Is that her majesty’s lost necklace?” As more citizens approached the scene and the crowd’s whisper grew, another asked, “Child, would you happen to be the daughter of her late majesty, our queen?” One peculiar old woman crept forward and said “The queen never bore any children. My dear Child, where did you get that necklace?

Do you come from the land of the Arrowmen? Do you know who killed the queen those many years ago?” Arrowblossom slowly stepped back as the citizens drew nearer, for she knew not what these humans were saying or what they wanted of her. She never knew humanspeak, just that the humans could be dangerous and that she should always stay far out of their reach, safe in the forest.

Suddenly, a flock of men approached, realized the scene and surrounded the innocent, wayward child. One woman at the edge of the kingdom shouted “GET HER!” Arrowblossom still did not understand the words which came out of the human’s mouth, but she knew what they meant. She tried to run, but she could not escape the circle of muscular men reaching out their tentacles to grab her at every angle. Fortunately she had grabbed her spear before they surrounded her, and so she proceeded to fight back against the men. She knocked one man down and gave him a bloody knob on the head with her spear. Though, before she could do any more damage, the men caught her. She squirmed inside their cage, but they woud not budge. The citizens of the kingdom then proceeded to blindfold the stranger from the woods and parade her up the windy cobblestone path to the king’s palace. The march was quite long and Arrowblossom was tired and scared. Not knowing where to go or what to do she felt tears welting up under her eyelids.

Some time had passed when the two men carrying her pushed her down to her knees. She then heard the squeaking of a large, old, and rickety door being opened. The men then made her stand again and placed her before the king who sat upon his mighty, bronze encrusted throne. They ripped off her blindfold so the king could see her fully. The first thing he noticed was the necklace the men returned to his majesty. Then he glanced upon the child. A marvelous beauty with a face unbearably similar to his queen.

Once he gathered himself from a whirl of emotions, he asked “Who are you child?” Silence. “How old are you? What is your name?” Silence. Silence.

The king was starting to become a bit impatient with the child’s seeming retaliation. “Tell me how did you come in possession of this necklace!” He held out the necklace as the men shoved her forward so she might see it once more. Arrowblossom fell to the ground. She had not a clue as to what was going on. She glanced up at the king, tears trickling down her cheeks.

The king was fixated on the creature’s glowing blue eyes, which were the eyes of his wife. He eerily reached his crippled hand out to her cheek. She quickly pulled away from him, but he kindly motioned for her to come back, and she did so timidly. He gently wiped the tears from her eyes and held his daughter’s head. There was something so familiar about his touch that Arrowblossom felt comforted and safe, yet she was remained wrapped in a bubble of confusion. He had not a clue how it could be, but he came to believe that this was truly his daughter. He signaled for his people to leave and said, “I have at last found my daughter, our lost princess. You may now go about your day in peace.” The people left mumbling with curiosity and confusion; a silent chaos was brewing.

The king had so many questions yet to be answered by his beloved princess, but he let her remain silent for the night. He guided her about the palace with open arms and provided her with all the food, clothes, and bedding she needed. The princess was astounded at the size and magnificence of the place for she had never been indoors in her life, let alone outside of her home in the dark forest. She wondered if all kingdoms were like this one.

She also wondered if her family was looking for her and though she did not once feel unsafe, she worried through the night and longed to be home with her pack. In the morning she ventured around the palace and stumbled upon a weapons room. She found there the most glorious spear she had ever

seen. It too shimmered like the shiny worm she had found in the bush of red roses. She took the spear and headed back towards the room in which she had slumbered the night before. On her way, she encountered many citizens going about their days, but they continued to stare at her strangely.

Many backed away from her and mumbled in fear at the sight of her carrying a spear through the palace. The guard whom Arrowblossom had injured the day before stopped her in her tracks and tried to take the spear.

The princess shoved him to the ground yet again just as the king arrived at the scene. “What are you doing, Child?” She stood with her spear and pondered him with her majestic, sapphire eyes. Another guard from the day before approached the scene and said, “Please forgive me your majesty, but I do not believe this girl belongs in our kingdom. She appears to speak not a word of our tongue, yet carries around a spear? I fear she may pose a threat to the rest of the kingdom, sir. My deepest condolences, but I do not believe this is your daughter.” It appeared that the king was about to rebel, when he suddenly heard cries of agreement from his people. He turned to the princess and said, “My deepest regrets in saying this, child, but as ruler of this mighty land, I must do what is best for my people, and it seems they wish you begone. With that, I fare the well. You may go on your way now.”

When she did not move, the king signalled for her to be taken away. She was escorted out of the palace back the way she had been carried in the day before. Once the forest was in sight, they let her be free.

At the edge of the forest, the princess looked back upon her kingdom with deep sorrow. Though she could not believe her own thoughts, she did wish to return to the kingdom. Something about the palace had struck her. The palace was familiar. It was as if she had been there before, though she knew she had always belonged to her pack as they found her just after birth. As she pondered her thoughts on the edge of the forest, she noticed that the silence around her was alarming. She looked up and saw a rustle in the treetops and began to hear a rumble in the ground. Fear seeped in and as she stood frozen at the edge of the kingdom, and she was suddenly startled by the blowing of a horn. Then she started running, this time towards the noise. She knew not how she knew, but she sensed the kingdom was in danger. As she rounded the great palace, she saw a large, storming group of Arrowmen streaming through the kingdom towards her. She then started running towards the men, spear blazing. She could not face them alone, but she did not car. She began fighting and just as she was starting to slip through the cracks, the guards of the great palace began to help her.

Together, they saved the kingdom and all who lived in it.

The king approached his daughter with open arms and welcomed her back into the kingdom thanking her for her service in protecting his citizens, even though he had kicked her out. What she did was risky, but she chose to do the right thing rather than the fearful choice of running away from the problem. He spoke to his citizens, saying, “Let this be a reminder of what true bravery and courage looks like. Let this also serve as a reminder to all that judgement can be harsh and can lead one to push away those who are truly good in life. My dearest daughter cared not that we pushed her out of the way when she heard we were in need. She still saved the day!” Anyone who was there on that day remembered the story for years to come and the princess remained a prominent figure in the kingdom.

The king taught her to speak his language and Arrowblossom visited her pack often. In the end, she lived a very prosperous and happy life with her two different lives and families and she was to be remembered by all for centuries to come. ~The End~

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cigarette box PERIN ROMANO '22

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Artificial Island by Sophy Gao '23 Mildly Extraordinary by Carys Bowen '22 In the Woods by Carys Bowen '22 Through the Looking Glass by Alex Wolf '22

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from down here, you look about the same as you did up there, which is not what you expected me to say, but what did you really expect from me when you peeled off the warning label like a bandaid that doesn't stick anymore. go on and step on me again, but that relief is temporary just like the head rush you get every time you inhale the sweetness of the full-bodied me. and the damp ground may put out my fire, but i know you; you’ll just light another. you’ll take another piece of me hoping for some sort of temporary pleasure, but when the ashes fall and the base dwindles, you’ll feel the ache in your chest that i warned you about. i warned you. i warmed you for a split second, but that fire is gone, and the smell left on your jacket is not the same. the chemicals in your veins remain, and they’re no good for you, but i’m pretty sure you knew. i cringe every time the rain drops hit my fragile skin, and at least you can’t burn me when it rains, but he can, and i warned you he could, but you didn’t listen. so take one; i’m just like you anyway. we’ll always be in the back pocket of his jeans.

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litte

RED CINDERS MARLEY LAMMERS '22

Two Fairy Tales Meet It was a hot, musty day as Cinderella knelt by the hearth, picking lentils out of the ashes.

She was panicked because her evil sisters and step mother had struck a deal with her that if she picked all of the lentils out of the fire in time, she could go to the ball to see her prince, who she had met just days before at her first summer ball. However, there were thousands of lentils and Cinderella had no friends to come help her clean, so she failed her mission. Overwhelmed by her frustration for all her sisters have done to her, she went to her place of comfort; the tree near her mother's grave. She wept through the night and not a soul noticed.

After hours and hours of crying, Cinderella had no tears left to release her pain. Through her dry, irritated eyes, she caught a glimpse of the dark forest in the distance. Her evil step-sisters had harnessed her fear of the woods, for “bad things always happen to bad girls,” they said. However, she was not afraid tonight. In fact, the woods intrigued her more than anything. She dragged her limbs off the soggy ground and made her way into the ominous forest. The darkness consumed her mind, eyes, and soul. She felt as if she were a ghost walking. The pain had become almost numb to her and she felt as if a weight was holding her ever more to the ground.

As she wandered astray down the lonely path, she came upon a voice in the darkness.

“Hello dear child. What are you doing out in the woods all alone by yourself?” the frail old woman said. Cinderella could barely see her white, withered hair and her crippled nose through the thick, black air. Cinderella, enveloped in her sadness, could not bring herself to speak. The woman asked for her name so she breathed her name into the musty air, though all the witch could hear was “Ella.” “Ella? What a strange name. What a strange girl you are.” And the old woman said again “What are you doing out here all alone in this dark forest?” She moved ever closer to Cinderella so the child could smell her wicked breath in the hot, dry air. As Cinderella tried to inch away from the frail old woman, she grabbed Cinderella by the shoulder with her left hand, ever so slightly that she felt trapped. Once again, life poured back into her mind and soul, so she felt the witch's cold fingernails dig into her collarbone. She was alive again, yet paralyzed with fear. All of a sudden, a great burst of vicious noise crowded the air and flew to the very tops of the trees. Cinderella fell to the ground, released from the demon’s grasp. She hadn’t known what had happened until she saw a great beast huffing and puffing on the ground. His shaggy fur was shaking in the nonexistent wind and a low moaning sound, like the silent call of a whale in a vast ocean, filled the woods. Cinderella tip-toed over to the shallow breath of the lump in the ground, and then she peered down at the shimmering blood oozing from the beast’s chest. The child was afraid to touch the creature should he get angry and lash out at her. She studied the roughness of his toes and fingers and the coarse fur which he lay ever so gently upon. Lastly, she studied his face.

She expected to see the face of a villain, a cruel creature hungry for power and vengeance, but instead, she saw a charming, gentle, and kind man, confined in a box, waiting to be set free.

The princess stayed at the man’s side, patiently waiting for him to wake. As he slowly opened his eyes and saw the face of the woman he risked his life to protect, the ground began to shake. The sound of hooves drew near and soon, a handsome prince rode in upon his marble steed. He quickly jumped down from the horse and drew his sword to the beast’s throat. “What are you doing with my princess?” “No! Stop! Please!” Cinderella yelled. “I…” the beast failed to bring words to his lips. “He’s hurt, he saved me from an evil old woman who tried to kill me! But now he’s hurt. Please! Help him!” the child pleaded. At that moment a beautiful woman, who Cinderella thought must have been a princess, came running in. “Hello? Hello? Have you seen a… Oh my!” She saw the beast and the blood and ran over to him in panic and worry, all while the prince walked calmly to his horse to retrieve medicine from his satchel. He brought the medicine to his princess and the beast’s woman. They worked hard to heal the creature’s wounds and eventually succeeded, but no one knew where they were. The forest grew ever darker into the night. The moon had shown no light and the clouds in the sky concealed the stars in their own universe. There was no breaze to indicate which direction they must go, because the air was dry and hot and dead.

The four strangers looked out into the distance, not knowing where they were, where they needed to go to escape the woods, and when they would return home.

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SLEEPOVER

MUNA AGWA '23

On The Sidewalk and so we drank apple juice from wine glasses that night, clothed in satin nightgowns and anarchy, singing the same 2 songs over and over again until dawn. close your eyes and tell me what you see; honeyed moonlight against olive oil skin, eyes of marble, lips of glass, fingers of gold, a head with no body, a nobody. ripped chiffon hanging from cracked lips, and a dying neon sign that read welcome to wonderland. we’re lost in the landscape, grasping at cigarette-scented shadows, praying that dawn would and wouldn’t arrive all at once. feed me to the hydrangeas if i don’t see the morning: a forbidden wish that remains unfulfilled. this is rebellion, we thought. trapped in the static of a polaroid's graying ink. we are rebellion, we thought.

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18 A Wall of Fire Rising by Elizabeth Troyer '22 19 Metamorphosis by Martina Aucejo '22

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My Mom's Shoes

CAROLYN JIANG '23

Her shoes. The vehicle that carries her to and from wherever she pleases. From China all the way to New York in 2002. In 2005, they carried her to the Lutheran Hospital in Brooklyn, New York. She often says that I marked the official start of her new life in the United States. All the way from there to where she is now, a 47 year old Chinese immigrant living in Cleveland, Ohio.

She doesn’t own many pairs of shoes and she rarely gets new ones. In total, she has three pairs of shoes, her work shoes, a pair of sneakers, and a pair of heels. One look at her work shoes and you can tell she is a hard working woman. The broken back of the shoe, the frayed shoelaces, and the sauce stains on the shoe all piece together the hard working person she is. On the contrary, I own a bunch of shoes and always seem to want more. As of right now I have at least 6 pairs of shoes, some I don’t even wear anymore so she wears them. It is a surprise that her shoes are so dirty because she herself is a

very clean person. I often joke that she can’t see the letters on her phone screen but she can somehow see the singular piece of hair on the floor across the room.

All of my life I have seen her constantly working trying to make a better life for my brother and I by giving us the best opportunities possible.

Although we might not have the best relationship, she certainly has inspired me. I often reflect on how difficult it must have been to pick up everything from the only place you have ever known and to come and try to build a life alone in a completely foreign country. She has always forced me to my every limit. Starting to learn my times tables in kindergarten and putting me in extra classes every summer and even during the school year. I vividly remember many long nights when I was younger while we sat at the dinner table crying over simple algebra one problems. Every morning on my way to school, I see her beaten up shoes at the doorway and think, her shoes are a true reflection of who

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20 Bird Sanctuary by Liza Weinberger '25 21 Tennis Shoes by Evey Wellman '23 22 Chucks by Maisie Yan '23

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she is. Someone sturdy and a bit beaten up, but you can always rely on them no matter what.

Susan Jiang, not her legal name, but rather a persona she has taken on when she came to the states. Truly a courageous character. Although we may not have the perfect relationship, she is always someone that will be in my corner no matter the circumstances. I am proud to say that this short little Chinese lady is someone that I hold very near and dear to my heart. I am inspired how she came to America alone in her mid 20s and decided that she wanted better for herself and her future. Her perseverance and determination reminds me that I can get through whatever hardship that I am currently facing.

I love shoes, if I could I would spend every last penny on shoes. She, on the other hand, sees shoes as a sense of security. As a form of transportation that will keep her marching forward while everything else wants to hold her back. They act as a role of consistency in a life

that she cannot predict. She often complains about how badly her feet hurt and the conversation ends the same way every time, us arguing about how much worth money has.

When we go shopping we always argue about whichever shoes or clothes that either one of us is buying. I gravitate towards sneakers and she pulls me away from them often saying “Don’t you have enough?” Even though we argue, I love spending these short spurts of time with her.

They remind me of “normal” families. But after these short moments are over, she takes off her nice shoes and puts on her beat up under armour tennis shoes and carries on to work at the small Chinese American restaurant she started.

She inspires me everyday to do better and to keep walking, even if my feet are killing me. I wish I had the courage and the strength she had to leave everything behind and to start over. No matter how hard I try I will never be able to fill the humongous size 5 and a half shoes that she wears.

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Camellia

ALLISON FRITZ '22

Kyun had been a hairdresser for a year. He didn’t make much from his job, but he enjoyed the crisp morning sunlight pouring into his salon, and the conversations he shared with his clients. At first, he wondered if he had made the right choice by choosing this career. He didn’t make significant money, and he didn’t have any holidays off. So why would he choose it, even when he had a choice? But oftentimes, people don’t have a choice in life. Life is a gamble, and you pick and choose until you win the lottery, which isn’t even a guarantee.

No matter the reason, he wanted to help people. No, he couldn't save lives like a doctor, he couldn’t prescribe medicine like a psychiatrist, he couldn’t bring justice like a lawyer. But he always wanted to save someone in his own way. Because someone told him once, “Being a hero doesn’t mean you do something big and grand and everyone loves you. Being a hero means doing something to help someone even if you might not get anything out of it.”

“...of course we clean.” Felix snapped back. “Sorry. This is really important to me.” “I can tell. Alright then, bring it in and we’ll see what we can do.”

Felix seemed awfully desperate to have the flower back to health. The hairdresser couldn’t figure out why, but he decided to keep the boy’s mind at peace. It was a small favor anyways.

Felix did as he was told, and the flower started growing well in the sunlight. He decided to keep it at the salon permanently in a white pot in the corner of the room. He thought it was growing so successfully because of the sunlight. He didn’t know until years later that the hairdresser had taken extra care in watering the camellia routinely. People would probably make fun of him if they knew he cared so much about a flower, but the thought of it thriving made him smile. He thought of the old planter that once held the flower in his house, pristine until it got smashed. After the soil spilled from the pot, they stopped bothering to clean the house. Felix didn’t ask for a new planter, because at least the fighting stopped.

He walked past an empty street one day, and paused when he saw a splash of pink and red against the backdrop of a grey landscape. A camellia flower sat in a porcelain planter on the doorstep of a house.

Felix used to get his haircut at a little salon located at the corner of a small shopping area. His mother had asked him if he preferred to go to a fancy salon, one that charged one hundred dollars per cut, and came with a massage, but he was young, so of course he had no need for those things.

She brought him to the salon every few months, even when his slow growing hair was out of his face, because his father had insisted that his hair was a “bird’s nest” every time it grew a few inches beyond his ears. It was boring and he had to sit in the uncomfortable chair, but his hairdresser always finished in a matter of minutes, as Felix’s hair didn’t take long to cut. When he got a little older, he always insisted on coming to this salon, because the process was so easy. Every time he went, he noticed that the salon had a new addition. Maple wood flooring to the reception area. A mint green electronic fan. Soft blues painted onto the walls. Monstera and cacti growing from white porcelain planters.

“Why do you have those specific plants?” Felix asked the hairdresser one day. The hairdresser laughed. “Because those can still thrive even if they’re neglected. I tend to forget to water these plants. They’re one of the only things you can neglect and still bear no consequences.”

“My mother says they thrive well because of the sunlight. You have a lot of windows here.”

“That must be it.” He snipped off a strand of Felix’s hair.

“So can I bring my plant here? It’s a camellia, and it’s wilting.” “...A camellia?”

“Yes, I need it to grow here. Our house is too dusty, and its petals are getting ugly.” “Oh? Do you...not clean? A camellia...will grow back next year, won’t it?” He didn’t mean to speak so coldly, but the hairdresser wondered how a dirty house would make a plant deteriorate.

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Giselle wore oversized sweaters that might have been hand-me-downs, or a garment from a lover. At least that is what she liked to imagine. In reality, it was because she bought men’s clothing from a warehouse supermarket, when she realized that she could get brand name clothing for a better price that actually came with real pockets instead of ones that were sewed on.

People said she had a keen eye for observation. Speaking of eyes, she had an eye smile so that when she laughed her eyes became crescent moons. She was polite and attentive, and brought her laptop to the hair salon to work on something. After her session finished, she always immediately deleted her laptop’s search history. After all, she was shopping online for knives, took notes on which weapons could cause fatal injuries, and knew what sold well on the black market. She knew that the hairdresser would glance at her screen, as she saw his shaking eyes in the reflection of the mirror. Giselle wondered if he would report her to the police, so she decided to be honest.

“I’m an aspiring writer.” She told him. “The research you saw was for my writing. The knives are for my grandaunt, you see. She loves to cook.”

He paused, seeming more suspicious than before. “Oh. I see. That’s lovely.” “...would you read a book like that? About crime, I mean.” This was the first time she asked him a question that was unrelated to his job.

“Um, maybe? I’m not sure.”

“Because my writing seems to always get rejected. So I was just wondering if I was taking the wrong approach.”

“Hm. Maybe you are. If you would like, you can write some drafts and bring them. I’ll read them and tell you what I think.”

“Really?” She perked up in the salon chair, causing snippets of hair to fall from the salon cape she was wearing.

“I guess so. But to be honest, I would prefer a more heartwarming story. I feel like there aren’t enough of those in the world. And we just have so much happiness in the world, don’t you think? Someone once told me that we often forget how everyone has their bad days, but everyone also has something to be grateful for. But I’ll take a look at your writing.” Giselle settled back in the chair, looking satisfied, then glanced at a corner in the room. “That’s a nice plant. My grandaunt loves camellias like that one.”

“I enjoy watering it. It makes me motivated to care for something that gives back something so beautiful.” He replied back.

Mrs. Epiphany was an elderly woman who sometimes experienced partial amnesia. It was not medically diagnosed, but it was evident, as she couldn’t remember her name when asked by the salon receptionist. And so, they called her Mrs. Epiphany when she suddenly recalled that her first name was Frances, but people called her Fanny.

Mrs. Epiphany always received the same haircut, so she didn’t go to the salon often. Sometimes she would forget that she didn’t need a haircut, and show up at the salon anyways. Her hairdresser decided not to charge her a fee at these moments, but let her sit in the reception room, and offered her a cup of coffee in a clay mug, marked by her camellia pink lipstick. This continued for a long time, until the salon noticed she hadn’t come in a while. The hairdresser set out to visit her house, which he knew the address of because she had signed up for paper mail from the salon, one of the only clients that still did so.

The hairdresser knocked on the door a few times, until Mrs. Epiphany opened the door. When she saw him, she widened her smile. Inside, they enjoyed chocolate croissants and scones imported from France. Mrs. Epiphany also insisted that he try her homemade cooking, so he enjoyed some beef bone soup as well.

“Mrs. Epiphany, how have you been?” The hairdresser asked her after he finished. “Great, but I haven’t been going to the salon, as you know.” She tapped her knee. “This broke.” She let out a loud laugh that sounded like a crow.

“I’m sorry about that. Can the salon help at all?”

“No, I don’t think so. I appreciate the visit.”

“That’s good.” He checked his watch. “I have to get going, but I’ll visit again soon.” “Sir,” She suddenly said. “What are your troubles?” “...my troubles?” Mrs. Epiphany nodded at his words. “I guess I’m envious of people who have tight bonds. I want to be able to leave an impact on someone, and call them my friend.” He chuckled jokingly. “I’ve always wanted to help someone, but I don’t know if I’ve done that yet.”

Mrs. Epiphany nodded in a knowing way. “I used to think that I had to be liked by everyone, so I tried to help everyone I came across. But as you grow older, you realize that not everyone will like you, and it’s okay. Most people pretend that they’re close to other people, but I don’t need to pretend. Some bees and hummingbirds pollinate camellias, and other camellias are left alone. Regardless if they attract anything or not, they still

have meaning in this world. You wouldn’t kill a flower because it’s not doing anything, just thriving.” She let out another loud laugh as if this were the funniest joke she had ever heard. The hairdresser paused, letting it sink in. He thanked her wise words and went on his way back to the salon.

When he arrived at the salon he was met with frenzy. The other hairdressers were trying to calm a young woman, asking about her grandmother.

“This is Mrs. Epiphany’s granddaughter.” They explained.

“She said she was coming here.” The granddaughter said. “Are you telling me she’s still at home?”

“I just saw her.” The hairdresser raised his hand. “She’s at home. It must be her amnesia, so she forgot to come.”

The woman shook her head. “Amnesia? She doesn’t have amnesia.”

“You must be shocked. She comes here all the time, thinking she has an appointment when she doesn’t.”

“And...she stays and s coffee too?”

“Yes! How did you know?”

“She doesn’t have amnesia, she’s just lonely. She’s embarrassed to tell anyone so she pretends like she has memory loss as an excuse.”

The hairdresser stood there for a moment, processing what he had just heard. He wanted to rush back to Mrs. Epiphany’s cottage to announce that she was welcome at the salon anytime she became lonely. The next time he was able to visit her, he found unfamiliar people filing in and out of the house. A sign outside of the house read “For Sale.” The hairdresser ran back to the salon to retrieve a porcelain pot. He placed the camellia flower on Mrs. Epiphany’s doorstep as a drop of rain fell from the sky and it started pouring.

Camellia was turning three. We bought her a beautiful red and white cake that was three layers tall. I wanted to bake the cake, as I found an old recipe from my grandaunt’s files. It didn’t work out, to my dismay.

Kyun had cut her hair recently, and although he was a professional, Camellia jerked her head a bit so her haircut came out a little crooked.

Apparently it was the first time he failed on a haircut. I joked that it was because he wouldn’t get paid for this session.

I asked Kyun what his present was for Camellia and he paused. I said he couldn’t just give her a haircut. He suddenly asked me if I remembered what I had said once, about being a hero, even if it was doing something small. At first I thought he was just being snarky and trying to get out of buying Camellia a present, but then I realized he was right. If we ran to get a present at that moment, we would miss half of the celebration. Being right by her side at the moment and caring for her as a harmonious family would be enough for Camellia. It was enough for me at least.

“You’ve been a great hero, Kyun.” I said. “A camellia can’t bloom when it’s neglected.”

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Red Flag ALLISON FRITZ '22

You waved it as a warning I saw it as something lucky I know you didn’t But it felt like you used me.

You gave me false hope You said I could do it And I ignored the facts And believed you.

You say don’t give up But I might not make it You say it doesn’t matter But I can’t just fake it.

I think I’ve accepted Your Rejection It was probably for the better anyways, And despite everything I Still Like Red.

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Sunset from My Bedroom Window by Chloe Echols '23 Coke by Kate Klein '24 Late Night by Lilianna Parsons '23 The Collector by Maddi Bucci '23 Out Of Range by Anna Sharkunov '22

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Missing Antonio Monologue PERCY OKOBEN '22 Hark! Bassanio, my dearest what am I to tell thee? My ships have all sunk in The deep and I am myself to meet them At Shylock’s hands and he my breast will thin But you with your sweet wife lay unaware Of what fate is to become your dear friend And as my flesh is strewn, now here, now there I pray you, come and see me at my end For I have risked my life to give you leave To marry that girl who now keeps your heart In her grasp, I pray you, now bereaved Of your dear friend, before I soon depart Think not to come if t’isn’t in your bones To see me once more, Sweet Bassanio

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Possession of the Scholar OLIVIA BOYER '22 Humankind, whether fought against or not, has always been enamored by the possibility of spirits and magic. From the Salem Witch Trials to Ouiji boards, individuals have been attempting to contact the “other side” for hundreds of years.

The notion of contacting the dead is a principal motif in Possession by A.S. Byatt. These ideas are shown to the reader through different forms such as mediums, seances, ghosts, spirits, gravestones, and nonliving things that seem to be speaking or contacting the characters of the novel. A key example of the motif of magic and spiritual awakening towards the dead is within R.H Ash’s poem Mummy Posset. While this poem is also used to illustrate other happenings in the novel, specifically the mystery of what Cristabel did with her baby, it is additionally employed to further propel the concept of supernatural possession, playing directly into the title of the novel, saying, “Could, at a pinch, glide between these two screens,” (p. 441). The ‘two screens’ seem to be a barrier between life and death, with R.H. Ash causing his characters to determine what is real and what is fake, similarly to what he is doing in his own life. This goes to show the concept of life and death as somewhat impermanent to the reader, especially considering the academics are laboring to keep these long deceased writers alive through their work, blurring the lines between the living and the dead. By employing seances in Cristabel & Ash’s time, it almost seems as if they were also attempting to keep the past alive, much like Roland and Maud are in their day, and the reader of the novel is today.

Motifs - Water - Magic ✩✩✩ - Elementals (air, water, earth, fire) - Air (story from ch 11) - Earth (rocks that they collect/kill blanche) - Water (river, tears, ocean, etc) - Fire (sitting by the fire with Sabine)

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Myself Through My Eyes by Somerset Colligan '22 Green Summer by Carys Bowen '22 B and W by Alex Wolf '22 Home by Ami Hashimoto '23

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IDENTITY IDENTITY IDENTITY Crisis CARYS BOWEN '22

I can’t think.

Somehow, but I can’t think.

Language catches in my mind yarn tangles beyond recognition.

Weak arms, stiff jaw.

Didn’t know how dumb I am my words were never worse.

I can’t hear the rhythm, there’s no music in this monologue my voice is gone I wait for it to call, write a letter, whatever, but I know my voice is gone forever, visits only, hour monthly,

obligation not a pleasure.

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The Want for Androgyny Versus the Reality of Sexism in Modern Academia in Possession RHEA MAHAJAN '22

The sectors of gender and profession have always been intrinsically intertwined: especially for women. There is almost always a double-take that occurs, even in modern times, when a female has elected to pursue a traditionally male-dominated path. In the novel Possession by A. S. Byatt, there are many such female scholars that strive to break gender roles and create new social and professional boundaries. Of these, some are more successful than others. The portrayal of the careers of Maud Bailey and Leonora Stern prove that they were able to, at least somewhat, successfully push through the haze of male dominance- though not without considerable struggle. However, Beatrice Nest and Val were both stuck in the unlucky position of not claiming such advancement for themselves. Regardless of what resulted from their efforts, one detail that all these characters share is their wish for an ungendered environment in which to work. Androgyny, in the traditional sense of the word, is the expression of being mentally and emotionally (and in some cases, physically) both male and female. However, in context of this novel, it can be argued that an alternate definition be formed: the wish of females to be known for their work out of context of their gender. The oppressive nature of the world of academia is both restrictive and stifling for the female scholars of Possession, and they each have dealt with this obstruction in differing ways- some more successful than others.

Dr. Maud Bailey plays the role of Christabel LaMotte’s parallel in modern times. Not only are they both related - Maud’s “great-great-grandmother” was Christabel’s “daughter, May” (Byatt 471) - but they both share a connection with the poet Randolph Henry Ash. Maud’s main field of study is on Christabel herself and she is very successful: being one of two of the leading scholars on this particular subject matter. But regardless of how fortunate her career prospects have been, Maud has faced considerable sexism: specifically connected to her hair. Maud’s locks are a very unique color, resembling “streaked and polished oval stones, celandine yellow, straw-yellow, silvery yellow, glossy with restricted life” (Byatt 295). The hue of her hair led to some feminists at a conference to hiss at her, for they assumed it “to be the seductive and marketable product of an inhumanely tested bottle” (Byatt 64) and dyed “to please men” (Byatt 295). Neither accusation was true, but nonetheless, Maud ends up keeping her hair shaved throughout her teaching days so as not to be attacked again. Maud should not have to face criticism for her appearance — whether or not it was altered from its natural state — but because of the male majority serving as an overwhelming shadow, there is no way to escape the sexism. Though Fergus convinces her on a bet to grow it out, the way Fergus persuades her is through gaslighting, saying that “the shaved style was a cop-out, a concession…made me [her] look like a skull” (Byatt 295). Goading Maud into doing something that will revert her back to looking like a typical female is a rather sexist and selfish move, yet very much in line with the happenings of the academic realm in this time period.

The other of the two leading scholars on Christabel cannot be more different than the first. Professor Leonora Stern is described to be nearly the exact opposite of Maud: “a majestically large woman…[with] olive skin…an imposing nose, a full mouth, with a hint of Africa in the lips, and a mass of thick black, waving hair, worn shoulder-length and alive with natural oils” (Byatt 337). This somewhat-stereotypical description of her character continues, stating that Leonora “originated in Baton Rouge and

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claimed both Creole and native Indian ancestry” and is an extremely extroverted, openly sexual being with an “expansive prescence” (Byatt 337).

Regardless of the differences in their physical nature and personality, and beyond their friendship, one concrete commonality between Maud and Leonora is their successful academic career. Dr. Stern is the author of multiple publications, including Christabel LaMotte: a Selection of Narrative and Lyric Poems and Motif and Matrix in the Poems of LaMotte. Though not much has been described about Leonora’s journey to where she is today, it can be presumed that she has had quite some difficulty studying a British poet, being both an American and a woman. She is also the most sexualized amongst all the female scholars in the novel. In one instance, Professor Blackadder smells “...a perfume of musk and sandalwood and something sharp that affected Blackadder in contradictory ways. He believed he found it suffocating. Underneath he sensed something else, a promise of darkness, thickness, flesh. He looked down once or twice at Leonora’s naked expanse of shoulders and bound breasts…He found these moving” (Byatt 461). Leonora chooses to embrace the sexism and sexualization in her walk of life, and instead chooses to throw it back in everyone's faces, egging them on by wearing “resplendent and barbaric” (Byatt 434) clothing and acting in a manner that befits the attire. It can be assumed that though she would welcome a career in which sexism was not something she had to deal with (if only for the sakes of other female scholars, like her friend Maud), Leonora is still very successful and carries on in her admirably brazen manner, poking fun at the English and their (compared to Americans) stuffy ways.

The world of academia during the early twentieth century was not the most ideal time for a woman to be a scholar. Often, female students were treated condescendingly, (a little) spitefully, and generally patronized by their institution. Dr. Beatrice Nest tells Maud about her time in “the late 1960s…[when] women were not permitted to enter the main Senior Common Room at Prince Albert College” and instead had to stay in their own room “which was small and slightly pretty” (Byatt 240). First of all, being barred from spaces on account of one’s gender is exceptionally sexist; and second of all, making the women’s room more dainty and elegant to fit what the men perceived to be what the women wanted is both ridiculous and supercilious of them. The female scholars were also often excluded from important academic happenings (let alone the social ones) within the department. Beatrice goes on to explain to Maud how “everything was decided in the pub — everything of import — where we were not invited and did not wish to go. I hate smoke and the smell of beer. But [I] should not therefore be excluded from discussing departmental policy” (Byatt 241).

It can be assumed that Beatrice’s dislike for these experiences, a sentiment that was most likely shared by her compatriots, was partially why the department men chose to continue holding meetings at the pub: because they were sure that the location would deter any of their female colleagues from coming and participating in the discourse. The fact that any pub scenes with a group are automatically more enjoyable was just a bonus.

Besides being excluded from department-wide, sans-women occurrences, as a result of the male-dominated state of affairs in the early twentieth century, Beatrice’s original academic interest in Randolph Henry Ash was ignored and she was instead pushed towards studying Ellen Ash, the great poet’s wife — and someone who was thought to be a better fit for a female scholar. Even Beatrice’s mentor, Professor Bengtsson, “suggested she

compare the wifely qualities of Ellen Ash with those of Jane Carlyle, Lady Tennyson and Mrs. Humphrey Ward” (Byatt 129) instead of offering a path of study that incorporated studying Ash himself. Though it turns out that Ellen is a good match for Beatrice’s overall personality, both sharing a love for Ash and the nature of celibacy (for different reasons), that does not disavow the fact that she was originally pushed away from the male figure on account of her gender. Despite everything, Beatrice works through this male-imposed obstacle by eventually learning to enjoy her area of study — but her story is just one example of someone who would have benefitted from a more streamlined, ungendered version of her profession because it would have allowed her to pursue her original interest without being steered away, towards more “suitable” options.

Another character who also has not held any type of real academic success is Roland’s girlfriend Val. By not being given a surname, the only character in this particular situation, Val has been firmly set as a fixture in Roland’s life and not the main character of her own story. When she is originally introduced, one of the first impressions of her personality is that she is shy and meek - for when the couple argued about some topic, over time “...Val said less and less, and…offered him increasingly his own ideas, sometimes the reverse side of the knitting, but essentially his” (Byatt 16). It is then found out as to why Val becomes increasingly less uniquely opinionated. It is because in her university days, Val was pushed away from her studies of R. H. Ash- not unlike Beatrice, though hers was in a more humiliating fashion. “She wrote her Required Essay on ‘Male Ventriloquism: The Women of Randolph Henry Ash’” and though it “was judged to be good work,” it was “discounted by the examiners as probably largely by Roland” (Byatt 16). Of course, the examiners’ assumptions were completely off-base, but as a result of this mortifying failure, Val transforms into a rather prickly person when it comes to the sore subject of academia: especially when it happens to do with Ash. Regarding the assumptions, it is very obvious that this type of conjecture was only formed on the basis of Val’s gender, and relatedly, her connection to Roland (a known scholar of Ash). If Val was a he instead of a she, there is no way that this assumption would have even been thought of. However, due to the inherently sexist nature of academiaparticularly when it concerns a historical male or male-dominated subject- Val had to abandon her studies in the subject matter of her choosing. Breaking gender constraints when it comes to any aspect of society is always difficult. This is exceptionally true if one is a woman and doing so in a professional field that has historically been male-dominated. Four very individual females in Possession are in this exact position: pursuing academia related to Christabel LaMotte and Randolph Henry Ash. Two were successful, the other two not so much.

This outcome could be dependent on each one’s individual position- in social standing or education but it is more likely linked to which of the two poets the women chose to study. In the patriarchal world of academia, Maud and Leonora studying Christabel was not something that caused raised eyebrows — whereas Beatrice and Val aiming to study Ash himself did. This double-standard nature is direct proof that whatever content women output, it is considered within the context of their gender. But what each and every one of the female scholars in this novel wish is for them to be free of societal restrictions and study what they please, and for their research to be thought of solely as research- not “a woman’s perspective.” The wish of females to be known for their work out of context of their gender is not something that will come to head easily: singularly because of the sexist nature of academia at present.

32 32 The Line by Eesha Talasila '23 33 Pinkies Up by Kaya Mendels '22

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Bibliography Byatt, A. S. Possession. Random House, 1990.

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THE IMPORTANCE OF

Stuffed Animals TARYN KUCHARSKI '23

When I was little I had a stuffed animal named Hoggie. Hoggie and I did everything together. I distinctly remember one winter, my family and I were traveling and I took Hoggie with me to the airport.

One moment he was there and the next I couldn’t find him. I instantly dropped to my knees and began sobbing. How could this happen? How could I have been so foolish to misplace the one thing I loved the most? Luckily, we found Hoggie, but if we hadn’t it would’ve been okay. I was so attached to Hoggie that when I was younger my parents had bought 7 of the same stuffed animal, just in case I lost mine. It is almost like they had seen this airport incident through a crystal ball and said, “Let’s stay on the safe side.”

I slept with Hoggie every night, and when things weren’t going well for little Taryn, Hoggie was always there to tape me back together. When I was feeling happy, I celebrated with him . No matter what happened, Hoggie was always there, to offer his eternal love and care.

I have two older brothers who are a year apart from each other. While I am around 4 years younger than the middle one. The dynamic between them vs with me were completely different. They were each other's closest confidants and dearest friends, and then there was just me. In their eyes I was just the annoying little sister who followed them around and copied what they did. In reality all I wanted was to be their friend, I wanted them to like me. I know this sounds ridiculous because we are family so obviously, they love and care for me. But I wanted more, I wanted them to think I was cool, to joke around with me the same way that they joked around with each other. Unfortunately for me, most of my childhood while they were always kind to me, there was still that distance, the clear difference between their relationship and ours. It is heartbreaking for a little kid when they look at their older siblings with stars in their eyes and when they look back at you, it feels like they are looking at an annoying bug that won’t stop coming back. Okay maybe a little too much detail… The point is whenever I felt like I was their annoying and unwanted little sister, Hoggie was there to reassure me that he loved me, and we would be there for each other no matter what. So what if my brothers didn’t want to play pretend with me? Hoggie would always be there. As I got older though, I got my own friends, and finally felt what it was like to hang out with people who also wanted to hang out with me. I stopped sleeping with Hoggie every night and eventually stored him in a box in our basement. Alone, in the dark, collecting dust.

In the fall of 2019 when I was on facetime with my boyfriend Charlie, and suddenly after almost 6 years without thinking of him, memories of my childhood best friend and companion came flooding back. I immediately ran downstairs to my basement to find this piece of tattered pink cotton in the form of a pig.

My heart soared as I remembered all the good memories I had with Hoggie, all the love that I had in my heart for him. As quickly as my heart felt whole again, my heart broke. A stinging pain of sadness struck me as I realized how neglected my old friend had been all these years.

I started to think about how quickly relationships could end, and how sneakily old friendships could slip through your fingers. I began to think about my own life, about the human species as a whole. What made Hoggie so great? Why did this physically inanimate object, vibrantly come to life in memories? In my thoughts? Why did this connection mean so much to me? Then I realized my relationship with Hoggie was as strong as it was because we showed each other unconditional love. We were always there for each other… until I wasn’t anymore. Until I shoved him away into a tiny, black box. Hoggie, my Hoggie that I once could not go a minute without, stuffed away with all the other junk in my house.

Instantly it all made sense to me. Like a glass wall shattered in my head, I finally began to understand. As a human being you need love. You need people to tell you that they love you and be there to give you a hug when you're sad. You need people to hang out with you and love you when it seems like no one else does. Humans are no different than our worn-out stuffed animals. They don’t deserve to be neglected and forgotten, packed away into the back of our basements or thoughts. They deserve to be loved with the same intensity that little children love their stuffed animals with.

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Dreams of a TESS HAYS '22

Different Life

a dark, crowded bar. elegantly dressed men and women. secluded corners and heavy velvet curtains. alone in a city with your closest friends. graffiti and smoke and neon lights. the taste of freedom on your tongue. beaches and everlasting summer. nostalgia. knowing you’ll remember this night forever. The moon catching on the waves. bonfires and s’mores. the desire to go places that don’t exist and live lives that aren’t yours. feeling trapped and alive at the same time. magic and spirits and fire and swords. red lipstick and dyed hair. leather jackets and a motorcycle. the wind in your hair. deserted streets and flickering lights.

34 I'm Not Lion by Marley Lammers '22 35 Missed Connections by Helen Breen '22 36 A Crowded Scene by Suzy Schwabl '22

ALLISON FRITZ '22

OLD Google DRIVE

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There seems to be a part of my memory that erased the fact it’s gone.

Somehow I still think I can find it again, if I look hard enough.

I relied on it, It was my safety net.

I trusted that it would keep everything for me.

I believed that everything I had ever created Would be kept.

But I was wrong.

I keep going back to that folder Though I know it’s empty Because I feel inclined To take action Even though I know I can’t do anything, I’m just desperate.

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Three Visions, One America SAIJA SHAH '23

While visiting the harbor one day, Gatsby looks out across the waters. His eyes settle on Dan Cody’s approaching yacht. Nick analyzes, “to young Gatz, … that yacht represented all the beauty and glamour in the world” (100). It was this occurrence that prompted Gatsby to start making a series of changes in his life that he thought might allow him to achieve even some of that beauty and glamour. Despite its suddenness, his spark being the yacht is characteristic of the path he directed this change to take, in that by and large, Gatsby equated wealth with the possession of expensive goods. Leaving the harbor that day, he carried with him an American Dream of his own.

In 1959, Ramesh Shah made the choice to leave the small village of Bardoli, India in pursuit of the education and opportunity the United States was said to offer. By ship, he went first to London and then to the United States. My grandfather often tells the story of, “The Most Expensive Dal I Ever Bought”. One of the few possessions he brought on the trip was a suitcase packed with rice and dals, quite the staple in Gujarati cuisine. Nowadays I don’t think twice about a trip to Sunny’s Asian Food and Spices, but when my grandfather first came, Americans had never even heard of his kind of food. Upon his arrival in London, a man approached him with an offer to take care of shipping the suitcase to his final destination, which would relieve him of the need to carry it. Now, if you’ve ever had to figure out how you were possibly going to carry a bag of basmati rice from Sunny’s counter to the car, you might understand why this was an enticing offer.

Liberty mad. This phrase was used to describe colonists in the late 18th century, driven into excitement by a new ideology that rights were not something you should attain by being an Englishman, but rather something that you were naturally allowed as a free man. After years of different fights for freedom, people were ready to end the fighting and push the boundaries on what that term defined. This progressed alongside the American Revolutionary War, in which the colonies of the Americas joined efforts to break away from England’s grasp and form a more righteous state. As a new nation, the resulting “United States of America” had no tradition to uphold, leading many to take the claim that it had both the ability and the power to become an ‘asylum’.

Gatsby certainly succeeds at generating the material wealth he sought. By his late twenties, he’s recklessly driving around fancy cars and hosting lavish parties every weekend at his mansion in West Egg. The young Gatsby might have taken pleasure in seeing that the goal he outlined watching Cody’s yacht did come to fruition. However, as time passes, he loses all sight of this accomplishment. Nick begins to notice Gatsby isolating himself at each of these parties. He goes to them and sometimes doesn’t even see Gatsby there.

His ever attuned eye notes, “Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once more at [his eyes] and they looked back at me, remotely possessed by intense life” (96). This method, one of employing the noise as a shield from recognition, is an inclination of Gatsby’s throughout his life. To him, that is an easier feat than the confrontation of his dissatisfaction.

Something I hear my dad, the son of this grandfather, often say is that if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is. This was the case with that man’s offer. Upon arrival in America, my grandfather was told that in order to get possession of the suitcase back, he would need to pay a very steep price. There was no room to bargain, as the other end of the deal had already been completed. I find it interesting to think that ultimately my grandfather still chose to pay for it. That expenditure left him quite literally broke, at which point he went to go live with his friend in New York. Now, despite being filled to the brim, that suitcase was only ever going to provide a finite amount of dal. There would be a period of his life where my grandfather didn’t have that stash to pull from, but he wasn’t ready to start that just yet.

The American diet at that time consisted of a whole different kind of food. At one point, he was eating straight sticks of butter in order to gain back the weight he’d lost. All of this makes me question why? Why was 1959 the time to leave for the US- a world in which that one suitcase of dal was the only link to India he could have? Said differently, what was his American dream?

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Asylum- noun: shelter or protection from danger. Thomas Paine writes in Common Sense, “the United States should be an asylum for the persecuted lovers of civil and religious liberty”. By this definition, Paine’s view of liberty acting as an asylum makes a simultaneous suggestion that there is danger in having a lack of freedom. The dream that accompanied the new nation of America was directly tied to breaking free from that danger and embracing naturally given rights. Perhaps stating it in this way adds urgency to the matter as well, shifting it from just a dream to a necessary course of action. It worked, too. With this new idea of the American Dream in mind, many were persuaded to resettle in the Americas in hopes of living it out themselves.

The most outstanding trait of Jay Gatsby is undoubtedly his persistence. He wasn’t a man to evolve his views or ideas; once a cause sprung his interest, he was set to chase its fulfillment to the end. This transpires in two ways: one in his determination to end up with Daisy Buchanan and the other in his desire to demonstrate great wealth in his social sphere. Ultimately, Gatsby’s problem was not his passions, but rather his oblivion to his progress with them. Infatuated by their ideas, he was blinded to his reality, in which Daisy had long been a changed person and his acquisition of possessions lent him no real joy. Still, Gatsby carried both pursuits with him up until his demise.

Another idea that circulated among colonists was that the American Revolution was not one for America, but rather one for mankind. Never before had a country embraced liberty to the extent that colonists in the Americas were setting out to do. After years of envisioning various utopias, America would finally emerge as the pioneer of a radically new kind of society. Fulfilling John Winthrop’s “City upon on a hill” vision was in motion; many thought that liberty in America would lead to liberty in other places as well. This effect did ensue; nowadays, most countries have accepted the constitution model to outline their law. In seeing that the liberty dream did extend into the global sphere, one could say that the US fulfilled its own American Dream.

There’s a theme of give and take in my grandfather’s story. He had to make a lot of sacrifice in order to find opportunities and education in the US. Like Gatsby though, he had drive to make it work. It’s a Sunday. I enter the same house my dad and aunt grew up in, the same house I feel like my sister and cousins and I grew up in. I have so many memories there-- birthdays, anniversaries, Diwali parties, Christmas, even a wedding. And there sits my grandfather, watching the Packers game. He’s been a loyal fan since he first learned to love American football while studying engineering at Marquette.

Sometimes I wonder if that was a genuine interest or just a part of his adapting to life here. My mom and I’ve come to scan some pictures to show my dad on his upcoming 50th birthday. The album glue has long expired, pictures falling out left and right. Many feature the same house, the same room even, that we are sitting in. They capture what I see has been a pretty incredible life. There’s no way my grandfather could have predicted this life when he first arrived, but he was willing to take the risk.

The American Dream is something I see referenced all the time in my day-to-day. I grew up playing the “American Dream” board game with my dad and sister, trading stocks, buying patents, and trying to increase my income so I could win the game. But what is it, really? Is it the hope of moving to East Egg and finding great material wealth? Is it the willingness to sacrifice previous ties in the pursuit of education and opportunity? Is it the dream of comprehensive liberties- of rising up as a city on a hill for other nations to follow? The fact is, the idea encompasses a multitude of different experiences and end goals, reality often taking a different path than our first intention.

Works Cited Fitzgerald, F. Scott. The Great Gatsby. Scribner, 2013.

Foner, Eric. Give Me Liberty!. W. W. Norton & Company, 2019.

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37 37 Christmas at The Arcade by Sydnee Dykes '23 38 Great Gatsby by Elizabeth Troyer '22 39 Land of Opportunity by Rhea Mahajan '22

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Le Petit Prince Chapitre Supplementaire PAR ZOE NELSON '23 AVEC DES ILLUSTRATION PAR AVA BEREDO '23 Le petit prince est arrivé sur une planète très chaude. Il ne pouvait pas bien respirer, alors le seul bruit était le bruit de la respiration difficile.

Puis soudain il a entendu une voix.

“Mon fils?” La voix a dit.

Le prince n'a pas répondu.

Une femme est venue au prince. Ses cheveux étaient étranges et grands et le prince voulait rire. “Mon fils,” elle a répété.

“Non, je ne vous connais pas. Je ne suis pas ton fils.”

“Viens,” la femme a dit, et elle l’a examiné.

“Oh! Oh! Tes joues sont roses.”

“J’ai chaud.”

“Tu es malade. Viens, viens.”

Puis elle a pris le prince dans ses bras. Ses bras étaient si longs qu’elle pouvait envelopper le prince complètement dans ses bras.

“Je ne peux pas bien respirer…" le prince a dit.

“Shh! Va à ton lit.”

“Je n’ai pas de lit.”

“Ah, ah,” la femme a dit, “C’est ici.”

Et c’était vrai. Le prince a vu un très petit lit avec des cordes.

“Pourquoi est-ce qu’il y a des cordes?” Le petit prince a demandé à la femme.

“Le monde est très dangereux pour un petit garçon. Tu dois rester au lit.”

“Pour toujours?”

Et la femme n’a pas répondu.

“Je-” Soudain la femme a mis le prince sur le lit et elle a commencé à lacer les cordes.

“Non! Je ne veux pas rester au lit… Je dois partir… Je dois aller à ma fleur…”

Et la femme a arrêté. “Qui? Qui?” “Ma fleur.”

La femme a encore commencé à lacer les cordes. “Tu ne peux pas avoir une fleur. C’est dangereux. Les fleurs ont des épines."

“Ow! Ces cordes sont trop…” Mais le prince n'a pas fini sa phrase à cause des cordes. Il ne pouvait pas bien respirer. Pendant que le prince dormait, la femme le regardait. Elle lui a donné un bisou, mais le bisou était trop chaud. Cette nuit, le prince s’est réveillé pendant qu'il restait au lit. Il a vu la femme parce qu’elle n’était jamais au loin. Le prince a eu une bonne idée.

“Je suis malade.”

“Shh, je sais. Tu ne peux pas quitter ton lit.”

“J’ai besoin d'une pilule.”

“Oui, je suis d’accord. Mais je n’ai pas de pilules.”

“Il y a un marchand de pilules. Sur cette planète-là."

La femme a regardé l’autre planète. Elle était anxieuse. “Je n'ai jamais quitté cette planète.” “D’accord, alors où est-ce que je peux trouver un docteur…”

“Non!” La femme a dit. “Non, je trouverai une pilule.” Elle a ajouté plus de cordes, et elle les a lacé, puis elle est partie. “Mes oiseaux!” Le prince a dit après un moment. “Cui-cui!”

Les oiseaux dans le ciel ont entendu le prince, et ils sont venus.

“Aidez-moi! Les cordes…”

Et les oiseaux ont coupé les cordes avec leurs becs.

Tout à coup, le prince a entendu la femme. Elle était retournée avec des pilules. Les oiseaux ont commencé à emporter le prince au ciel.

“Non! Arrête! ARRÊTE!" “Je dois vous quitter. Je dois être indépendant.”

“Tu ne peux pas me quitter!” Elle essayait de le suivre.

“Je dois voir le monde… Je dois décider qui je suis…”

“Ne me quitte pas! S’il te plaît… S’il te plaît…”

“Maman!” Il a dit.

Et la planète devenait plus au loin, peu à peu… Le monde de la

La femme lui est venu. “Oui? Oui?”

femme devenait très petit…

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Hands CARYS BOWEN '22 hands

not sentient. trembling like a leaf. small and fearless only curious. finding rhythms before knowing they are there but can’t remember them in preparation to play. and the rest— the rest of the body is tired. fired up and raining stars. can’t see through the shadows clouding under the streetlight as it turns and pivots— there is no past, there is no future the moonlight dances over the wet pavement lining my veins & nothing exists. \the rest\ speaks in flowers and ferns and has no ears.

I promise you with the force of the howling wind that everything I do is a miracle.

40 41 40 Break A Leg by Liza Weinberger '24 41 The Beginning by Taryn Kucharski '23 42 My Things by Suzy Schwabl '22

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Galatea, Years Later MUNA AGWA '23

What I didn’t know about being made of ivory is that everyone has several ways to break me, leaving cracks where they aren’t supposed to be: new breaks that sew together my calcied esh.

I often wonder if the cracks will feel like veins: will they course with the same hurt?

Will they knot and gnarle from exhaustion?

When he playfully plucks at the hairs on my face, will they make music like the rest of a body?

Venus! Animate me! That my eyes might cry honey rather than glass! Unwind the bend of my arms, and soften the pull of my face!

It was not enough to trick him; to make him think his liminal daydreams were reality, that somehow my stone vessel eased into skin.

I wish to be more than an artist’s hallucination, a desperate man’s creation.

Have each curve and break and space chase after living. After life.

Afterlife. A life after life that lives for herself. That’s what I want Venus: living for sensation. A colorful coronation. To breathe and sing and wail and expand on the cli’s edge: inhaling the balsam blue from my throne of petals.

Until then, I wait here. A sentiment of his pride. A divine and spotless bride, born from the stone and the chisel, perfectly posed on my picturesque pedestal.

And while I create the semblance of a awless wife, I long for the day I can shiver to life.

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Le Goût de la Victoire ALLIE SCHMIDT '22

J’ai cinq ans. Je sens les larmes qui coulent sur mon visage alors que je frappe mes jambes en l’air en posant sur le sol de la voiture. Je goûte la douce gomme à la menthe ce que je refuse désespérément de jeter pour mon match de football.

Mes parents essayent tout pour me faire jeter la boule de gomme pour que je puisse jouer dans mon match de football.

Cependant, mes chaussures sont trop desserrées comme si j'avais des boîtes de céréales aux pieds au lieu de chaussures de foot, mon uniforme bleu me démange et cette gomme goûte très bien. Dehors la voiture, le match de foot commence. Nous ne pouvons pas quitter le parc parce que mon père est l’entraîneur de notre équipe.

J’entends les cris de joie des petites filles et petits garçons.

Mes larmes sèchent en laissant les traînées de sel sur mon visage. La gomme commence à perdre sa saveur et je m’ennuie. Lentement, je me relève et surveille la scène qui se passe dehors la fenêtre de la voiture. Je regarde mes amis et les autres enfants qui courent partout sur le terrain de foot.

Quelques enfants s’asseyent et pleurent pour leurs parents, mais pour la plupart tout le monde semble content.

Je décide finalement de cracher ma gomme et d’aller dehors pour me joindre à mon équipe. D’après un peu de temps, je cours partout sur le terrain de foot avec tous mes amis.

Ensuite, j'entends le sifflet de l’arbitre et mon père me donne le maillot de gardien quand j'arrive au banc. Je déteste jouer comme gardien, je voudrais courir avec mes amis pas être dans le but. Le match commence encore et je m’ennuie. Je me souviens de quelque chose de cool que mon ami m’avait montré l’autre jour. Je tape ma tête et me frotte mon estomac.

Mes cheveux sont en désordre. Le maillot de gardien sent rêche sur mon uniforme. Néanmoins, je suis heureuse de savoir que j’ai la capacité de taper ma tête et frotter mon estomac. Soudain j'entends une voix forte et grave. <<QU’EST-CE QUE TU FAIS?! FAIS-ATTENTION.>> C’est la voix du père de mon ami. Je rigole avant de me lever les yeux et voir un enfant de l’autre équipe qui est bientôt prête à marquer un but. Avant que je puisse réagir, l’autre équipe fait la fête. Je dois prendre le ballon de notre but et j'entends les enfants et parents de l'autre équipe qui poussent des cris d'encouragement. Le ballon est glissant de la fraîche rosée du matin dans mes mains et il tombe.

Mon père me sort du but. Finalement, je peux jouer encore sur le terrain. Heureusement, mon équipe gagne le match.

Après le match quelques parents apportent des snacks pour l’équipe. Il y a les oranges, les cartons de jus et les donuts. La vue d'autant de nourriture est tentante, mais je peux seulement penser à une chose, la gomme à la menthe. Je sprinte vers la voiture. La gomme goûte tellement meilleur quand on est une gagnante. Je suis fatiguée des événements du jour. Je sens le soleil qui réchauffe mon visage et je regarde la lumière du soleil qui danse à travers la voiture. La voiture heurte sur la route de gravier en quittant le parc. Mes yeux se ferment et je m’endors.

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Discordant Harmony by Brooklyn Napolitano '22 Flowered by Brooklyn Napolitano '22 Little Men by Lucia Passarelli '22 Snow Cone Nostalgia by Somerset Colligan '22

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CITY OF C RN

ALLISON FRITZ '22

Thinking about Ohio, the stereotype is that all we have is corn. As an Ohio native, I think it’s partially true. Not just in the country landscapes, but in our supermarkets too. Corn Flakes, Popcorn, and anything with high-fructose corn syrup. I have no idea why, but the words “City of Corn” came to my mind one day, and I feel like this describes Cleveland, Ohio pretty well, as well as many other areas in the MidWest. I started thinking about food from other cities, and times that I’ve been to restaurants around the world, envied how they had so many dining options. There’s one country I’m especially familiar with, one that happens to have many choices for food.

— Every summer in Taiwan, I used to get viciously bitten by tropical mosquitos, and would scratch so hard each time that it would draw blood.

The older members of my family that live there always said that it was because my blood was “too sweet”, and mosquitoes were attracted to it. That I should eat healthier to balance it out.

My face used to puff up too, and faded red spots reminiscent of an allergic reaction appeared on my skin. Apparently, I did have some kind of allergy.

I would rub my eyes until they got itchier, and everytime I sneezed my eyes watered excessively, to the point where I sneezed once and people asked me why I was crying, which gave me much confusion. Maybe it was the change in humidity, or maybe the pollution in the air, but when I was younger, I always thought that I was allergic to mosquitos. I tried to prepare myself, with anti-itch serums, insect-repellent stickers—that would burn your eyes if you touched them with the peppermint-scented substance that covered them—and some kind of herbal medicine from the local doctor that was said to help the swelling.

Despite this, my mom said that people thought I looked like a doll when I was a toddler. I personally don’t remember this. I just know that people would comment on how big my eyes were. As I got older, I never quite knew how to react when my mom would be talking to someone, and they would ask her if she was my host-parent, because I looked like a foreigner. I started realizing that I was sticking out, different. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t accepted, but it was still a somewhat awkward situation.

So I tried to blend in a little. It wasn’t as if I intentionally rarely spoke English, but because no one could really understand me anyways, and I really wasn’t the type to purposely try to stand out, I just never felt the need to go out of my way to use it.

Perhaps I tried to become less picky with foods the older I got, so I could be seen the same way. I accepted things like daily morning chicken broth— made by my grandma and placed in a glass bottle on the marble kitchen counter— and I would try barbequed “rice blood cake” (which I’m pretty sure is the vegetarian version of pig’s blood cake but honestly I’m still not sure). These were just a few of the food related cultural differences I experienced.

One somewhat unpleasant food experience involved fish bones. When I was around four years old, my mom was out one evening, and some other family members were feeding me a meal of fish. I do enjoy fish, but being raised in America, I really didn’t understand at the time that “food fish” was a living being that had vertebrae, because all I ever knew was salmon belly from Heinen’s, with all the scales and little bones picked away. So that night, I

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innocently ate the fish. Soon I realized that it was not just smooth meat, but instead, dozens of little thorns that I was supposed to pick out. I didn’t know this. When my mom came back home, I ran to her right away and cried out “They fed me fish bones!” Everyone laughed at me, since serving the whole fish is normal. But I’ve always had a minor fear of a sharp bone getting stuck in my throat, because my mom always told me that you can choke on these bones.

Another disappointing – now somewhat laughable – experience was when I saw this questionable animal organ-looking item in the kitchen one day. It really shocked me when I found out that this was edible. My grandma, wanting the best for us, kept encouraging my cousin and I to eat it, because apparently it had health benefits, but it was incredibly hard for me to accept. I think eventually we were forced to eat it, either out of politeness or having it literally shoved into our mouths, but all I remember is that this was the worst taste I had ever experienced. What surprised me even more was that after that day, I never expected to see it again, as I had never seen it before that time in my life, but one day, our extended family members and some friends gathered in a restaurant for some kind of dinner celebration. All I can remember is that the organ-thing appeared again, this time, on top of a plate of steamed vegetables and there were eight of them, sitting on that plate like it was some kind of everyday meal. I knew I wasn’t the only odd one out because my cousin, who was born and raised there, also admitted that she would never eat that. Since no one seemed to turn their attention towards that dish, I let out a sigh of relief. That is, until some great-aunts started grabbing the squishy orbs with their chopsticks, and my cousin jokingly mentioned that I liked eating them, with a mischievous giggle. I quickly said no, but it was too late, the chopsticks were coming, and the orb was about to go onto my plate. Again, I insisted that I was okay, and again the aunts insisted back, as there is a culture of hospitality and they believed I was just declining it to be polite. It ended up sitting on my plate for the whole night but I never touched it, and I’m not sure what happened to it, but I’m so glad I didn’t have to eat it again.

A more light-hearted experience was at a sushi restaurant. There is a type of candy wrapped in transparent rice paper that resembles plastic. Everyone always told me that it was edible, so I didn’t ask people every single time I ate food with this paper. At the restaurant, the massive sushi I ordered came perfectly rolled, with a thin layer of that paper wrapped around it. It was impressive how similar the paper looked like saran-wrap. I quickly gobbled up all the pieces, enjoying my meal until my aunt suddenly turned to me and asked me where the plastic was. “Plastic?” I asked. “What plastic?” It was at that moment when I realized that they did not use rice paper for sushi, that was just for the candy. What bound the sushi rolls together was indeed saran-wrap.

However, despite these rather questionable experiences from when I was younger, the food choices in Taiwan are still amazing. Brown Sugar Pearl Milk Tea on almost every street, iconic Beef Noodle Soup, mango shaved ice and radish cakes were staples that I would be excited for the whole year.

Not to mention cuisines inspired by other countries such as steak teppanyaki, spaghetti from Ikea, and a stack of sugared fruits on top of waffles and ice cream. And all of these delectable items could be accessed in surrounding areas twenty minutes or less from my grandma’s house, where we stayed.

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47 Love Letter by Perin Romano '22

What was also very different from my life in Ohio, the City of Corn, was that my grandma's house in Daya, Taichung, is right next door to a Bubble Tea shop. On the left, there was a fried chicken stall that’s now been closed down. We could never properly park the car in front of the house because the customers from these two places would take up that space with their motor scooters, which always had burning hot engines we had to avoid touching even though there was barely any room to move.

There’s also a supermarket across the street from the house. We used to take their shopping baskets back to the house because of how easy it was to return them. Walking maybe not even a block down the road is a convenience store, where I would buy an abundance of food, from premade cold noodle dishes to cooked hot pot ingredients, hotdogs, and sweet potatoes. There is also a plethora of drinks—from fruit flavored milk and clear sports drinks, to all different kinds of coffee— iced and hot, and matcha lattes. Not to mention snacks, fresh salads, and Japanese sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

Going a bit further is the highlight of the food kingdom: The Daya Market. The food market is where vendors sell the most authentic food, which sometimes tastes more delicious because the food served is what people know how to make. I can still imagine a certain restaurant, with flavorful broth drenching egg noodles and properly seasoned vegetables, a fan blowing from the corner of the ceiling, the news channel playing on the television in the background, and the sounds of people yelling out discounted prices and the smell of incense from the temple. The dozens of night markets include many favorites, one of them being Da Chang Bao Xiao Chang, literally translating to “Big Sausage Wraps A Small Sausage”, which sort of has a questionable name, but it’s simply just a sausage with sticky rice wrapped around it like a hotdog bun. There are also wheel cakes—pancake-like pastries—usually with red bean paste or cream inside of them.

I also can’t forget about all the food in the thirteen-story department stores and shopping centers. These include ramen restaurants, MOS Burger (a main dish is a beef burger with a bun made of rice), and Chun Shui Tang, a teahouse chain that serves lunch and dinner as well, and claims to have invented the original Bubble Tea. Honestly, there are still so many food options I could describe, especially since I’ve only covered one district of one of the three major cities in Taiwan, and I haven’t even mentioned half of the food items that I enjoy.

Among the food I haven’t mentioned yet, there are nutritious home-cooked dishes, traditional and trendy bakeries, businesses that specialize in making bentos, vegan alternatives and themed restaurants like the famous Modern Toilet Restaurant.

— I used to be picky when it came to foods, and I did once in first grade wonder why I had to bring fried rice in a bulky container to school when I could just buy the provided lunch, but after a while I came to appreciate many foods, especially the diversity of cuisines in Taiwan. I’m not hating on the City of Corn. I just want to emphasize my gratitude for these food items found on the island in Asia many people have just started to know about. I think the reason why food is so great in Taiwan is because it is an important part of Taiwanese culture. When people greet each other, they don’t say, “How are you?”, they ask you if you have eaten yet. People older than you will serve food for you, and conservative adults fight over the dinner bill. Food is a way of showing care. As my love for food grew, I also got used to some of the cultural differences in Taiwan, and learned to be fully confident in both sides of my culture.

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Nous vous présentons

La Reine des Fees AVA BEREDO '23, CAMELLA MURESAN '23

Il était une fois, dans un pays lointain, Il y avait deux princesses fées. Elles s'appelaient Adèle et Manon. Même si elles étaient jumelles, leurs personnalités étaient très différentes! Adèle était très gentille et avec un grand cœur. Elle adorait la nature et les animaux, et ils l’adoraient en échange.

Manon était très différente. Elle était égoïste, méchante, et cruelle. Sa jalousie l’amenait' à faire beaucoup de mal.

Un jour triste, leur père, le roi des fées, qui était très âgé, est mort. La famille était très triste.

Malheureusement, la reine est tombée malade, elle ne pouvait plus régner. Adèle ou Manon devaient être sur le trône!

Le lendemain, la reine a annoncé au royaume que pour choisir si Adèle ou Manon deviendrait la reine, elles devaient finir une tâche très difficile. La tâche très difficile était de combattre un dragon! La princesse qui tuerait le dragon deviendrait la prochaine reine!

Plus tard ce jour-là, Manon a créé un plan maléfique pour tricher et gagner. Son plan était de tricher en utilisant une baguette magique pour maudire sa sœur!

La veille du combat, Manon avait un plan pour voler une baguette magique à un sorcier. Un jour, elle est allée chez le sorcier pour voler la baguette. En partant, elle a vu un chien à trois têtes qui gardait la porte! Elle a jeté un sort et s’est échappée avec la baguette!

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Pendant que Manon volait dans la forêt pour retourner au palais, de nombreux animaux la suivaient.

Quand elle volait, elle parlait des mauvaises choses qu’elle allait faire si elle devenait reine. Quand les animaux ont entendu le mauvais plan de Manon, ils ont volé au palais. Ils ont raconté à Adèle ce que Manon disait dans la forêt.

Le jour du combat, Manon a jeté un sort sur Adèle. Cette malédiction a rendu Adèle incapable de combattre le dragon. Mais, le sort s’est retourné contre lui! Donc, Adèle a combattu le dragon et a gagné avec l’aide des animaux! Plus tard ce jour-là, le royaume a applaudi Adèle quand sa mère a placé la couronne sur sa tête. Adèle est devenue reine et a régné sur le royaume. Enfin, Adèle a banni Manon du royaume et a vécu heureux pour toujours. Nul ne sait ce qui lui est arrivé après le bannissement de Manon et elle n’a jamais été vue encore.

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P E A R L Chain

Rowan stared at the pearl necklace around her neck. It was once her prized possession, after her wedding ring of course. But that was over two years ago. When Rowan’s husband gave her the pearl necklace, they were 18, it’s how he proposed to her. She loved the smooth beads in her fingers when she rubbed them back and forth. She was in love with him.

Their wedding day was the third happiest day of her life. It took place at dawn. The new morning light painted the white and red flowers with a dreamy haze. Rowan was in a dream of fairy light, magic, happiness, and love. She married her high school sweetheart when the sun had only just started to reach across the land, touching every crevice, lighting them up with its warm glow. Rowan and her husband had quickly made haste in their new marriage and within the next full moon Rowan had become pregnant.

Never had two people more in love been so happy. Finally, they would have a family of their own, just like their ancestors had done before.

Rowan shook her head. She had been so ignorant to think he would satisfy her. To think a baby would make them happy, all the child did was hurt them even more. But maybe in a way the child had also freed them. The child had freed two people who were not meant to be. She walked to the dresser where the blue crocheted blanket was resting. She did not know how long it had been since she touched the soft fabric; and allowed the smell of laughter and light to fill her nose. Rowan took it from the dresser and a memory of her daughter surfaced. Anastasia, with her beautiful brown eyes, flushed pink cheeks, and her pale skin. The same pale skin Rowan has. Anastasia had been a copy of both her parents. Her mouth from her father and her eyes from her mother. Anastasia had known more love in her short life than most had in a lifetime. Rowan had stopped crying for Anastasia four months ago. She could still remember the second her heart stopped, could still hear the last rattling breath in her baby’s lungs. Anastasia was only four hours old when she was taken from Rowan. Rowan had wanted to scream. She would never see her daughter again. Feel her weight in her hands. Watch as she learned to smile, laugh, and walk.

Rowan dropped the blue blanket, and the silver rattle jingled as it hit her wallet in her bag. She sighed, the rattle laughed at her and cheered her on into leaving. Her husband would not look for the blanket nor the rattle, so she took them.

Besides he would not want a reminder of her nor Anastasia. He would not remember them soon anyway. He had found a new love. Rowan sighed; “Why I am not jealous? He fell in love

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with Elise. He left me for her?” She knew deep down why she wasn’t jealous. Rowan had fallen out of love with her husband even before Anastasia was born. So, when he started to spend more time away from her without an explanation, she knew. She knew he had moved on. It had given her space to breathe. Finally, she could breathe again.

At the same time all the air was getting squeezed from her lungs. Rowan could not escape the heavy chain around her neck. It dragged her down, down, down refusing to let up. When he gave her the collar, it was easy to breathe until she saw them. Young women, her age, laughed together at a café about nothing at all. Whenever Rowan laughed with her husband it was always forced. Never had she laughed as the young women did. She wanted what they had. The chain started to suffocate her. Rowan wanted freedom. The freedom that would never be granted. Until tonight. Tonight, Rowan would be free.

Rowan looked around the shared room, which had been the same room where Rowan and her husband had given each other everything. She remembered how last April; two months after her daughter was taken from her, she had gone out. It was new moon. No moonlight had guided her path through the park. Her husband would have frowned upon going for a walk at midnight; but Rowan could not be bothered. She needed out of the house. She had looked up at the sky.

The black abyss with tiny stars begged to be seen.

Fighting their way to be seen. When she turned her head, she saw them. They were so confident sitting there all by themselves, looking at the sky.

Rowan went over to them and asked why they were so fascinated with the sky.

They responded, “It is because I love not knowing, I don’t know what is out there. And that is okay with me.”

She stared at the stranger. A strange feeling filled her heart and for the first time since Anastasia, Rowan felt free with them. She and the stranger talked until the sun started to peak through the sky. When they said goodbye, she knew. She knew this was what love was supposed to feel like.

From the moment she knew it was love, Rowan saw them everywhere. While she was polishing the silverware, folding clothes, and when she looked into her husband’s eyes. She felt their hands instead of her husband’s when he touched her for the last time. Rowan could not help herself by wishing it was them touching her instead. The stranger that had become her best friend was now changing into something more.

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EVELYN BURDSALL '22

Rowan met them every day at midnight, and they talked till the sun just stared to peak out.

The more time they spent together, the harder and faster Rowan fell.

The morning Rowan decided to leave her husband was when she met her mother. She always met her mother the second of every other month for lunch. The traditional Sunday lunch was chicken, rice, with black beans. For dessert her mother always baked a fresh angel food cake with chocolate and strawberries. Lunch with her mother was always tense. Ever since her father died two weeks before Anastasia, was born there was tension between Rowan and her mother. It only got worse after Anastasia’s death. The two of them did not know how to interact with the other. One had the perfect American family of three kids, while the other had lost her only daughter only hours after her birth. One was still in love with her dead husband, while the other had fallen out of love with her living husband.

They were mother and daughter. Sun and the moon. Both loved each other dearly but the mother always overshadowed her daughter.

Rowan rolled her shoulders back as she entered her childhood home. Without her father, the house always felt empty, even with her two brothers and mother in the home. This was going to be a long lunch.

Her brother William greeted her, “Hi Little Sister!”

“Hi William!”

“It’s been far too long.”

“Yes, it has been too long. I’ve missed you!”

“As have I. Now come, Mother will not be happy if you enter the kitchen late.”

Rowan ’s eyes rolled as she took a step into the home. She took a deep breath. It smelled as if the pine trees from behind their house had come into their living room. A living room that was stuffed full of books. “Is Alexander here yet?”

“Yes, the golden child is already here.” William’s knuckles turned white as he shut the door. It was no secret out of the three of them Alexander was their mother’s favorite. He was also the youngest and could do no wrong in their mother’s eyes.

Rowan felt for her older brother because he tried so hard to get their mother’s approval, but the approval never happened. “As is the new girlfriend.”

“Oh no!” Rowan laughed, “How long do you think this one with last?”

“With Alexander, six months.”

“That’s three more months than last time!”

The two siblings walked in the kitchen laughing

and found their mother, brother and Alexander’s girlfriend sitting at the table waiting for them.

“Mother, you don’t understand I’ve stopped loving him.”

“What are you two laughing at?”

“But you will love his child as you loved Anastasia.”

“Nothing Mother.”

“Yes Mother, Rowan only told a joke.” William explained.

The girlfriend stood up and faced William and Rowan. “Hi! I’m Vera!” Her long dark hair was pulled into a braid, she dressed to impress it seemed. William and Rowan glanced at each other with the same thoughts running through their minds, this one is different.

William was the first to shake Vera’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Vera. I’m William, this is my little sister Rowan.”

“Hi Rowan, it’s nice to meet you.” Vera turned to Rowan. Most of Alexander’s previous girlfriends had always called her Rose or Rory. Vera was the first to get her name right.

“You as well.” Rowan turned to her mother. Her mother had pursed her lips. She could already see the approval for Vera and the disapproval for herself in her mother’s eyes. This was going to be a long lunch.

As Rowan had predicted, the lunch took three hours. It was as painful as she thought it would be. If only she knew it could get worse.

Vera, Alexander, and William went into the living room to watch the football game, like any normal American family. Rowan and her mother stayed in the kitchen to clean up.

“When are you and your husband going to try and have another baby?” Her mother asked as she placed the food in plastic wrap.

“Mother please.” Rowan looked away, focusing all her attention on the plates in front of her.

“I’m serious. I want grandchildren Rowan.”

“We are still healing from Anastasia.”

“Yes, yes, I am aware, but you two have been drifting apart since her death. If you don’t become pregnant again soon, he might find someone to take your place. After all your husband is a very handsome man.”

“No, I won’t! I don’t want to have a child anymore. I have found someone new!”

Her mother stalked towards her, “My daughter cheated?” The anger in her mother’s tone was the light trying to suffocate the dark. Just as her necklace was suffocating her air. “Look at everything he has provided for you! Are you that much of an ungrateful brat? You have a home, all the jewelry and clothes you could ever want.

Your husband is one of the most handsome men on the planet who gives you everything! And you don’t even say thank you?!”

“I never cheated! You think so lowly of me that I would?”

“Honestly Rowan, I don’t know what to think of you anymore.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you left your family when you were eighteen to become a wife. You left the dream I had for you to become a doctor. Then you lost your baby. Now you are saying you don’t want to be with your husband anymore!”

Rowan saw red when her mother brought up Anastasia. It was not her fault she lost her daughter! “Mother, I loved him at the time. Then I met someone new. They taught me what it’s truly like to be in love. It’s fun and scary but it’s worth it! I never felt like that with him.”

Her mother sighed, “Fine, what is his name?”

“His name?”

“Yes child! What is his name, then man you fell in love with?”

Rowan flinched. Could she really do this?

“Mother I never said it was a man…”

A hand moved so fast Rowan could not track it.

All she felt was the sting on her cheek. Tears filled her eyes as she looked at her mother. Her mother’s eyes filled with anger.

“Get out.”

“He has already found someone new.” Rowan muttered. She placed the last clean plate in the cupboard and turned to face her mother.

“What?”

“What was that?”

Her siblings and Vera came into the kitchen, as Rowan ran out the door. William tried to stop her but Rowan did not stop running until she reached her cold dark home.

“I said, we have been drifting apart long before then!”

Her mother shook her head, “Sweetheart, that’s what marriage is. You drift apart after the honeymoon phase. The only thing which will bring both of you happiness is a child.”

“Get out! You are no daughter of mine! Get out and never come back!”

stopped in the kitchen for the final time. Her wedding ring was on the counter. It looked happier there on the counter than it ever had on her finger. Rowan fingered the pearl chain around her neck. One of the pearls had cracked when Anastasia took her last breath, another when she fell out of love with her husband, and then this morning when her mother had kicked her out.

She no longer loved the pearl necklace. It was only chain, dragging her down to be this perfect daughter, perfect wife, and perfect mother. She was not perfect. She had broken tradition but for the first time in a long time she is happy. She placed the pearl chain next to her wedding ring and walked out the door.

Once outside she took a breath. Finally, Rowan was free. Free to be her own person with her lover. Carefully she reached into her bag and pulled out a small parcel. Inside the parcel was a small necklace with a pendant hanging down. It was a kyanite. She had bought it for herself after her mother’s reaction. Rowan was free to be herself.

She placed the necklace across her neck. The cold pendant was comforting. It was as though it was the moon over her breast. Her own personal moon.

“Rowan!” A voice called, she turned around and saw her lover! Their blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail, bright eyes lighting up when they met hers. Rowan ran towards them.

“Luna, my love!” Luna smiled, and Rowan felt a smile creepy up on her face so wide it hurt.

Rowan could see the love in Luna’s eyes. Luna loved her and only her. They would never cheat on her with another woman. They would never abandon her if she lost her heart. Luna would be there for her till the end of time.

“Rowan, are you ready?”

“Yes! Where are we going first?”

“Wherever the moon takes us!” The two beautiful lovers laughed together arm in arm.

Rowan stopped suddenly and turned to face Luna, “You know I love you right? With my full heart I will love you till my heart stops.”

“I know.” Luna brushed a hand over where her mother slapped her, cupped her cheek, and brought Rowan in for a kiss. They kissed as the moonlight fades away to dawn. Together they smile and walk into the new dawn light.

She looked around her home, though it was never meant to be hers. All her treasures were gone, packed away in her bag beside her. Rowan

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dresser drawers PERIN ROMANO '22 every drawer. i don’t know who let you into the creaky wood stained door or who allowed you to budge the dresser from the back of my mind. maybe i forgot to lock it. maybe you always had the key, but all i know is that if I had been there to watch as you dragged the old wooden furniture across the uneven floors, i would have stopped you. but then again, i have never been able to really stop you, and it’s probably because i never wanted to. i never wanted the memory of your fogged up glasses and three squeezes in the thick summer air. i never wanted to care because i care too much. and your

my dad used to tear drawers apart and rifle through trash cans. he would inhale until the butt singed the tips of his fingers, and the back of his throat burned. he was always so sure there was a half smoked marlboro gold in the back corner of the dresser. i gave you a year; a year in a cobweb filled dresser that lives in the back of my mind. tucked into a fake book with my initials engraved into the spine. i let your words ruminate on the page taking my love along with it. promises of cigarettes on roofs and 24 hour calls were plastered to the plywood walls of

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Enveloped by Ingrid Tekieli '23 Steam by Lóa Schriefer '22 February 14th by Muna Agwa '23 Gwammy and Gwampy by Kaya Mendels '22

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smoke still lingers in the air, and it’s hard to make out exactly what i see. but i know that you’re there from the 2 dollar lighter i bought at the speedway this morning and the notes with you’re pencil handwriting postmarked from two seats over. and the phone call i let ring until i could imagine your disappointment from the other end of the line. the regret burning in your throat. and the burning in my throat may sting, but the back of my throat stung more that day. the day your arms no longer felt safe. and i moved on, and it was fucking hard, but for you

i began to turn the settings to do not disturb convincing myself i could miss your calls. i stopped typing and deleting messages. i stopped typing because three years later, i finally smoked that cigarette on my roof, and now the smoke still lingers in my hair. i can’t wash it out, but at least i can be sure the cigarette you left in the back corner of the drawer is gone. and i know it’s gone. but hey, like father like daughter.

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Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, Journal Response How is this text still relevant (or not)?

Why is it worth reading (or not)?

ALEXA CHRISTOPHERSON '23 Slavery influenced the lives of both white and black Americans. It aided in determining where they resided, how they performed, and under what circumstances they may use their rights to freedom of expression, assembly, and the press. In the 1840s and 1850s, numerous novels were penned by ex-slaves, but Frederick Douglass' tale is among the most noteworthy. What makes this different from other pieces regarding slavery is that it's one thing to acknowledge that slavery persisted in theory; it's quite different to absorb a firsthand account of the atrocities of this heinous system, documented by a man who lived to tell the tale.

Throughout his journey in captivity he never had a true understanding of compassion in family or even the naturality of growing up around those who love and care for him. “Never having enjoyed, to any considerable extent, her soothing presence, her tender and watchful care, I received the tidings of (my mother’s) death with much the same emotions I should have probably felt at the death of a stranger” (3) Douglass recalls that shortly after his birth, his owner took him from his mother to ensure that he did not develop personal connections to her. Douglass uses illustrative terms such as “soothing” and “tender” to imagine the upbringing he might have had if his life was different. Contrasting natural phases of childhood growth and the degree of maturity he experienced as a child generates a strong awareness of the discrepancy between the two, and highlights the injustice that produces the gap.

In addition he discusses how slave owners manipulated ones social ties in order to convert individuals into slaves. It may have appeared normal to some readers in Douglass' day that slavery was justifiable, by exposing the unnaturalness of slavery, he disrupts this perspective.

“I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meaning of those rude and apparently incoherent songs. I was

myself within the circle; so that I neither saw nor heard as those without might see and hear.” (14) The slaves' intense misery was reflected in the songs, that which are unconsciously expressive. Douglass does not grasp the "deep" meaning of the songs until he is no longer freed from its grasp; he indicates that the message only becomes obvious with passing. Douglass's distinctive stance is explained by such.

Slavery enslaves the subconscious, forcing many such as Douglass to shed intangible principles of theirselves and their curiosity about the world. “My natural elasticity was crushed, my intellect languished, the disposition to read departed, the cheerful spark that lingered about my eye died; the dark night of slavery closed in upon me; and behold a man transformed into a brute!” (63) Douglass' journey through the most severe inhumane conditions while continuing to embody a determination to be free is described in this remark. Douglass' weakest period occurs within the early months with Edward Covey, who uses endless labour and frequent, inhuman treatment to reshape Douglass into a slave. Covey refers to him as a ‘brute’ which is an depiction of his dehumanization. Slavery, according to Douglass, may oftentimes be bleaker than death. Slaves suffer greatly as a consequence of either their attempt to flee or merely by prolonged slavery.

One does not get granted freedom; they must seek it out for themselves. Slaves never gave up their pursuit of independence or their will to seek freedom from white authority. While Douglass faced far more adversity than most of us may ever face, we can all draw from his determination and tenacity in seeking his own liberty, along with his unwillingness to stop until he reached his goal. Douglass tackled several difficult issues in his writing, and with it we can further educate ourselves and prevent history from repeating itself.

52 Inside My Mind by Somerset Colligan '22

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Lake

EMILY JONES '23

CHAUTAUQUA Delight The dock sways beneath my touch as I make my way to the open, inviting scene shaped by my family, dogs, and pleasures present at this oasis. I peer to my left allowing the smoke erupting from a nearby bonfire to intrude my senses and causing me to erupt in a series of harmless sneezes. The sweet, salty ripples, provided by the vast lake of Chautauqua, reflect off the fire and allow a breeze to cool the anger the flames of the bonfire greeted me with. The smoke fuses with the water, s’mores, fish, and wine present on the dock to conceive a sense of comfort and tranquility I naturally receive from the generous being of Chautauqua.

My breaths slow, while my eyes widen to capture the glistening of the lake caused by the light, provided by the sun, as it melts into the abyss. My family and dogs welcome me to a scene of blissful laughter, fishing, and conversation. My sisters swarm the dock, it’s positions shifting once more as they chase my dogs to the edge of the water, luring them with the promise of a soggy, hazel stick. I shuffle from their path and hear their echoing yells across the dock, “Pax, Rex, c’mon, stick, stick, jump in to get it.” The delight that radiates from their tones allows a smile to creep onto my face, reflecting that of my mom and dad as I join them to regard the fading sun. As I sit down I take a moment to brush the rolling water, allowing it to flow through my hands, marking me as a recipient of its untold serenity. Time slows and I become aware of my surroundings as a gust of air creates an imbalanced ripple in the water which rocks the dock as everyone stills in a moment of unnecessary fear. As the waves pass, a shield of laughter erupts from the dock and we reflect on the stupidity of our dread, allowing our worries to melt away with the sun into complete oblivion. The day fades away along with the enduring sun that is replaced with a bulb of light as it vanishes into the water to welcome the darkness of the night. The fish continue swimming, the conversation slows, the dock rocks to the absence of company and the presence of silence, and I am left alone. Alone in my ageless imagination, which is my greatest delight.

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View

CAMMY CORT ’22

I like looking at the world. My dad taught me this. For as long as I can remember he was the one looking at the clouds and the trees, pointing out the beauty in the leaves and the shapes the clouds make. When we went on drives, we filled our time looking at the world. We nicknamed a small valley full of saplings with a tiny creek running through it “Cammy Valley,” because I said I would like to build a house somewhere like that. Every spring he tells me about the lilacs I bought for my mom one Mothers Day. He describes how big they’ve grown and how good they look in the front of my house. My dad has a reverence for the beautiful complexity of nature and of people. He tells me about the people walking down the street and the conversations he has with strangers. He asks me what I think about people, about situations, and about life. He taught me to be curious about why the world is the way it is and why people do the things they do. He taught me to look at the world.

My dad is one of the few people who looks at the world. When I make comments about how pretty the clouds look or take pictures of a tree limb I think is twisted like a Murano glass sculpture, people make fun of me and say, “It’s just a tree, you see that every day." They don't understand that just because you see something every day doesn’t mean you notice it. Last fall, I was driving down a road by my house, looking out of my windshield at nothing in particular when I noticed a tree. The tree’s leaves flowed to the ground and seemed to be on fire as it waved in the wind and afternoon sun. As I drove by I couldn’t help but say, “Wow." I had seen this tree many times, twice a day for the past five years, but I had never noticed it. It was a new discovery.

Last spring, I took a trip to Europe with my mom. We landed in Amsterdam, and after resting in our comically tiny hotel room we explored the city on foot. We walked to the Rembrandt Museum and from the Rembrandt Museum to the Anne Frank House. I will never forget that walk. Strolling down the narrow cobblestone streets, along canals, into tulip markets, and over bridges with a warm Stroopwafel in my hand, the world seemed to crack open and the bubble I live in expanded just a little. My mom was no longer just my mom, she was a person who had an entire life story waiting to be told; the people biking down the streets were not just extras on a movie set, they had lives. They had jobs they were biking away from and homes they were biking towards. Just as I had noticed the tree that seemed to be on fire last fall, I noticed the sheer size of the world and the span of life.

There are times when I can’t believe the world is real. When the sky is so still the clouds look painted, or when a cobblestone street turns into a tulip market and I realize that the person walking next to me has an entire life story waiting to be told. These are the times I live for; they have taught me to look at the big picture. Appreciating the beauty and grandeur of the world reminds me that there is so much to life, and the opportunities, experiences, and moments I will have are almost infinite.

53 Grandma by Carli Jordan '23 54 My Dad and I by Audrianna Imka '22

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THOU GH TS FRO M A SEC ON D SEM EST ER

SEN IOR

IN TH E M IDDLE OF TH E COLL EGE PRO CE SS ANJALI DHANEKULA ’22

A couple months ago I pressed submit on my last college application, and as I closed my computer, I thought about writing this. The college process has dominated my life for the past six months. In that time, I’ve thought about nothing but transcripts, supplementa l essays, and interv iews. I’ve lost connections. I have struggled with my identity. I have cried… severa l times. I have dealt with (and am still dealing with) fear of the future. That last thing has been especially potent.

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My college process is not over yet. I don’t know where I'm going. I won’t for a couple more months. But even when I do, I’m not sure it will ever be over. The college I end up choosing can change my life. It will change my life. And who knows where that butter fly effect will take me? I don’t. That’s why if I could use one word to describe my college experience, it would be anxiet y-inducing. It has felt like every choice I make now, every word in my common app, every letter grade on my transcript, will, in effect, change my life.

There is a persistent worry of doing something “wrong,” something that could “jeopa rdize my future.”

When I got deferred from my first choice college, I reopened my application trying to understand. Was it my major choice, or my activities, or my transcript, or my test scores or my essays? Did I just not do enough? Maybe the interv iew? I kept trying to break it down, to analyz e and nitpick and hypothesize.

But here’s the thing. The college process is not a science. It is not some biolog ical pathway or chemical reaction you break down into steps and learn in class. But it’s not entirely human either. It is stripping the you that your family

and friends know and love down into numbers and words on a page. It is then handing those pages to a stranger who feels and loves and think s, and asking them to decide if this person is “good enough.”

If I’m being honest, I have never felt more defeated than when I first looked at my completed application to the first college I applied to. Because while the words I wrote and the list of things I’ve done may contribute to the essence of who I am, they will never be completely enough to know the real me. I am more than a couple leadership position titles. I am more than 250 words about one part of my identity. It has been frustrating because I feel like so much more than these little boxes and character counts I am confined to.

Unfor tunately, there’s nothing I can really do about it. I just have to answer the questions.

But in that infuriating helplessness, I have realiz ed that there is no point in looking for what went wrong. I could do everything “right ” and maybe the person reading my application just thought I wasn't a good fit. Or maybe they were just having a bad day. Or maybe their car broke down, and they had to read my essay on why I love driving so much, and that just pushed them over the edge. It’s impossible to know.

So, to those who will eventually encounter the college process, please don’t lose who you are and the things you love due to its all-consuming, anxiet y-inducing nature. You are more than numbers and words on a page.

Do not let anything take that away from you, not even this.

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Midsummer Nightmare MUNA AGWA '23 the sky rains honey some nights, and rubber bullets on others. dandelions kiss the wet, tooth-chipped pavement: it has just rained and the earth is learning to breathe again. and I wonder: where does the water go in a flooded house? does it break through its pipes, and run from the house, as blood runs from a broken body? or does it collect in the mattresses, pillows, cushions, and carpets, suctioning them to a softening chestnut oor? a oor. a foundation. once rm, now pulpy like the esh within a browned pear. a system of lysing panels and loosening nails a system that heaves under the weight of its people. but everyone knows where the re goes in a burning house. it clings to the oors and walls: a strange golden ivy that crawls over dry timber. re, selsh like re, consumes all in its path. relentless like re, consume all in your path.

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55 Lilac and Orange by Allison Fritz '22 56 Moon Cake by Jasmine Neumann '25

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Internal Tantrum by Anna Sharkunov '22

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MAY 2022

VOL. 9

HB RETROSPECT An arts and literary journal of the Osborne Writing Center

WWW.HBINRETROSPECT.COM

19600 North Park Boulevard Shaker Heights, Ohio 44122 216.932.4214 www.hb.edu