Mosaicvolume12issue1

Mosaic

A Magazine for the Literary and Visual Arts at Holderness School Winter 2014 volume 12, issue 1

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Mosaic Winter 2013 Volume 12, Issue 1 Dear Reader, Welcome to the winter issue of Mosaic, the literary and visual arts magazine of Holderness School! Over the years, Mosaic has grown significantly. The first issue I created in 2009 was only 24 pages; it is now 32! We also used to print the whole magazine ourselves on the cantankerous printer on the second floor of Livermore where I became an expert at pulling sheets of crinkled paper from between the rollers. Thanks to a small increase in my budget, nowadays I am lucky enough to be able to quickly upload the magazine to an online printing firm and have it delivered in neat packages just a couple weeks later. It’s been exciting to be a part of Mosaic’s growth and increased sophistication!

This year I was also lucky enough to have 35 literary submissions to choose from for this issue (the number has usually been closer to 15). Of course, while I was grateful for all the submissions, they did require me to seek additional help. English teacher Doonie Brewer thankfully volunteered and has helped me read submissions and select pieces for this issue. It has been a pleasure working with her, and I appreciate the additional help.

This issue is filled with pieces created by students from New Hampshire to China, from ninth grade to twelfth grade, from English classes to history classes. The subjects of the pieces are varied as well. From fiction to nonfiction, from poetry to prose, from analytical to introspective, each author has a unique perspective. There is even one mathematical love story! (Check out Lea Scaralia’s “Roots” on page 30) There is so much variety in this magazine, everyone is sure to find something to entertain and enlighten. We hope you enjoy this issue!

Emily Magnus, Director of Publications Doonie Brewer, English Teacher

Alan Chabot ’16

Cover Art by Qianyi Zhang ’15

Alan Chabot ’16 Mosaic ● Volume 12, Issue 1 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

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Doorway Poems This fall, students in Mrs. Lin’s class wrote poems based on Pat Mora’s “Sonrisas” in which the poet describes standing in a metaphorical doorway between two "rooms" that represent the two vastly different cultures with which she identifies.

In their own poems, Mrs. Lin asked the students to consider a "doorway" in which they themselves stand, peering into two rooms -- a way to describe two distinct cultures they inhabit in their own lives. The students were instructed to pay attention to imagery and capture the vivid details of the two rooms. Also included in this section are photographs from the Photography I class in which they were asked to write about a first memory and design a parallel contemporary visual experience.

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Zihan Guo ’14 I live in the electric field between two panels of capacitors. I see black ink and white paper with differential equations, linear localization, discontinuous functions Silence permeates the air, with frowned brows, distorted lips, puzzled faces Numbers stand taller than words Answers weigh more than solutions On the rigid table stands a cup of water, without flavor, without sugar, without color In the polar coordinate of that room, x, y, and z remain quiet, fearing to disturb the chemical reaction of rationality.

Silence.

I peek in the other room languages, paints, music sheets shine in brightness words are spoken by different tongues faces with delight are painted with blue, yellow, and red Look! the grand piano is vibrating under the command of fingers Stories stand taller than facts Process weighs more than results On the soft round table stands a bottle of chocolate milk dancing with Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor curved with the following inscription: ars gratia artis Art is the reward of art.

Chris Hyland ’15

THE ROAD TO EASY STREET GOES THROUGH THE SEWER.

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THERE WERE MORE THAN 300 PEOPLE AT SCHOOL, YET I FELT LONELY. I WAS ALONE IN A SEA OF PEOPLE.

Seasons Taylor Mavroudis ’15 I live in a doorway between two rooms. I hear Yiayia yell “Tayloraki, Benjamino, Damonako!” as we hustle through the airport doors.

I run into her soft embrace as tears fall happily down her face.

It’s been a year.

The heat greets us as soon as we step outside.

“Ti kanis, agapi mou?”* She says as she pinches my cheeks.

Overweight men in dirty wife-beaters sip ice-cold frappes while they sit around a white plastic table.

They wait for Yiayia to walk over, she hands them a Euro for the parking.

As we finally drive through the busy town of Limassol, we pass by dozens of cafes, people of all ages sipping their coffee. Children carry armbands as they try to sprint down the road to the seaside.

As we drive down the same familiar street of Takitou, I know we are home for the summer.

Minh Tran ’16

Seo Jung Kim ’15

I peek into the other room, as the smell of tomato sauce and meatballs engulfs me.

Nanny shuffles over to me as I brush the snow off my shoulders.

She gently hugs me, short but very warm.

“You’ve grown so much taller,” she whispers.

It’s been a year.

Mum and I lug the bags upstairs, Nanny continues to stir her pasta. We come back and the table is set.

“You’re still playing the violin I hear? You’ll have to serenade me later,” she says hopefully. I nod, spaghetti twirling around my fork.

I look out of the window. A bundled-up elderly couple trundles down the road.

Laughter sounds from the neighboring houses as families reunite for the holidays. Nanny smiles at me, and pats my hand.

Mum goes upstairs to lie down. Nanny and I sit quietly together, in the TV room. I hear the murmur of Animal Planet in the background while I tell her about school and my nerves for the upcoming year.

I’m not here often, but when I am, it too feels like home. *”How are you, my dear?”

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Normal Becca Kelly ’15 I live in a doorway between two rooms.

The people inside chatter about the things That I have little interest in.

The girls sit at their desks, Legs crossed and backs straight.

Their flower-printed skirts and dresses Are matched nicely with sandals or flats.

Everything is normal, I am the only sign of disorder.

I stick out.

I feel the eyes questioning The motive behind the clothes I choose to wear.

I know the tension builds in the room When I quote a favorite book or movie or show, And no one understands the reference.

I choose to remain silent.

I peek in the other room, The secret room where a consulting detective, A time lord, hobbits, a hulk, orcs, Wizards and demons stay.

The people inside discuss only the things I think about constantly.

Leather jackets, chainmaille, and cloaks Lie everywhere.

This is the place where chaos makes sense.

“Normal” does not exist here.

I watch the battles fought for the different definitions Of good and evil.

I feel the tension build in the room When they are about to end, And no one is quite sure what will happen.

This is the part where everyone else says nothing, But here I choose to break the silence.

THE CLOCK STOPPED TO CLICK, AND THE STREAM OF TIME WAS FROZEN

BY FRIGIDITY OF SPACE. EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING IN THE ROOM, EVERYTHING ON EARTH WAS TRANSFORMED INTO ONE STANZA OF THE POEM OF SILENCE.

Zihan Guo ’14

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The boy across the ocean Caroline Mure ’14 He looked me in the eyes and said, "what do you wanna be?"

Looking down was the only direction I've known, before I knew that sentences could end with question marks, instead of periods.

He looked me in the face and said, "what do you wanna be?"

The smell of old chairs around a wooden table and the sound of gossip from the floor above.

This was my life and I always pictured it in italics, aligned to the left and initials on the bottom in bold.

He looked me in the soul and said, "what do you wanna be?"

Music was blaring and I could hear it in my chest.

The day time collapsed and they told me this was the beginning, though it was not the day I was born.

I flipped through an old black leather book and found the letters I wrote to the boy across the ocean.

He looked me in the heart and said, "what do you wanna be?"

I told him I wanted to be the person to change his mind.

I wrote my ideas in that black leather book, with my initials on the bottom in bold, and his love in italics.

He never looked at me again, the questions turned into demands and the words folded into silence.

I still write what is left of his love in italics, and he translates them into regrets.

Like ruins of a temple, indefinitely masked with religion only to cover up the ordinary.

He looked her in the eyes and said, “what do you wanna be?”

She said she wanted to be the person to make up his mind.

Walking up the concrete stairs into the flurries of snow, and the cold sunlight, I watched the person I wanted to be, transform into the person I couldn’t be.

Haley Michienzi ’14

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Historically Accurate Short Stories During the fall semester, students in Ms. Brewer and Ms. Macomber’s Humanities class studied the French, Industrial, and Russian Revolutions. Students were then asked to write historically accurate short stories in which the plot reflected what they had learned about at least one of these time periods. They needed to use at least three historical resources (history) and had to include character development, conflict, rising action, turning point, and resolution (English).

At Peace Brooke Hayes ’17 “Mama I’m tired, how much longer? I just want to go eat dinner,” I whined.

I remember that day especially well.

“Anastasia. How many times have I asked you not to complain? We will do all that we have to, darling. Even if it means working in the field longer than you may like,” said my mother with a guilt-filled tone. “This was never the life I wanted to give you,” she whispered under her breath. From sunrise to sunset we worked and worked, until my small hands had the calluses of a grown man. Though our farm would never amount to anything, we relied on it for our very lives.

I’ll be off in another part of the world, but I’ll write you,” he said sniffling. The brave older brother I had always admired broke down right there. “Anie, I’m scared. I don’t want to go. I just want you to know how much I love you.”

He pulled a small present out of his pocket, and as a tear rolled down his check, he handed it over to me.

That same teddy bear still sits on my mantle today.

“You give him a good name, you hear,” he said with a shy smile.

“I think I’ll name him Peter,” I said with a grin. My obliviousness to war and its horrors comforted him. We sat on those swings, and rocked back and forth, until the sun began to fall behind the trees.

The next morning was a blur, starting with a solemn carriage ride to the station. As we stepped onto the pebbled At the dinner table that night, Papa and Peter discussed ground, our driver tipped his hat at Peter, and with that, he matters that I didn’t even know existed. Words like “war” rode off. Peter seemed to have difficulty looking into any of and “the draft” floated around the table. At one point, I our eyes; he gazed at the ground in a trance like state. saw Mama’s eyes tear and her face whiten. Peter held a small envelope in his hand and nervously passed it to Papa. Many more men arrived at the station, giving painful goodbyes to their families. I was trying my very hardest to be I could only tell something sad was happening; I turned to brave, but as Peter was taken away by that train, I could Peter and could see the fear in his eyes. see him madly waving through the window. My weak knees He said, “Anie, it looks like I might be going away for a buckled, and I fell to the ground. Uncontrollable tears little while at the start of next month. But don’t you worry, I’ll streamed from my face. Mama held me the entire way be right home.” home.

At this Mama’s tears came streaming, and she ran to her Weeks went by with no word from Peter. Mama and Papa room. Papa followed after her; I could hear their whispers moved along just like he had never been there. They had to. through the wall. “Oh Alexander, how could he get drafted? I remember Papa sitting by the fire one night, reading the He’s just a boy, only eighteen! It’s not fair,” she cried. paper, when he jumped up from his seat.

Weeks went by with our same routine — farm from sunrise “Marta! Would you look at this,” Papa exclaimed. “They to sunset, eat dinner, go to sleep, then do it again. And have pictures! Real life pictures from the war! Can you bewhen the time came to bring our crops to the market, we lieve this! Taken by a photographer.” prayed to come home with enough money to carry us on.

“Oh, Alexander I can’t bear to look. Think of what our poor This continued until one special morning. little Peter is going through,” cried Mama.

Peter and I rode into town, something we never got to do for fun. He pushed me on the creaky old swings and slid me I got one glimpse of that newspaper, and cried out in terror. down the slide in shambles. For that afternoon, I had no ca- On the ground lay a man whose foot looked like it belonged to that of a carcass. The caption below simply res in the world. Peter was there to protect and love me. I stated, “Trench Foot.” Another picture showed a silver plane could be and act like the ten-year-old I was, until Peter falling from the sky, like a bird with no wings. I couldn’t beplopped down on the swing next to mine. lieve my eyes, as war was revealed to me for the first time, “Anie, tomorrow morning, I will leave early and go into through ten-year-old eyes. I was immediately drawn in. town. From there, the government will take me and many Each night by the crackling fire, I lay in Papa’s arms, and others to war. Do you follow? I’ll only be gone a little while. we talked about what was going on in those faraway

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places.

For many nights, I lay in bed wondering where Peter was, or what he was wearing. My admiration for Peter had never been stronger, whenever possible I told others of his braveness. He became my hero.

I awoke one morning, startled to hear gasping sobs from the next room. I walked in to see Mama with a piece of paper in one hand, and a dog tag in the other. She rocked back and forth in Papa’s arms, as he cradled her, with tears streaming down his own face. I started to feel a lump in my throat.

“Mama, is Peter okay?” I mumbled. The look in her eyes as she gazed at me, broke my little heart. She looked tired, with a lifelong time of pain evident.

happen to you, ever. Anie, in case I am unable to return, please know, I love you little girl. I hope you are treating Peter Bear well. I could see him smiling to himself. Anie sweetie, please know that I have faith in you to be strong no matter what happens, you hear? As if his voice had started to waver, his words became shaky on the paper.

If I do not return Anie, I am surely an angel looking down on you, protecting you still. Though in heaven, my strong love for you, Anie, will only grow stronger. I will be in a better place, where there is no war. I’ll be with our Creator Anie. Be at peace little one.

Forever loving, Peter

The morning came when it was time to put on a black dress. I sat quietly on a white bench by the tombstone, my feet dangling over the edge, far from hitting the ground.

“Mama? He’s not coming back, is he?” I cried, on the verge Dear God, I don’t really understand why some things have of hysteria. I ran to his room and stepped in the place for to happen, but I know Peter would want me to be brave. the first time in months. It was exactly the way he had left it, Please God, all I ask, is for you to tell Peter I said hello. I know he’s up there somewhere. I said this with the faintest — neat, with few decorations. The only exception was a picture of the two of us; he was happily holding me in his smile on my face and a warm heart. For all of the terrible waiting and wondering was through, and I knew Peter arms. There were smiles stretching across our faces. would be at peace.

“Peter!” I screamed. “Come back! I love you, Peter!” I fell sobbing to his bed and rested my head on his pillow. It Annotated Bibliography smelled of him — bravery, hard work, and compassion. I Watson Institute for International Studies. Choices for the clutched his pillow, desperate for a piece of him. As I 21st Century Education Program: The Russian Revolution. scooped up the pillow, something scraped my hand. I Providence: Brown University, 2008. Print. looked down, and on the plain white sheets of his bed, was a card, “To my dearest Anastasia.” Hesitantly, I opened the Library of Congress. “The Increasing Power of Destruction: card, certainly in Peter’s writing.

Military Technology in WWI.” American Memory.

Little Anie, I vividly remember the day you were born. Mama called to me. I saw you for the first time — so little, so innocent, so beautiful. I remember how proud I felt to be an older brother, your older brother. I never wanted to let anything

Rory Macleod ’16

Chris, Trueman. “Russia and World War One.” History Learning Site. 2013. http:// www.historylearningsite.co.uk/ russia_and_world_war_one.htm.

Hailee Grisham ’14

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A Christmas Dinner

The next morning, John opened his eyes. He looked at his wife and two sons still sleeping. He got up and went to Chae Hahn ’17 check how much he had in the leather pouch where he saved “Thank you!” his money. One hundred thirty-five shillings was what he A man named John Ollock burst out the door of a five-story needed. If he worked two extra hours every day, he could feed his family with nice food! He was so excited and concrete building that said ‘Spencer Steel Mill’ on its window. He looked at the four shillings in his hand and smiled. started jumping up and down like a young child.“Christmas!

Dinner! Hurrah!” he cheered.

He started walking to his house far away from work. The cold November wind stroked his cheek. His trembling lips At breakfast, they all devoured gruel left from last night turned blue. As he entered a wealthy street, he noticed eve- and ran out to work. He dropped his sons off and just stood ryone else was wearing a winter coat and mittens. He was there watching them disappear. He sighed as their short the only one on the fancy street in the town of Manchester skinny legs caught his eyes as always. wearing shabby coveralls from work. He sadly glanced at After another thirteen hours of work, John knocked on his people entering luxurious restaurants. He heaved a deep sigh, suddenly wishing he could make a delicious Christmas boss’s door. dinner for his impoverished family. When he arrived at his “Who is it?” growled Mr. Spencer. house, his wife and two sons were waiting for him in their A good-looking young man in a tidy black suit answered tiny kitchen. curtly. He was leaning back in his chair, feet on his desk.

“How are you feeling?” he asked his wife, Ellen, who was John entered his room with his hands clasped together posuffering from a bad cold. litely.

“Much better,” she answered as she opened the food shelf “Mr. Spencer, can you please raise my wages to five shiland started warming the stone-cold gruel. lings?”

“How was work? Were you late?” he asked his two sons.

“What?” He stopped playing with his tie and frowned. “Are “No, I wasn’t,” replied his older son, Frank who worked at a you insane?” flax mill.

“Please, Mr. Spencer. I’ll work two extra hours every day and.. come to work on Sundays too! Please!” John cried.

“Good, how much did you earn today?”

“Two shillings.”

“Not bad. And you, William? How many newspapers did you sell?”

“Fifteen?” answered his seven-year-old, worrying that his dad would get mad like yesterday. William was a newsie: he worked in a nearby town where he begged passersby to buy newspapers.

Mr. Spencer thought for a while, he scanned John from head to toe. He sighed and finally nodded.

“Okay, but if you are late…”

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” He smiled brightly.

He burst out of the main door, humming and dancing with joy. The shabby coveralls were all he wore, but that night November’s bitter wind was strangely not at all cold.

Instead of scolding his son, he stayed silent. He couldn’t yell The next day, and the next day…He went to work everyat his sons again for not earning enough. Like his sons, he day. Winter was deepening and his job was getting harder started working at a factory when he was only six! He knew but he kept a big smile on his swarthy face all the time. exactly how awful it was.

Then it was Christmas Eve. Five shillings was all he needed “Dinner is ready.” to get his dream. A day of work and he could finally make Ellen brought gruel and chunks of potato. All of them were his grand dinner for his family. starving. The food wasn’t enough for their strong appetites Everyone was moving busily as he walked into the dark, after work, but no one complained or asked for more. They filthy room and checked on the huge open-hearth furnace. silently, but voraciously, emptied their dishes in three minHis job was to prepare heat for the steel. He brought a lautes. Then they immediately went to sleep. John looked at dle filled with molten iron from the backyard and poured it them, feeling bitter about their misery. The sight of families in. Then he stoked the fire. His next job was to cut long steel on the fancy street overlapped with the sight of his family’s pieces. He placed them under a steam hammer and started shrugged shoulders going to bed. His heart was torn apart. pulling the heavy piston with two more men. After he fin“I wish I could fully feed my wife and my two sons with nice ished this job, he walked back to the furnace room. The molfood..just once..just one delicious Christmas dinner. That’s all ten iron, glowing crimson, gave off an intense heat. HowI want for Christmas..” he wished as he drifted off to sleep. ever, didn’t make the whirly wind sound that meant it was

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ready. As he turned back toward the door, a black rat scur- The walls were cracked and moldy. The furniture was old ried underfoot. He was startled and lost balance. His hand and dusty. The ceiling looked like it was just about to fall down. However, surprisingly, the house was filled with a shot out to catch himself on the searing wall. delicious aroma. They all looked around to see what was “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” He screamed in pain. He started the smell. They found bacon, scrambled eggs, and a bowl shrieking for help. His wrist to his fingertips was terribly of kedgeree on a small table greeting them. The boys and burned. his wife were so astonished they couldn’t close their mouths.

Everyone in the mill heard but was too busy working to Even John himself was surprised. Peter and his wife welcare. One worker, his old buddy Peter, ran into the furnace comed their guests and gave everyone a spoon and a fork.

The Ollocks stood there in utter amazement. room and yelled, “What? What happened? John?”

Peter tore his shirt, wrapped John’s hand, and told him to go home.

“I can’t. I need five shillings! I can’t make it without it!”

“Make what?”

“My Christmas dinner!” he cried. “I can’t leave here until I get paid! I’ve worked so hard for tomorrow; I can’t give up like this!”

“Help yourself!” laughed Peter proudly.

All of the guests sat at the table and devoured the best food they had ever eaten. John’s face glowed with happiness as he looked at everyone and grinned.

He whispered, “This is the best Christmas I could ever ask for.”

Bibliography

“John, you need to get back home. You are seriously injured.” Peter touched his hair and looked with sympathy at the man he had worked with for twenty-three years.

“Manchester, Symbol of a New Age," Victorian Cities. Harper and Row, 1970 [original edition,1963): 88-138; Girouard, Mark.

He thought for a while then added, “You’re not in any shape to make dinner. Give me the money you saved. We can pool our money, and my wife can make a great dinner for both of our families. How’s that?”

"Manchester and the Industrial City," Cities and People: A Social and Architectural History. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1985: 257-270.

“Thank you. Peter, you’re a great man.” John spoke softly as he heaved a long, deep sigh. They looked at each other and smiled.

When he got back home at seven, Ellen came out and anxiously looked at him.

“What happened? Honey, what is this? How...” she gasped.

She brought a bowl of cold water and poured it on his seared arm. Then she wrapped it with paper. He groaned with pain but then smiled at her.

Sadler, Michael; Evidence Given Before the Sadler Committee;1832.

Online source: http://www.uncp.edu/home/rwb/ manchester_19c.html. The University of North Carolina at Pembroke; The city in European history; Industrial Manchester in the 19th century, 2004.

Online source: http://metals.about.com/od/properties/a/AShort-History-Of-Steel-Part-Ii.htm A short history of Steel Part II; Terence Bell.

The next day was Christmas when everyone spent time with their families. John was so happy to see his two sons cheering at the snow outside.

“Dad what happened to your arm?” asked William, frowning.

“Just an accident. Always happens,” he grinned.

After eating breakfast, all of them went back to bed. Hours of naps were like pieces of heaven, for they didn’t have enough sleep during the workdays.

When John woke up, it was pitch black. He woke everyone up and asked them to follow him. It was a cold, snowy Christmas. Everyone, even his sick wife Ellen went out and walked behind him. They ended up in front of a ramshackle house just like theirs. The two boys wondered what was going on. They opened the rusty door and entered the house.

Trang Pham ’14

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Zihan Guo ’14

Zihan Guo ’14

Noa Lin ’17

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Portraits

Haroon Rahimi ’14 Noa Lin ’17

Willem Brandwijk ’14

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Personal Essays Aristotle once said, ““Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.” While our students are just beginning their journeys of self-discovery, many of them have already uncovered bits of truths that will help guide them through adolescents as they grow into independent adults. Below students share their personal convictions and self-discoveries.

Wet Boots

follower. The ground was drenched with water from ten consecutive days of rain; it dampened our gear and our Thorn Merrill ’14 moods. As I neared the rock at the water’s edge, I could see The cold, Maine water chilled me and filled my boots as I one camper, Will Brokaw, sobbing about his tent assignstood in the frigid Atlantic in front of my group of wet, sul- ment, while the rest of my campers stoically held back tears; len-faced eleven-year-olds. Standing up to my thighs in wa- they secretly hoped we would go back to camp and our ter, I surveyed my surroundings. First I saw Teddy, the cabin warm, dry beds. The rock was covered with rain and seacomedian, cover a sly grin as he began to snicker. His weed, and I slipped as I edged my way out onto it, and laughter was contagious, and soon all eight of my campers tumbled into the freezing water. I was embarrassed and and my co-counselor, Will Scarlet, were bending over back- angry because my only shoes and clothing were soaked; wards laughing, and then I was too. I could see that my however, I tried to show strength, and I laughed it off with small mistake had just put everyone in a better mood. my campers.

Moments earlier I had been showing my gloomy cabin Later that evening, as I stood by the fire in my wet boots, I group how to wash their dishes in the woods. They had just could feel the shift in the energy of the group as we worked finished hiking out to Club Point, a small campsite a mile off together to make dinner over an open fire. Everyone ofof the Camp Chewonki campus, with all the necessary gear fered to help grill the hamburgers and chop the vegetables for an overnight. I had done similar overnights many times for dinner. There can be a lot of stress on nights in the wilas a camper, but this time I was the leader rather than the derness, particularly when kids are under the impression that there is not enough food. I was impressed when one burger dropped on the ground, and one of my campers laughed about “trail spice” before dusting off the dirty patty and putting it on a bun.

During pre-camp Garth Altenburg, the camp director, held a workshop on how to lead effectively. It was not until that rainy day at Club Point that what he said truly made sense to me. Originally I thought my role as a counselor meant telling my campers what to do. That day I realized what Garth was talking about: if I set a good example, my campers would follow in my footsteps, and I would earn their trust and cooperation. By not getting angry about the discomfort I got myself into and by laughing about my mistake instead, I set the tone for the rest of the session.

Whether it was Jojo being brave enough to canoe in the stern of a boat without a counselor, or Nick always rebuilding his Lego creations without complaint when they were knocked over and broken, my cabin did not get angry about small difficulties.

Sarah Garrett ’14 Mosaic ● Volume 12, Issue 1 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

The evening culminated with marshmallow roasting and story telling until it was well after nightfall. When all of the marshmallows had been eaten and the dishes had been cleaned, we all went to our tents. Will Scarlet and I talked quickly about how we could feel new positive spirit in our cabin group and about how they had grown closer. This remained true, and the overnight prepared us for the rest of camp and the longer canoeing trip later in the session.

As I peeled off my socks I smiled when I saw my toes all wrinkled and prune-like. They might not have looked good, but they had done some good.

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Seo Jung Kim ’15

Appreciation

ple to stop using me, and instead appreciate me? Why?

By Will Tessier ’15 Have you ever pictured yourself from the point of view of a pencil? Continuously being picked up, put down, and passed around? You're always getting smaller as the people around you stay the same size, and when someone else makes a mistake, they use you to erase it.

Before you know it, you're nothing. Replaced by a mechanical pencil or thrown out because you were used so much you became too small to be useful. Irrelevant to everybody.

My mom works in an elementary school and on a daily basis works with underprivileged kids. My mom talks to these kids about their lives at home, and at night during dinner she shares some of the stories she's heard throughout the day with us. The sheer lack of appreciation between these kids' parents and the kids is astounding. My mom tells us appalling stories about how parents have neglected their children, and these stories really bother me. No one, especially a child, should be unappreciated and neglected in h own home.

Sometimes I feel like a loaf of bread. Everyone keeps taking a slice of me until all that’s left are two crusty pieces that nobody wants and I just want to scream 'Appreciate me, Damn it.' But I don’t. Why? Why am I scared of standing up for myself when I know something needs to be done about it. Why am I scared to tell peo-

This is not a plea for help but rather a request for you to help yourselves. If you're feeling used and unappreciated or something isn't going your way, do something about it. Stand up for yourself so you don't end up like a worn out pencil or the two crusty pieces of a loaf of bread that nobody wants. Thank you.

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How Do You Defy Convention?

this, nor did I think that they would want to. My dad drove the truck on the compacted dirt road as he made Ezra Cushing ’14 his way towards the unloading docks. I stood behind and My father and I were making the annual trek up-state to slightly to the right of the trailer, making sure my dad Canandaigua, NY, for the biggest tractor show of the could see me through his mirror as I helped him back the summer. Pulling our antique tractors behind our Ram die- trailer up so we could unchain and drive the tractors off. sel truck, we rolled down I-90. He sat and lectured me Taking off the binders, which keep the chains tight, I unabout the low-end torque caused by the long piston did a clevis on one of the tractor’s tail bars. I freed the shafts; that’s why the truck could pull the 20,000 lb trac- chain which ran through the clevis and picked it up. I tors, he said. I started to moan and pretend to sleep; brought them to the front of the trailer and put them in however, eventually, I ended up starry-eyed, hanging the toolbox with a clanking metal on metal sound. onto every word he said. His lectures continued as the This past summer was the first time that I had the distinct sounds of NPR droned in the background. privilege of helping him on the drive out to CanandaiI remember when I was younger sitting atop my booster gua, a true passing of the torch moment. After unloading seat yelling out, “Mack...Peterbilt...Volvo.” My father the tractors, in the past I would run off into the show and and I would compete to see who could identify the onmy dad would do the same in the flea market for hours coming 18-wheeler trucks quicker. on end. In recent years, however, as I have matured, I Periodically, we stopped at truck stops to make sure the have stuck with him when he starts in on the long talks with old friends. It is finally nice to be at the age where I chains were taunt. I walked around the trailer with authority as a small crowd gathered to look at our tractors. can participate in discussions of meaning.

With the open face of my palm, I slapped the chain to Extremely anxious, I found my father and asked if I test how tight it was. could start one of my engines so I could grind corn. We worked together for a couple of minutes, side-by-side, As we found our way onto the open road once again, oiling all of the oil cups and hole openings. Then we the smell of oatmeal raisin cookies wafted through the primed the cylinder and my dad let me crank away. Like air. My mother had run after us that morning, making with the trailer, I paced around the engine trying to look sure we got our cookies. official in my little overalls. I tinkered with the grease My hand reached into the side pocket in the door of the cups and the timing to make sure that the passersby saw that I could operate the engine all by myself. Then my truck, and I pulled out a multi-purpose screwdriver. I took each tool out and adjusted it, each time naming the dad helped me belt up the engine to the corn grinder; it new component I had inserted into it, “Phillips head, flat- whirred to life as its rpms quickly caught up to those of the engine. I grabbed a handful of corn and tossed it head, allen, square bolt, star bolt…” into the chute. After it churned and was ground down, it As we pulled into the show grounds, I peered over the slid out the other end as a fine powder. My father dash at the antique construction display which had the watched at a distance making sure that I knew I was runCaterpillar dozers and big steam shovels. It was an ning the engine by myself. However, he was always amusing part of the summer for me specifically because I close enough to catch me if something went wrong or if knew that none of my friends had the opportunity to do the engine began to sputter.

John Dewey ’14

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Consumed Charlotte Freccia ’15 I turn on the lamp over the stove and run some water over my hands. I crack a window and wind my long hair into a bun so it won’t get in the way. I put on some music— something mellow but energizing, like Bright Eyes or Bob Dylan. I rinse the tomatoes, splash some oil into a pan, put the water on to boil. The tasks ahead of me are clear and attainable. I am ready to begin.

Half an hour later, tendrils of hair, raised by steam and sweat, have come undone and plastered themselves to the sides of my face. Flour is dusted down my front and food in various stages of preparation litters every surface in my small, overheated kitchen. The scene has transformed from one of ease and serenity to one of disorder. I am the eye in this hurricane. The mess and the chaos do not touch me as I continue to work, knowing that all of the madness will be worth it.

When you first start to cook, you follow the recipe exactly: you use two cups of rice, not three. You use thyme, not rosemary, because the long-dead author of Joy of Cooking says that those precise steps are what separate a good risotto from a mediocre one. And when that risotto emerges from the oven, creamy and bubbling, the perfect shade of golden brown, you feel triumphant, invincible. You attribute this faultless meal to the precise and unflinching way you have followed the directions.

thing, they will make it look easy. While I generally agree with this rule, I think cooking is different. If you want the food you make to mean something, if you want it to be more than just carbohydrates on a plate, your care and attention to detail must be clear in each bite.

I love cooking. But I don’t presume to be a chef—at least, not yet. And that’s something else that brings me peace— the optimistic promise of improvement, the hope that one day I’ll be able to perfect my recipes and make people ooh and ah with my culinary expertise.

The kitchen is my haven. I live for the scent of melting cheese and fresh rosemary. The sizzle of peppers in a pan is like music to my ears. Minutes, even hours pass in the kitchen as I work with a concentration I rarely apply anywhere else. I am entirely devoted to the production of a meal and in that process the tiny stresses and injustices of my life fall away.

When I cook I can feel myself being absorbed into another world, given over to a new high that lasts long after the last bite has been consumed.

But after you cook for a while and develop a repertoire of signature dishes, the appeal of following a recipe diminishes. You start to get creative—maybe you add two cloves of crushed garlic instead of one, or just sprinkle the salt into the soup instead of painstakingly grating it into a tiny measuring spoon. After you become acquainted with ingredients and their flavors, after you determine which meals have become your specialties, you abandon the idea of recipes altogether and create dishes entirely on your own. This practice is tricky. It leads to the ringing of smoke alarms, the scorching of pans, disappointed audiences and peanut butter eaten straight from the jar in defeat. But once in a while a creation all your own comes out perfectly. You stand, silent and stunned, in a moment of reverence for the masterpiece that has come out of you, the byproduct of your sweat and determination, the thing that was molded by your head, heart, and hands. And when this happens, the thrill is even greater.

That is why there are few things as cathartic as the preparation and creation of food. I think that cooking and eating are emotional experiences. People love food more than almost everything else. Food is what sustains us, keeps us alive. A lot of our fondest memories are associated with certain tastes and flavors. To create food that has this effect on people, you have to exert your every effort and care.

Someone once said that if a person is truly skilled at some-

Qianyi Zhang ’15

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Letters to the Editor All AP English Language and Composition students are asked to complete a variety of writing and reading over the summer. One of the assignments is to write a letter to the editor of a paper. Those students whose letters are published begin the year with an A. Here are some samples from this year's students.

Dear Editor, Parents need to accept the significance the online world has for this 21 st century generation of kids and to recognize that they likely have no idea what goes on in their children’s small part of it. Instead of trying to monitor and supervise all online activity, parents have to give their children the tools to make the right decisions when they are exploring the great unknown of the World Wide Web on their own.

themselves, as well as others, safe. More than ever this applies to kids on the Internet.

From personal experience, I can say with no doubt that my generation can work a computer or cell phone better than any of our parents, often isolating ourselves in the online world where nobody has a babysitter. It is impossible for parents to know what their kids are doing at all times but equally unreasonable to think kids will always show good judgment about what’s right for them or othA recent opinion piece from a concerned parent about ers. That’s why the best option for protecting kids on the the site Ask.fm got me thinking about the role parents play in mediating the situations kids find themselves in on Internet isn’t limiting access — because it will happen whether or not parents will it — but instead giving us the the internet or anywhere else for that matter. I am 17 tools we need to make the right decision when a situation years old and now more than ever find myself needing arises. One thing is certain: when most of these issues to make important, meaningful decisions without having arise, parents aren’t going to be anywhere around, and my parents on hand to step in and say what’s wrong or so the discussions have to happen in advance. right. As a preteen and even as I grew older, just like every other kid out there, I was not always around my The Internet is a wondrous thing but it can be misused. parents. Whether it was on the playground or on the And although it may seem that even toddlers can use an computer, I faced decisions that could change the path iPhone better than their parents, they lack the life exof my life. perience to distinguish the good from the bad. Parents This is where parents have an opportunity and responsi- need to talk to their kids openly about the risks because when the time comes, it’s hard to hold someone’s hand bility to make sure their children have the tools necesthrough a computer screen. sary to make informed decisions that ultimately keep Nick Gibson ’14 Published in The Masthead News, Hubbards, Nova Scotia

Lexi Black ’16

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Sarah Garrett ’14

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Dear Editor, Imagine a perfect lake day here in the Tri-Lakes Region.

Not too many boats, beautiful water temperatures, and clear skies. Or, imagine the satisfaction of hiking a high peak. That is something to go down in your own record book. There is so much to do here in our area. Whatever your interests, it probably involves being in our great outdoors in the Adirondacks.

But I say that the best time to be in our outdoors is when the sun goes down and the moon comes up. Our nighttime skies are some of the clearest in New York State. There are only six remaining places on Earth where you can obtain total darkness at night. These are classified as regions that have “Zero Light Pollution.” These areas include: Central Africa, the Amazon Rainforest in South America, Western Australia, Antarctica, and parts of both the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. Www.lightpollution.it/ has maps on their website showing how light polluted the skies are around the world.

With large cities so close to our region — such as Montreal, Albany, Burlington, and Syracuse — outside of the Adiron

dack Park, our New York skies are polluted.

Whether you are a local, tourist, or second homeowner in this area, I encourage you to go see our beautiful nighttime skies. Www.Earthsky.org/ says that there are only ten more nights of meteor showers this year where we can see upwards of fifteen shooting stars per hour.

I enjoy shooting exposure photography at night, and this has allowed me to take some pretty incredible shots of star trails and various islands on Upper Saranac Lake. When the sky is perfectly clear and the moon is not around, it is incredible to gaze at the Milky Way spanning the sky from one end of the lake to the other.

Summer is only here for another 20 nights. Go see what’s up there.

Jack Yanchitis ’15 Published in Adirondack Daily Enterprise, Saranac Lake, NY

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By Hailee Grisham ’14

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LIPS

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Research Essays Central to the AP English Language and Composition course is argumentation. To practice the presentation of an argument, students write researched essays in which they lay out perspectives on a divisive contemporary issue and suggest a resolution. This year's essays included the following selections.

Sixteen Ounces Grace Eagan ’15 After many years of denial, and example after example, Americans are finally starting to acknowledged obesity for the major problem that it is.

The cause of this widespread misfortune cannot be traced back to one specific food, but rather the tendency to choose unhealthy foods. In a world of ever-growing portions and fast food restaurants, the logical result is that fifty percent of adults in the United States are obese or overweight. Soda is one of the leading causes of obesity because of its liquid state. Often people don’t realize how many calories they are consuming when they are drinking soda and other sugary drinks.

tion. It is easier to pick up a Big Mac and know that it’s unhealthy and contains an excessive amount of calories, than to drink an entire thirty-two-ounce soda and realize that it contains almost the same amount of calories as a healthy meal.

While Bloomberg’s idea seemed like a good one, it did not resonate well with some people in the state of New York, namely, the people who actually drink the thirtytwo and sixty-four-ounce sodas on a daily basis. In reality, a large number of people consume the drinks every day. Why should Bloomberg take that away?

Does he actually have the authority to do that? Will the limit of sixteen ounces per soda really help people lose weight since they can just buy a second one? It is unclear as to whether or not Mayor Bloomberg has the authority to make these decisions for the people of New York. These questions are all valid, and they were not answered until the court made its final ruling.

Mayor Michael Bloomberg of New York, who is very concerned with the current health problem, attempted to put a limit on the sizes of soda cups that are sold. According to Bloomberg, “It would be irresponsible not to try to do everything we can to save lives,” and putting a limit on soda sizes would do that. This decision caused much controversy, and it was no easy task for the court that decided the legalIn an attempt to pass the law, Bloomberg went behind the ity of the law. back of the City Council and went straight to the city’s Mayor Bloomberg’s plan was to limit the size of soda cups Board of Health. This action created conflict in court besold to less than sixteen ounces. A sixty-four-ounce Coca cause Bloomberg does not have the authority to make a Cola at KFC has over 800 calories, and that is just the drink decision of that caliber without the advice of the City Counwithout the meal. There is no way that fast food can be cil. Ultimately, neither the Council nor the court passed the banned, but the decrease in soda sizes could significantly law. Bloomberg’s attempt at moving towards a healthier help move in the direction of solving this large problem. In- city was denied, but he started a project far larger than a stead of cutting out soda and unhealthy food all together, limit on soda sizes. which is unrealistic and naïve, Mayor Bloomberg proposed a small change that could lead to larger ones in the future. Mayor Bloomberg’s intentions were good, but his ideas were bound to create controversy and ultimately have a The reality is soda has no nutritional value: it is pure sugar. very small impact. Health and obesity are problems that It may be pleasing to the taste buds; however, it is nothing need to be addressed within the context of the United but detrimental to the body. Dr. Lisa Young, a nutritionist States, but limiting the amount of a drink per cup can only that took part in the movie Super Size Me, fully supports the help the problem so much. People still have the ability to mayor’s plan saying, “In a nutshell, portion size matters and consume as much of a sugary drink as before; they just have can help in the fight against obesity.” Bloomberg’s idea is a to buy it in two separate cups. There are larger issues within progressive one and his thinking is moving in the right direc- the “unhealthy diet” of many Americans; for example, the

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use of food coloring in foods and drinks is often related to Works Cited health problems in children and adults. The FDA must reguColvin, Jill. "New York Soda Ban Approved: Board Of late the amount of food dye used in drinks and other foods Health OKs Limiting Sale Of Large-Sized, Sugary Drinks." to make sure that they are safe for humans to consume. Bill The Huffington Post. 13 Sept. 2013. 25 Oct. 2013 <New Thompson, who ran against Bloomberg for mayor in 2009, York Soda Ban Approved: Board Of Health OKs Limiting commented that the ruling “unmasks Mayor Bloomberg's Sale Of Large-Sized, Sugary Drinks>. misguided soda ban policy for what it is: a cosmetic solution to a complex problem.” Thompson’s point is that the issue of Garrey, Sascha. "CommonHealth." CommonHealth RSS. 5 large, sugary drinks does contribute to obesity all throughAug. 2013. WBUR.org. 27 Oct. 2013 <http:// out America, but there are much larger problems that should commonhealth.wbur.org/2013/08/sugary-drinks-obesitybe addressed first before this one of smaller proportion. kids>.

The fact that the mayor of the large state of New York is Grynbaum, Michael M. "New York Soda Ban to Go Before trying to take steps to solve obesity is progress in itself.

State’s Top Court." Nytimes.com. 17 Oct. 2013. New York While Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s end goal of controlling Times. 25 Oct. 2013 <http:// the levels of obesity in the United States is popular among www.nytimes.com/2013/10/18/nyregion/new-yorkthe people of New York, his means of getting there are not. soda-ban-to-go-before-states-top-court.html?_r=0>.

Placing a limit on soda sizes is not a surefire way to deYoung, Lisa. "Why a Cap on Sugary Drinks May Work." The crease the amount that people consume, and it is also not Huffington Post. 13 June 2013. TheHuffingtonPost.com. 25 one of the large health problems that should have had priOct. 2013 <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-lisaority over others. Nevertheless, Bloomberg’s efforts have not young/soda-ban_b_3436922.html>. gone unnoticed by the rest of the country, and he has inspired many others to take action. His goals are admirable, Saul, Michael H. "Judge Cans Soda Ban." Online.wsj.com. and he is starting to chew away at one of the largest health 11 Mar. 2013. 3 Nov. 2013 <http://online.wsj.com/ news/articles/ problems in the world: obesity.

SB1000142412788732382670457835454392997439 4>.

Charlotte Freccia ’15 Mosaic ● Volume 12, Issue 1 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

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Drones Noah Thompson ’14 The debate of droning in the Middle East has been going on for the past decade or so. There are those who believe that the US should continue to use drones as a method of killing high value targets; others oppose the idea because of the possible threat to the lives of civilians.

international laws of engagement (Ben Wolfgang). There are staggering statistics to support Prime Minister Sharif and his fellow debaters. In six investigated drone strikes in Yemen, it was found that 57 of the 82 people killed in the strikes were civilians (NY Times).

The anti-drone group definitely has plenty of legitimate A little background evidence to support as to exactly what the end of drone “droning” is first, attacks, but so does the pro-drone group. The solution to though. Droning is the use of unmanned aerial vehicles this dilemma is to find a common ground where both (UAVs) to fire missiles on enemy targets with great preci- groups can agree on the terms, but the terms should still sion (Wiki). The UAV is driven by someone back on a allow for the capture or killing of high valued threats to military base, where he/she is safe from harm. the US either by the US or someone else.

On one side of the debate are people who believe that For the ending of drone strikes in Pakistan to become a drone attacks are a valuable tool and an effective way possibility, both sides have to realize the truths. The U.S of killing high value targets or taking out enemy emhas to acknowledge the fact that drone attacks, while placements. The use of drones allows the military to take killing their targets, also often kill many other innocent action against these high risk and high value targets civilians. On the other hand, the Pakistani government without actually putting any American soldiers on the has to understand that these drone attacks are a vital battlefield, without putting any American lives at danpart of US terrorism prevention. Without the drone proger. The US, as of late, has especially favored droning gram, US troops would need to be deployed, and this is areas in Pakistan, taking out important Al Qaeda figwhat the whole purpose of drone attacks was in the first ures. Since 2004, drone attacks have helped to bring place: to be rid of the need for actual soldiers to carry down over 2,200 terrorists in only 364 strikes (Wiki). out missions. If the US were to end droning in Pakistan, then who would be sent to kill these potential terrorists?

These attacks have not come without some negative points, though. Because there is no one on the ground to If the Pakistani government were to collaborate with the take the one shot or multiple shots needed to take out US government and help them carry out missions and the intended targets, a highly explosive missile is used to take out terrorist threats, then there would be no need to ensure that the target is successfully killed. This is where send down missiles from above, leaving the innocent problems arise. Because such force is needed, some civil- people on the ground running for their lives. The two ians are killed in many blasts. Despite these unintended governments could get together and work out some kind casualties, White House Press Secretary Jay Carney of joint operation unit whereby both countries would calls drone strikes “not only precise, but also lawful and make up the ground forces that would be used to hunt effective” (Times of India). and neutralize these enemy targets. This way the US People on the other side of the debate argue that drone would not need to put as many of its own soldiers at risk, attacks are not worth the risk of killing multiple civilians and Pakistan would keep its civilian population safe to get maybe one or two enemy targets. Pakistani Prime from potentially fatal drone strikes.

Minister Nawaz Sharif is a main advocate for the ending This is not the only possible solution though. The US could of drone strikes in Pakistan (Ben Wolfgang). He says also retool their methods of drone usage. Maybe instead drones are not accurate, they cause civilian casualties, of using the incredibly powerful Hellfire Missiles in their and they kill civilians, which means the US is violating drones, they could switch to something less powerful.

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That way there would be less of an explosive force thrown beyond the area intended (CNN). They could also collect better intelligence on the target intended and wait to strike when the target is in an area of low population.

It is not certain what the future will bring for drone attacks in Pakistan, but what is certain is that things must change before the US ends up fighting another battle it does not need or want. There have not been any complaints as to the drone's effectiveness as counterterrorism weapons. Instead, people are challenging the accuracy of these weapons and the fact that more civilians are killed in every drone attack on average than actual enemy targets. These statistics are worrying, and something needs to be done to stop the unintended killings of innocent Pakistani nationals.

Citations Walsh, Delcan. "Civilian Deaths in Drone Strikes Cited in Report." Nytimes.com. New York Times, 22 Oct. 2013.

Web. 23 Oct. 2013. http://

www.nytimes.com/2013/10/22/world/asia/civiliandeaths-n-drone-strikes-cited-in-report.html?_r=0 "US Justifies Drone Attacks, Says It's Lawful." The Times Of India. N.p., 23 Oct. 2013. Web. 25 Oct. 2013. http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/world/us/USjustifies-drone-attacks-says-its-awful/ articleshow/24595396.cms Wolfgang, Ben. "White House Defends Drone Strikes; Pakistani P.M. to Visit Obama This Week." The Washingtion Times. N.p., 22 Oct. 2013. Web. 25 Oct. 2013. http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2013/oct/22/ white-house-defends-drone-strikes- pakistani-pm-vis/ "Drone Attacks in Pakistan." Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 11 Mar. 2013. Web. 03 Nov. 2013. http:// en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drone_attacks_in_Pakistan Levs, Josh. "CNN Explains: U.S. Drones." CNN. Cable News Network, 08 Feb. 2013. Web. 28 Oct. 2013. http://www.cnn.com/2013/02/07/politics/drones-cnn -explains/

Avery Morgan ’16

Yazhi Li ’14

Matt Tankersley ’14

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Everest: Overpopulated?

Sherpa this past spring at camp two. This is the kind of things that cannot happen at high elevation. The problem with climbing this huge mountain is Westerners are paying their way up. Graham Hoyland says, “You have people going up there who don’t know how to operate ropes or use crampons.”

Abigail Jones ’15 In the past ten years the population climbing the tallest peak in the world has rapidly increased. In the past year there were over 200 ascents of Mount Everest on a single day, and the numbers keep increasing every year. There have been many debates in recent years about controlling the permits allowed on the mountain per climbing season because reduced numbers would help with the pollution level, the death rate, and create a safer environment for the climbers. But the people of Nepal disagree.

With more people, that means more oxygen canisters are needed for support. As stated in an article by BBC’s Graham Hoyland, “It isn’t a wilderness experience — it’s a McDonald’s experience.” In the eyes of a purist, this is not what the mountain should be like, and things have to change. Pollution is one of the largest problems that has slowly been dealt with. Within the past decade, wellrespected mountain guide Russell Brice instituted an insurance fee that is paid before stepping on the mountain. This fee insures that a team will pick up its trash as well as pack out other trash, and in doing so the team will earn the fee back. Although pollution is a main concern, it is all because the mountain has become a city of people.

The overpopulation has raised the death rate — not of the paying clients, but of the Sherpa's who are the most important people on the mountain. In the late summer edition of Outside magazine, author Grayson Schaffer wrote, “In the early years of exploration, Sherpa casualties were accepted as an unfortunate price of conquest. The question is whether in 2013, the summit of Everest is still worth this kind of banal and predictable human sacrifice.” Many wives of the Sherpa are asking their husbands to come home and off the mountain. The jobs that the Sherpa perform on the mountain cause the most deaths of any occupation, and the death rate continues to rise.

The population has turned the single-tent base camp into a city. The overpopulation on the mountain has in the past year caused problems that are unheard of on most high mountains. A fight took place between two climbers and a

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This is why the government needs to limit the permits given each year, but they also need to test the ability of each climber. A climber with limited abilities can cause disaster not only for themselves but the people responsible for them, like their guides and Sherpa. Unfortunately for Nepal, this is the country’s biggest form of revenue, tourism. During the spring of each year, the climbing season is the time where all the money is made. Limiting the amount of people on the mountain takes away from the money this already poor country can intake. Sadly, the government and guides need to stop being lazy and decide on an outcome. The outcome might be a decision that ensures the safety of not only their people but also the clients.

Citations BBC: Everest Climbing rules ‘to be tightened’ Khadka, Navin Singh, . N.p.. Web. 25 Oct 2013. <http:// www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-23543172>.: BBC: The Worlds Highest Traffic Jam Kelly, Jon. "Everest Crowds: The World's Highest Traffic Jam." BBC News. BBC, 28 May 2013. Web. 25 Oct. 2013.

Outside Magazine: Disposable Schaffer, Grayson. "Disposable Man." Outside Magazine Aug. 2013: 1-109. Web. 25 Oct. 2013.

Washington Post: Mount Everest is overcrowded, polluted and nearing a crossroads, 60 years after first climb Dewey, Caitlin. "Mount Everest Is Overcrowded, Polluted and Nearing a Crossroads, 60 Years after First Climb." Washington Post 29 May 2013: n. pag. Print.

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Reading Reflections In English classes, the students are often asked to reflect on the novels that they are reading. Sometimes the reflections occur during conversations in class; at other times students are asked to write in journals. Sometimes the assignments are more formal as in the case of the second essay in this section in which a student responds to George Orwell’s 1984. But occasionally a student will take the time to break out of the traditional analytical box and take a different approach to reflection. This was the case for Kaelen Caggiula, who after reading Chad Harbach’s The Art of Fielding over the summer, decided to rewrite the ending of the novel. He carefully studied Harbach’s style and rewrote the musings of Guert Affenlight just before his death, changing the plot but leaving the characters and message of the novel intact.

Rewriting The Art of Fielding Kaelen Caggiula ’14 Guert was in shock. How could he have been so stupid? A relationship with a student? Never mind that the student was male, which held a stigma because of society’s insecurities: he should have known better. Guert Affenlight was not a man who messed around with students or who broke rules.

Guert Affenlight was an upstanding scholarly man who went about his life properly, yet here he was in a devil of a situation.

time. He owed allegiance to no one and blamed only himself.

Reading could do only so much for Guert. He was hungry. It had been four hours since the news. Guert had read and reread the copy he kept of Melville’s speech. He had extrapolated all meaning from it and still felt nothing. The four hours thankfully felt like four weeks. Letting go of Westish would mean his entire life shattered into pieces like a broken mirror.

Heading into the kitchen, Guert selected a cold hotdog from two days before and a soda that was eight days past its Apparently someone had seen him? How? He had been expiration. Surely eight days wouldn’t matter, right? He had careful enough. He supposed that you could never be too careful in these types of situations. These types of situations? meant to get rid of all soda and processed meat for the Did these types of situations even happen? Guert made his well being of his heart, but there weren’t many options in his way back to his new house. Encountering Contango, he mus- refrigerator and he had no desire to cook now. The hot dog tered the energy to give the dog a friendly scratch, though was a 1/4 eaten concession from an event or something; it Guert felt drained and exhausted after receiving such crip- wasn’t important to him now. pling news. His impending joblessness didn’t worry Guert as Against his better judgment, Guert wolfed down the hot dog much as the impact that the entire debacle would have on and washed it down with his soft drink. He gulped uneasily Pella. He had been able to slowly witness her gradual as- as a piece of partly eaten hot dog was slowly pushed cent into maturity and didn’t want it to be impeded. He downwards. He immediately regretted eating the hot dog. knew he couldn’t keep this a secret and most likely wouldn’t It tasted bad in his mouth — not an unpleasant taste, rather be able to keep his relationship with Owen a secret. How- a reminder of how bad it was for his heart and his system. ever, he was adamant that she have no knowledge of the The soda was fine, having lost none of its peppiness, though increasing fragility of his heart. He had not been taking his it caused an uncomfortable bloated feeling in his stomach. pills as regularly as he should, which, coupled with his habit At this point, all he wanted to do was lie down. of smoking, had prompted a strong warning from his physician who had identified that heart troubles were common in Guert sat down and tried to pick out a book. He was interGuert’s family. Feeling overwhelmed, Guert sought relaxa- ested in reading something quite unfamiliar to himself. His mind was full of Melville and poetry by Whitman, two aution. thors he had read a thousand times. He sought a new exThe now former President of Westish turned to the only he perience. He patted Contango on the head and walked to comfort he knew: literature. His one chance at solace was his bookcase. There were few books he hadn’t read in this found buried in the subtle nuances of each page of his facollection, though some of them were entirely alien. He ultivorite novels. Guert was able to lose himself utterly within mately selected In Search Of Lost Time by Marcel Proust. It minutes. He had little care of what else went on. wasn’t a novel he particularly liked, but he was ready to The phone rang. It rang again. A third time. The phone fell give it another chance. He knew he wouldn’t be able to finto the floor with a crash as Guert ripped the cord from the ish it before his sleep so he took his time bringing it down earpiece. He wasn’t angry, simply interested in peace and from the bookshelf. He almost dropped it initially because of his shaking hands. Perhaps the Owen ordeal was affectquiet. At this junction he had little care for what the caller may have had to say. Guert was no longer a part of Wes- ing him much more than he initially realized.

(Continued on page 28) tish now. He would leave within the week, but now was his

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28

Qianyi Zhang ’15

Matt Tankersley ’14 (Continued from page 27)

Stepping outside, Guert lit a cigarette to calm his nerves.

Cigarettes were another thing he had promised his doctor he would stop using, but they calmed him and he couldn’t quite stop. He lit another, and another. Three was enough, and after the third, he sat down in his chair whereupon he opened his chosen book and began reading.

For a long timeGuert clutched his left arm as a shooting pain lanced through it. He read on. ...I went to bed EarlyThere was the pain again, immediately after the first.

Guert sat still, unmoving for 20 seconds. Feeling nothing else, he continued to read. As he read, the words began to swirl off the page and dance in front of his eyes as if to mock his inability to focus. He felt the pain again in his arm and suddenly felt shortness of breath. Thoughts raced

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through his brain at the speed of light. Am I having a heart attack? No! It can’t be. The hot dog and soda and three cigarettes came racing to the front of his mind like horrible reminders of an unhealthy lifestyle. Am I? He was now experiencing serious chest pain, as though there was something inside rubbing each rib in the most painful way possible: popping. His breathing became increasingly shorter.

As his eyelids blinked their last and drooped shut, Guert’s thoughts scattered to the four corners of the earth, then focused on Pella. How would she cope? How would she support herself? Wasn’t she dating that boy, Schwartz or something? Could he provide for her? He was hardly 23 years old. A child!

Panic soon gave way to acceptance and calm. He imagined the lake. Silent, black, unmoving waters. The definition of serene beauty. It was his last, most peaceful, most perfect thought.

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Unpersons: Erasing the Past Hannah Stowe ’15 The Party has complete control over the people and the society in 1984. It also controls all of the information that the people receive and insists that Oceania is the most powerful country in the world. While working in the Department of Fiction, a committee of the Ministry of Truth, Winston has the job of rewriting facts that no longer hold truth. Once a person is vaporized, he/she becomes an unperson, and any writings on these people have to disappear. An unperson, “did not exist; had never existed” (Orwell, 47). The Party’s development of unpersons shows how deeply power controls the society in 1984, and to what lengths the Party will go to remain in control.

Winston believes that the Party is corrupt but cannot figure out why they go to such lengths to control the people.

O’Brien finally admits that the Party seeks power solely to have it. The Party works on the basis that “power is collective” (Orwell, 273). Individuals cannot have significant power in Oceania; only the Party as a whole can. After the rebellion, the Party gained control of all of Oceania.

The main problem was keeping it. They destroyed privacy, truth, and individuality in order to keep control. This approach kept the Party in power but completely changed the society. They had to devote a lot of time to the unpeople, because even posthumously, no one could have any power at all. The vaporization of people wiped any people from history who could potentially have the power to rebel. When the past of a person has been erased, he/she is eventually forgotten. Family and friends have no proof that the person ever existed, and over time he/she does not.

The Party itself is built entirely on contradictions. O’Brien admits to Winston during his torturing that the true goal of the Party is to keep control of power. He then brainwashes Winston into believing that the Party’s notions are to help mankind. The Party’s motives are not to better society, however, but to make the people “hollow” in order

to fill them with their own slogans and laws (Orwell, 265).

An unperson in itself is also a contradiction. The Party claims that a person no longer exists and must be erased from the past, but in order to do so, the Party has to acknowledge that that person existed. People outside of the Ministry of Truth might not be aware that these things are happening, but isn’t it enough that some are aware of it?

They claim to focus on each heresy and not only kill person but kill his/her ideas of rebellion. Each person must die with love for the Party.

Some would believe the Party will end in ruin. On the contrary, George Orwell believes that the power of the Party is absolute; it will never lose. He sees the human race as cynical and power hungry; the goodness of mankind will not triumph.

Qianyi Zhang ’15

Katie Remien ’15

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Roots Leah Scaralia ’15 Dear X, When you approach me, I feel like a zero. My unresolved feelings for you know no limit, even though I have computed the fact that you grow as a person independently of my position.

I’ve been searching for a theorem that could demonstrate the success rate of a second try together. Of all the people around me, you’re the only one who lies tangent to my heart: you’ve made your point and you’ve moved on. I could have sworn it was all imaginary. And I’d like to see us intersect at some point, even though it seems that my love was only instantaneous.

You are a walking sample of my numerous problems with relationships: you took my ups and my downs and you charted them; you converted my maximum moments and my minimum points into a derivative that revealed the logarith- So now it seems that the only variable in our system is your feelings toward me. You can remove me and make your life mic rate at which my paranoia decayed my passion. You one smooth, continuous line, or you can recognize that my derive me crazy. love knows no boundaries, cannot be defined, grows at an I always knew you were propelling me in the positive direcexponential rate… tion, but all I could see in you was the left-hand sum of your and we can start from the roots that we planted the first life; most of the time, I underestimated you. I never could grasp the concept that my curves were not integral to your time, change us from X’s, and solve this irrational thing we love until I realized that what we had was purely rational. used to call love.

Please tell me that we were dysfunctional. Because lately,

Lea Rice ’14

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Katie Remien â&#x20AC;&#x2122;15

Holderness School Plymouth, NH 03264-1879 www.holderness.org 603.536.1257