Magnum Opus 2012

Welcome to Magnum Opus!

Since the beginning of Houston Christian High School, students have earned many awards in various educational and community competitions for their outstanding visual art and literary works. HC students, parents, faculty, staff, and visitors have the pleasure of viewing these extraordinary pieces which are showcased throughout the campus. This magazine highlights a fraction of the creations produced by our creative students throughout the school year.

Madison DeLuca - Editor

Katherine Allison “Portrait of an Artist as a Young Woman: Logan Zoelle”...............................................................16

Pace Andrews “Ship Abstracted”........................................................ 35

Meg Goode - Editor Art Editorial Staff

Amanda Blanchard “The Flight of Dragons”............................................ 24

Michelle Jong “Beauty Rest”.................................................................6

Henry Britven “Stoneware Cobalt” ...................................................23

Sam Kaestner “It’s Not All Black and White”..................................32

Janice Byth “Pants”............................................................................7

Amy Mack “Ode to the Glove”....................................................21

Alexandra Constantinou “Flores Mortales”.........................................................20

Nick Moll “Beneath the Surface”................................................. 8

Grace Craven “Expression”................................................................ 28

Ariana Morgan “My #Hashtag is Better Than Your #Hashtag.................................................29

Writing Editorial Staff Katie Garbarino - Editor-in-Chief Katherine Allison - Editor

Magnum Opus provides an outlet for student voices and visions and the opportunity for collaboration between departments, teachers, students, and staff members.

The publication of an actual product that showcases the high caliber of art and writing from our students also provides the opportunity for real-world learning that many students can take with them as they move on to college and beyond in their

Logan Zoelle - Head Art Editor MaryEvans Attwell - Editor Kevin Chin - Editor Faculty Contributors

careers.

The Visual Arts, English, and Marketing & Communications departments, as well as students from visual arts and English, worked together on Magna Opus with a focus on encouraging: •

Students to articulate and vocalize a Christian worldview

•

A collaborative approach to education (students and teachers are co-authors in the learning process)

•

Students to develop real-world leadership skills (learn how to work with peers and superiors)

•

Sonia Chavez - Marketing Consultant Susan Henson-Perry - Writing Lana Roland-Loveland - Art (Sculpture and Pottery) Sherie Pierce - Art (Visual Arts) Karen Klasen - Copy Editor

Dialogue between students and the greater community

Kloe Dorsett “Hope for Courage and Try for Honor”................. 4

Art and Writing Awards 2011-2012

1st Place Ribbon Claire Hill 2nd Place Ribbon Ava Finstuen Hannah Shearer Anna Witte 3rd Place Ribbon Addie Eckert Randy Faulk

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2012 VASE - Visual Arts Scholastic Events State Finalist Amanda Blanchard Regional Finalist Alexandra Constantinou Bucky Desadier Jacob Farris

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Grace Morris Morgan Sparrow 2011 NCTE Achievement Award for Superior Writing Katie Garbarino 2011 Freedoms Foundation Essay Contest George Washington Medal of Honor Eric Hopper Devon Sills Kathryn Quandt Honorable Mention Michael Dunn 2011 Being an American Essay Contest Taylor Porchey, 2nd Place in the Central Region 2012 NCTE Achievement Awards in Writing Meg Goode, HC Student Nominee

Elizabeth Dalbello “Memories Stick to Me”............................................12 Madison DeLuca “Masks”.........................................................................33

We hope you enjoy these exceptional pieces.

2011 Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo Gold Medal, Top 50 Auction Michelle Jong

Table of Contents

2012 Letters about Literature Essay Contest Texas State Finalists Sophomores Courtney Brady Alex Duck Lauren Dumler Juniors Rachel Berry Erin Doll Chris Evans David Hansen Paige Hobbs Carl Mundt Courtney Smith 2012 Scholastic Writing Awards Region 4 Gold Key Winners Turner Batdorf Maddy Copello Eric Hopper Madeline Sneed Karmen Valenzuela Audrey Wood

Silver Key Winners Katherine Allison Rachael Barnett Max Brown Reghan Gillman Taylor Porchey Kathryn Quandt Adrianna Thompson Audrey Wood Jordan Zeal Logan Zoelle Honorable Mention Shelby Corder Cullen Cosco Leigh Cummings Kloe Dorsett Sarah Floris Katie Garbarino Kate Goode Ashley Mack Callie Parish Beth Powell Lauren Schulz

Andrew Duna “It’s Gonna Be My Year”............................................11 Lauren Evans “I Know These Faces…

They Are My Own”.....................................................18

Ava Finstuen “Steeples”......................................................................14

Claire Hill “The Noble Quality of Books”.................................27 Eric Hopper “Temple of Love”........................................................26

Grace Morris “Concentration Plant Design”...................................10 Callie Parish “Life Leaks”..................................................................34 “Syrup in a Bowl”....................................................... 43 Kathryn Quandt “Beyond the Noise”.................................................... 38 Hannah Rae “Sushi Roll”..................................................................40 John Rasplicka “Growing Debt, Growing Problems for Millenials”.............................................30

Katie Garbarino “Nick”............................................................................37

Hannah Shearer “Venus in Focus”.........................................................13 “Believing: Communication is the Key”..................25

Reghan Gillman “Stripes of Color”........................................................36

Morgan Sparrow “Tour Eiffel”................................................................ 19

Kate Goode “When the Immovable Moves”................................ 22

Logan Zoelle “Glasses”....................................................................... 5 “Portrait of an Artist as a Young Woman”............. 16

Meg Goode “All Finish, Few Run”................................................. 15

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“I hope to challenge people, especially with this piece.

I hope it shocks them, but, at the same time, I don’t want them to be horrified or judgmental.”

kloe dorsett

Hope for Courage and Try for Honor

I’m an animal freak.

Anyone who knows anything about me would agree.

However, a lot of people disagree with my devotion to my pets, including my mother.

When a stray dog shows up, it’s second nature for me to feed him or her. When my mother finds out, it’s second nature for her to be angry. However, when a stray dog gets fed, it’s second nature for him or her to stick around. Most of the time, though, strays just come and go.

One German shepherd, though, meandered into my yard and wove her way into the hearts of my entire family, particularly my own, and she has never even considered leaving us.

When we found her, she was pregnant. Her bloated, balloon-like belly weighing her down more and more with each passing day. The bigger and slower she got, the more I worried about where she would have her puppies. She was anxious, digging holes and searching for dens, but my worst fears vanished even further into the abyss of horrible outcomes when she had her puppies deep inside the culvert beneath our driveway.

The only option, of course, was for me to crawl under there.

My mother fought me tooth and nail. The house was a warzone. We went back and forth continuously. Every conversation, every interaction, was mercurial. I alternated between the desperate side of my mothering instinct and the furious, indignant side of it. Yet we were still getting nowhere.

Finally, she gave in. An explosive, tear-filled tirade and a quiet side-line opinion from a close family friend soon got me suited up and ready to crawl beneath the driveway despite the numerous horrific complications that could be involved. Honestly, looking back, I feel guilty for even pushing my mother to agree to such a feat, but she did, and I’m grateful for it every day.

When I crawled beneath that driveway, tightly bundled in (continued on page 41)

“Glasses” “I love the comic/ animation world.

My greatest dream is to be a graphic novelist and to illustrate my own stories.”

logan zoelle 4

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Pants

“Beauty Rest”

I bounce on the balls of my feet, dancing to a throaty high-

pitched voice, singing in a foreign language I could not identify. It isn’t the music that I would rock to in my bedroom back in Texas, but I dance to

“Art is important

it anyway. The Homestay family, from the rural village in India where my

to me because I

friend and I are staying, stares at me as I perform my impromptu dance.

believe that God

up to join me. Even though I only knew one word in Ladhaki, everyone

I grab one of the villager’s hard leathery hands and try to pull her

”I hope that my writing helps people see the world in a different light.”

understood that a dance party had just started. This particular night there

has given me

were no men in the house, so it was a regular sleepover party--Ladhaki

a talent for art,

village style.

and I want to

when I notice the housemother stand up. She is a plump, older woman

I twist back and forth, letting my long skirt swish around me,

in traditional Ladahki dress, her dark black hair pinned back revealing a

use that talent

round, weather-beaten face. She flicks her hands up and sways side-

to glorify His

to-side as she dances closer to me. I start to copy her movements and

name.”

pictures on the floor, to come dance with us, when all of a sudden I feel a

janice byth

improvise my own. I turn around and try to get my friend, who is taking sharp tug on my skirt. I jump in the air like a startled cat. I turn around to see my housemother grinning mischievously.

“Oh my,” I giggled, “Mary, she just tried to pants me!” I never, in

all of my daydreaming about India, imagined I would be dancing out of an old woman’s clutch to prevent my skirt falling to the floor! During that week, our guides from the National Geographic Student Expedition had been telling us how conservative the Ladhaki people are, and how we need to respect the culture.

Once everyone in the room realized what the housemother was

doing, they began to giggle in delight and started to join in on the fun. All the while, I kept dancing and squealing my way around the small room as my housemother playfully tried to pants me.

Lying in bed that night I was overwhelmed by how the words a

person says are less important than the attitude a person projects. It is this sort of universal language that never ceases to amaze me as customs and language barriers seem to fade away. My impish housemother and I were just two people dancing in a living room thousands of miles away from everything I grew up knowing. This is the sort of global communication that I have always considered very important in travel and life. Being kind, good natured, and earnest can have a far greater impact than knowing how to say, “Let’s dance!”

michelle jong 6

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“To truly connect with others, all I have to do is realize that we share a common path.”

nick moll

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Beneath the Surface

I open my eyes drowsily, the fuzzy world coming into focus as I put my glasses on. Suddenly, a glint in the corner of my eye draws my attention. It is the shiny, brazened surface of my alto saxophone resting in its stand, my artificial sun, my source of light, ready at the flick of a switch. I can still recall purchasing it years ago, waiting expectantly for the package to arrive, longing to play the ivory keys. On the wall above hangs a beautifully decorated leather sheath, long ago once cradling a tool common to much of the world, now the tool turns to art, the wooden handle of the machete polished smoothly by the vendor in San Salvador. I roll over in bed to see another instrument leaning haphazardly against the dresser. The wooden acoustic guitar looks strange in the morning light; the bulging curves of the wooden body look awkward, certainly not capable of creating music. On my first attempt to play long ago, the guitar seemed gigantic. How could anyone make music from this huge, distorted thing? Now, the guitar fits perfectly in my hands, the secrets of its sound long since explored and discovered. Sitting on the dresser above, the flashy red of my camera strap catches my eye. Piles of photography manuals, SD cards, and lenses surround the sophisticated looking device, a new undertaking of mine. There are so many booklets and manuals, yet still the camera seems to contain so many secrets, so many lessons still to be learned. The camera lens aimed across the room at the billowing, white sails of the frigate sitting above my desk, guarding against any possible invaders.

Below the sailing vessel sits what looks to be the innocent scribbles of a young child; the bold strokes of paint splattered across the canvas evidence of the great joy and eagerness behind the masterpiece. Upon seeing the picture, visitors always assume I am the artist, perhaps a painting from when I was young.

However, the artist was not me, nor was he even a human. This masterpiece was created by a young bull elephant by the name of Tucker, who contained a greater zest for the visual arts than I ever had. Sitting on a shelf below rests a shell of a conch, found in the ocean off an island in the Caribbean. Long ago it served as

the home for a dirty creature few people would call appealing. Now, nature’s colorful, intrinsic artwork is revealed; a little polishing was all that was needed.

Stumbling drowsily out of bed, I see on the opposite wall a stunning portrait of a ship sailing across a vast ocean, a massive blood red moon filling the horizon; the work appeared to have taken countless hours. Shockingly, an artist on the streets of Guanajuato had completed the painting in less than two minutes before my very eyes. This assortment of items, my collection of mementos, reminds me of the history of things, each item containing a story unique to itself.

After a short, mechanical morning routine, drowsiness still clinging to my mind, I grab my car keys, backpack, and sports bag and head out the door. Outside, the sky is black with no hint of an approaching sunrise; even the sun is not yet awake to keep me company. Pulling out of my driveway, I am soon making my way down the freeway, few other cars share the road with me. Where are all these people coming from? What places are they headed towards today? Imagining all the possible coming adventures of my fellow road-mates, the commute goes by quickly. Giant billboards, flashing their ever important messages, brightly illuminate both sides of the freeway; yet they are unnoticed as I drive by swiftly. Past the bright lights and into the dark of an underpass, I see a homeless man, bundled in blankets and shadows, huddled and asleep on the damp ground he calls his bed. What stories could this man reveal? What misfortunes has he befallen to arrive at this point? Yet his day will unfold just like my own, a mystery to us both. My car pulls into the parking lot and I find a place to park easily, only a handful of other cars already there.

I walk through the crisp, dark air, enjoying the pleasantness of the new day. Slowly a light begins to fill the sky as I approach the track, the harsh brightness of stadium lights grow in intensity. Starting off with a warm up lap around the track, the cool morning air fills my lungs, refreshing and crisp. Now, my mind is sharp and awake, tiredness quickly forgotten, the ominous struggles of the coming day put to the side temporarily. Here everything has a pattern, a set order to things; here it is simply second nature, yet still invigorating. I finish my lap and sit down on the cold earth to stretch. The tension in my muscles relaxes, the wind no longer feeling cool against my skin as my body warms up. I take off on my morning run.

I pass through the gates surrounding my school and enter into the outside world. Here, there is nothing to separate us any longer: no car windows, no doors, no fences. I run past a bus stop, its lone occupant slowly raising his head to glance up from his newspaper as I pass by. Ahead, a man jogs towards me; slowly the distance between us closes. As we approach, our eyes meet; he quickly looks away. Focusing my gaze on the ground ahead of me, I notice the shoes the man is wearing match my own; the fiery red Nike check standing out in the low light. We pass each other. The meeting is over; the brief intersection of our day provides no real meaning or result. I wonder how his day will transpire compared to my own.

Where will our red shoes take us? I look back just in time to see the red check dart around a corner. Why had I not said something? I could have at least given a friendly “Hello” to my fellow runner.

This is the most important kind of tie, that which is -- or is almost -- passed by unnoticed. I may never know what I missed by not greeting my fellow runner that day, but I do realize the significance behind the man I never even really knew.

We may have come from different paths, which may never cross again, but that was irrelevant; it was the small similarities, our love for a common interest, that held us together, even if he may have never seen it.

The only way to truly identify with people is to identify with them. We may run in opposite directions, at different speeds, in unique ways, but we all still run on the same path. We all have come from somewhere; we all have somewhere we are going. To truly connect with others, all I have to do is realize that we share a common path. I continue on my run. As I look ahead towards my coming path, a soft, warm yellow glow begins to fill the sky.

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It’s Gonna Be My Year

It’s just the same day with the same stuff. Wake up, go to school, come home, do homework. The only thing different is that I’m sick. Nose congested, throat scratched up, and my voice sounds really weird. They might say that I’m depressed. Nothing is interesting anymore;I’ve been going through a lot lately, and that lot isn’t good. Friend issues, grades dropping, lack of sleep, and the rest of it. I still don’t have a clue. It’s all the same, every day, all year. Or at least that’s what I thought.

Throughout the year, I’ve been a part of Discipleship Groups (D-Groups), which is an arrangement of small groups of students, led by an upperclassman. Some meetings we just talk, some we play around, but either way, we have a great leader.

I’ll leave his name anonymous for obvious reasons, so for now, I’ll call him Leader. Leader is a wide-framed Cuban-Columbian, with short black hair. Ironically, he is shorter than everyone in the D-Group, but even though his height is lacking, we still look up to him. Everybody in the school knows of him; although some people have not personally met him, everyone has heard great things about him. His presence emits this indescribable energy that fills us all with excitement. It was not just a coincidence that he was our leader; we had planned it out. We had known him from band, and we wanted our leader to be “chill,” so during sign up we made sure it was with him. Everyone in the group got closer to each other and to our leader, who would gladly help us in any situation.

Even on his terrible days, he was never rude and always positive.

This particular day I was feeling very upset. I don’t know why, but I felt stuck in the past, lost in the stress, and just out of it.

It’s like my head was physically unable to focus on anything other than what happened. I had a pounding headache, and I couldn’t think at all. It was a Friday, which meant we had a D-Group meeting during lunch. But it was still morning, which meant a bored, tired, and sick me, and all this annoying classwork. All of class, my head was on the desk. No thoughts. I did take notes, but a minimal amount. I just wanted to go home and sleep because I felt like (continued on page 41)

“Concentration Plant Design” “The main concept of the concentration was exploring how design manifests through nature.”

“I hope my audience remembers an impactful person in their life and realize how great it is to have someone like that.”

andrew duna

grace morris 10

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“Memories, both good and bad, can be created or destroyed.”

elizabeth dalbello

Memories Stick to Me

“Venus in Focus”

O sticky post-it note, thou bearer of words and instructions.

In your blank faces, I see images of what I have to do like I see shapes in the clouds.

“I love famous art pieces, and I hope that this

A hastily scrawled note can last a lifetime, just like a photograph taken with a touch of a button can capture a moment forever.

one provides a modern twist on Renaissance art.”

Your smiling faces speak of happier times, a Bible recorded neatly on little lines, times spent with friends and family, past times of love and joy and peace.

These images aren’t staticky with age, like an old T.V., but are transmitted clearly from you to me.

But like Petals of a spring flower scattered everywhere, they are fading memories, leaving smudges of orange, pink, yellow, purple, blue on the gray sidewalk that serves as a backdrop for life, a canvas for colors to stick on.

Other times you glare at me, attacking my brain as an assassin, a floodlight revealing all my secrets, a Prison Master on Alcatraz torturing me with the dark deeds done in my past.

Your vivid colors mock me with their silent howls, highlighting all my mistakes, all my embarrassment, my pain, my sadness, inconspicuously stuck on my back, exhibiting all the sin buried in my heart.

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Just like the Israelites, there is hope for redemption; post-its aren’t permanent, forever possessing the ability to be created, erased, rewritten, and destroyed, taken down, forgotten about, lost-fixed on a surface. and found in new places.

hannah shearer 13

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All Finish, Few Run

I step outside, heart hammering in anticipation of the run. My air-conditioned home recedes in the distance; I do not look back. A heat mirage shimmers and recedes before my whining feet. Every sweating skin pore begs for respite from the ridiculous Texas heat. Every step is an opportunity to do the easy thing - collapse in the shade, forget about the workout. Yet I keep running, because I want to stop. I keep running, because I believe in making tough decisions and following the difficult path.

Of the precious summer vacation hours I possess, why spend one hour daily charging through the heat, knowing well the difficulty of each step?

Running is doing something difficult. The decision to do something -- to take action instead of defaulting to the path of least resistance -- looms over me daily. If I refuse to take action, I become a passenger, unwilling to drive my own life. When I run, I battle against physical laziness; however, I have learned that mental or spiritual laziness poses the greater problem. During my life’s course, how often will I make the tough decision to stand up for something despite personal cost? I run because, by making that one hard choice, I am empowered to make more hard choices.

But not all decisions hinge simply upon endurance or effort. Some choices inevitably affect or emotionally hurt many people. Irreversible choices are perhaps the scariest, like a train without brakes. I remember my first meeting in high school with the college counselor. Hands gripping the chair and heart pounding, I stuttered nervously while drawing a list of majors, careers, colleges that interested me, trying to bring my future into focus. I left the counselor’s office and fled from all those important, irreversible decisions at a gallop. Three years later The Decision looms closer, but I have come to realize that picking the wrong college is not nearly as disastrous as not picking any college; refusing to make a decision because I fear to make the hard decision is the surest way to go wrong.

As I force my feet to perform workouts, the awareness (continued on page 42)

“Steeples”

“Writing is important to me because it allows me to think on a deeper, more deliberate level than I do when I am communicating verbally.”

meg goode

ava finstuen 14

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Portrait of an Artist as a Young Woman: Logan Zoelle

What is one of your favorite pieces?

“One of my absolute favorite pieces (pictured below) is called ‘The Life Aquatic.’ It is a 3x4 foot painting done in acrylic paints. It was for a class assignment where we had to paint a still life on a canvas with strips of tape on top. When we were finished, we were supposed to take off the tape and rearrange it to make the image more interesting for the eye. In the end, I decided not to take off the tape because I loved my helmet too much. It’s one of my favorite pieces because it’s so different from what I usually do.”

Interview by Katherine Allison

Senior Logan Zoelle has been a prominent artist on the HC campus since her freshman year. From doodles in her notebooks to paintings displayed in the hall, her art can be seen all over the school. Logan has performed well in several art competitions, including placing 3rd in the district for the Congressional Art Competition, receiving a Silver Key in the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition, and winning best in show and a gold medal for the Rodeo Art competition. Recently, I had the opportunity to ask Logan a few questions about her art and her future plans.

Logan, what sparked your interest in art?

“The earliest I can remember taking art ‘seriously’ is Kindergarten, when I would draw Pokemon characters from looking at the cards. My favorite artistic medium is drawing people, like portraits of celebrities, but mostly I like drawing people out of my own head. For instance, my concentration for my AP Studio Art Portfolio is a collection of satire portraits displaying different characteristics/stereotypes of senior citizens that I created.”

Katherine Allison

What are your career aspirations, and what is the next step for you in achieving those goals?

“Since I love drawing people so much, I also tend to make up entire story lines to go along with all of the characters I create. Because of this, I really love the comic/animation world.

At the moment, I’m planning on majoring in illustration at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. My greatest dream is to be a graphic novelist and to illustrate my own stories, or maybe help develop cartoons/ movies at Cartoon Network or Disney.”

Where do you get your inspiration? Do you have a favorite place to work on your art?

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“I can get inspired from anything, really. I might want to draw a still life if I see something that I think looks interesting, or I might read a line out of a book that I want to illustrate. But most of the time an image or scene just pops into my head and I just need to draw it out. Most of my ideas usually sprout at the most inconvenient times: during class, when I’m trying to finish homework, or just when I’m about to go to sleep.”

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“I could still picture that hallway even though it was many years ago, so I decided to write about that hallway and the impact it has made in my life.”

lauren evans

“Tour Eiffel”

I Know These Faces... They are My Own My grandmother, or as I liked to call her, my Oma, died when I was five years old. I vaguely remember her, an old frail lady, a devout Catholic with a cigarette in her right hand and a cup of coffee in her left. She had nimble fingers, wrinkled with colored spots and yellow-stained fingernails. She was no taller than the average ten-year-old (about four feet) and sat on phone books in order to drive her car. She was like a fairy, petite yet lovely.

Although she may have seemed strange, she was my Oma, and I loved her to death.

For as long as I can remember, about once every three months, it would be time to go and see Oma again. My father, my brother, and I would pack into my father’s aged BMW and drive thirty minutes to get to her house. Oma’s house was foreign and mysterious to me. My brother and I explored each room, as we pretended to venture into the unknown world. We explored throughout the house, conquering closets and shelves full of pots and pans as my father and Oma sat at the bar in her kitchen and nonchalantly drank coffee as they talked about recent news and distant family. Throughout the house, all the rooms overwhelmed me with creative emotions and adventurous thoughts, yet there was one passageway that always intrigued me the most: the hallway.

As one first entered, the hallway was narrow, slender, vacant. It was like a mysterious cave, a dark passage with exceedingly high ceilings and creaky wooden floors that to the right led to my Oma’s bedroom. Around the four corners, a white symmetrical trim overlapped the dark walls, smelling of sweet cream and cigarettes. It was more than just a hallway to me; it was a room filled with faces. Familiar faces, faces of the past, faces of a distant time, faces of a different world. Yet, I knew these faces.

These faces were all black and white-- antique, yet present. Some displayed the joys of their lives with a delightful beam, while others subtly radiated their true emotions through their inviting eyes and (continued on page 42)

“The primary inspiration for my piece came from visiting Paris, France over the course of Spring Break.

Hopefully my artwork and photography will motivate people to travel.”

morgan sparrow 18

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Ode to the Glove Oh fitted glove, thou curves fit perfectly to the hand,

No bumps, no ridges, just all smooth, Matching the ways of my fingers Without a trace of doubt.

There are no stray strands on that glove, For every thread conforms to the patterns of another.

And the Hand judges that glove, Watching it like a hungry vulture

“Conformity has become such an issue in this modern society, so I felt that I should write something that would persuade people to stand out and be themselves.”

Just to make sure that each thread does the exact same as another.

The hand is like Hitler in World War II; It tries to create a perfect environment Where everything is the same, And everything is perfect.

The hand revolves around many objects;

amy mack

It just keeps moving—under the sun, the moon, and the stars.

The hand holds the glove back, And that glove cannot be set free.

Just like a bird in a cage, it is imprisoned.

It is trapped in a free world, And by being uniform, it does wrong, Sinning in the enclosure of the Garden of Good and Evil.

But the Cape, It flies forever on the back of Superman.

“Flores Mortales” “A big influence in my work is Dio de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. Every year I have seen people decorating and

Free from worries, free from mistakes, free from judgment.

It is a leaf in the wind, And it does what it wants to do.

The cape is as free as a bird.

The hand, a prisoner, And the cape, a free-spirit; They need each other.

That hand is judgmental, and the cape goes against the judgment,

preparing for this holiday and

Like a rebel child.

every year I am amazed by

But the Devil always speaks,

the decorated skulls.”

And that glove can only wish to be as free as the cape one day, And the glove always follows.

alexandra constantinou 20

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When the Immovable Moves

“Writing about what is going on in my life is important to me; it helps me to get past things and accept hardships.”

kate goode

O rushing tide Crowned with White topped foam; thou power never fades nor fails, The sodden beach, savage, worn, a place where many muddied feet have wormed, And left deep, dark footprints in the sand, A desecration, broken, black, the smooth surface that once was whole, Lies churned and ruined soil.

Never to be whole or smooth by its power, The fruitless smearing, sopping mud as hopeless as a falling star to reclaim its radiant Throne.

Deep aberrations, Permanent scars, And muck immovable, Hopeless, shameful, tearing, resilient ruts.

No Man’s hand can return this mess to its pure form, Though many have come before to shape the Sinful soil.

Our beach still lies scarred and marred and worse for all the help, The fruitless pushin--pulling words could never smooth the mud.

Shall our beach be forever burdened and destroyed?

Will it lie so shameful like dirty rags on the floor?

Or do the waves beyond, dancing farther down, Wipe clean the slate that has been forever torn?

The tide is running, leaping with excitement and joy, Unstoppable force of pure white water towards the shore, Snowy and glassy with dancing angels--caps roar like trumpets.

It can make all things new, smooth over every rock and stone and rift.

And then comes, with solemn dignity, A mighty wave like none before, Washing smooth the shore.

Its glorious power of clear, clean waves--

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Has left this beach spotless.

No mud, no muck, no ruts, no holes, All peaceful as a lake, And dancing feet adorn this shore, Of sparkling, firm, untroubled, sand.

What once was dirt is now like the paved roads of heaven.

For you, O wave, have washed forever clean our shore.

“Stoneware Cobalt” “This is one of my first wheel thrown bowls...No two bowls are the same in shape or color as I’ve experimented through the last year or so developing my own style.”

henry britven 23

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Believing: Communication is Key

This past summer I traveled with fifteen other selected students

to China, where Beezus, our tour guide, challenged me. “Break a leg?

Jesus heals,” he taunted us, “Family member dies? Jesus comforts.”

Beezus, a tiny man with harsh words, pierced my core beliefs. “Christians place Jesus where the most hurt lies, just to make themselves feel better,” he concluded. There I stood on the other side of the world, unable to reply. Yet at that moment, I understood. If I take Jesus Christ seriously, I should take His commission to spread the truth about Him seriously. The issue is not just believing; I must be able to communicate my beliefs.

Before my trip to China, I viewed myself as a great debater.

In truth, I was actually more of a talker, an arguer, and a hardhead. My teachers viewed me more favorably, defining me as a strong leader with passion and integrity, so they chose me to visit China. I anticipated a land filled with exotic dragons, but instead I discovered how to effectively express my beliefs--beginning with listening. Consider my conversation with Beezus. I could have spoken first, blurting out phrases like “Jesus heals,” and “Jesus comforts,” phrases that would have only

“My trip to China really impacted me to write about my personal beliefs after experiencing such a contrast to my religious freedom in America that I constantly overlook.”

hannah shearer

confirmed his one-dimensional view of Christianity. Surprisingly, my rare speechlessness had taught me an important lesson in communication. I need to respect others and listen to their views before speaking.

But my biggest mistake came after Beezus spoke. I remained

silent. Christianity should be like riding across the Gobi Desert--I want to tell everyone about it. So what held me back? I confess. I hoped someone else would reply. Fear had muted me, fear that Beezus would ridicule my answers--and me. In a way, Beezus’ statements rang true. I was being self-centered instead of God-centered.

“The Flight of Dragons”

So I am learning ways to express my conviction with confidence

and composure. In “Christianese” terms, I must put my trust in God who can do all things. Sometimes I need to be like a sneak preview instead

“I hope that through my art

of a full-length movie, arousing curiosity about my beliefs with a few words, such as when I told Buddhists that I attended a Christian high

people can see the true

school in America. At other times, communicating to skeptics requires

beauty of nature....and help

Christians. After remembering that our tour guide had commented on

preserve it.”

actions not words, such as when I showed Beezus the selflessness of how the Chinese government rewards one yuan (about fifteen cents) for every twenty water bottles collected by a citizen, I organized the group to give our empty bottles to people on the street. Sure a few cents was not much, but our actions portrayed the love of Christ better than any eloquent speech.

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I acknowledge multiple belief systems in this world. I still have

much to learn, but I would never have guessed that a Buddhist would make such an excellent teacher. I now know that my purpose is not to bash nonbelievers’ heads with Bibles, but to communicate Christianity effectively.

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“Writing serves as a sort of litmus test for the rationality of the idea I am trying to express.”

eric hopper

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Temple of Love

It was after hours, and it was summertime. He probably wasn’t there, but I wanted to check anyway. I rushed up the stairs and down the hall to the last door on the right. The lights were out, and the door was locked. I sighed in disappointment. It was the first time I had come in nearly a month. I peeked through the tall, narrow window adjacent to the door.

Despite the dim light, I could tell everything was in place.

I glanced to the left at the whiteboard spanning the entire wall.

Still written there amidst all the mathematical garble, apparently untouched since the last day of school in May, was a short message in the neat uppercase letters of Mr. Mellor’s hand: “This Is A Temple Of Love.”

I smiled. Funny name for a calculus classroom, but I could only agree.

I turned my eyes to the back left corner. On the wall each class had a decorated poster. I could see my thumbnail of a picture on the Class of 2009. I smiled with pride. I missed that class. That was when math became exciting, when numbers gained their charm.

And that charm never left; it stayed right here in Mr. Mellor’s room. And I always felt myself coming back. Before class I studied here. At lunch I ate here. After class I tutored here. There was always a new question to ask, proof to share, or student to help. It was a place where I found love in learning, love in sharing, and love in teaching.

I withdrew from the window, turned around, and walked back to the stairs. The first day of school was six weeks away. Six weeks till I could come back to The Temple of Love.

The Noble Quality of Books I believe in books. I believe in the feeling of the pages as they turn under my finrs and the new-book smell of ink and glue.

I believe in the weight a novel creates in my backpack, making its presence subtly known and quietly holding its secret mysteries.

“There is no frigate like a book,” as Emily Dickenson says, to take you to far off lands, far off worlds… books can become time machines to either the familiar past or the uncertain future, whichever strikes your fancy. Hidden in the pages lie fantasy, adventure, friendship, love… and truth. There is so much truth in books.

When gadgets like the Kindle™ and Nook™ first came out, I understood their use, but I wasn’t that interested. Sure, it’s hard to take five or six books on a trip; digital readers help economize on space and weight. Sure, it’s cheaper to buy ebooks than regular hardbacks or paperbacks (though the electronic readers themselves cost a pretty penny). Ebooks are useful in their own way, and practical in certain situations. However, in my eyes, they will never replace real books. If, given a choice to pick up a book off of my bookshelf or an electronic reader, I would choose a book every time. There is something too enthralling, too deeprooted, too noble about tomes to resist.

Each time I look at the books in my room, I notice something different about the familiar tales that stand straight and tall on my shelves or lie peacefully and patiently in the stacks on my dresser, waiting for me to read them. Each book has a different tone and each delivers a different story, but each carries its own story proudly between its covers, displaying the title and cover blurb with dignity. They are like soldiers, my good little books, ready and willing to do their duty and inspire me or cheer me up, depending on the day. They do it gladly; their stories are too important, too wonderful to put behind a screen forever. Not just stories inhabit books: memories of the first time someone ever picked the book up, stickers proclaiming ownership inside the front cover, and that comforting feeling I get when I hug a book to my chest all belong to the novel. In my eyes, that is something too precious to take away.

I will not let them take my quiet noble friends away. They are too dear to me. I need them too much. I believe in the noble quality of books, and I believe that they will endure.

“The many books I have read over the years inspired me to write this piece. I hope that because of my work, people will realize the value of books.”

claire hill

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“Expression” “My primary inspiration was the nature around me, primarily the flowerbeds in the school courtyards.”

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My #Hashtag is Better Than Your #Hashtag

Tweets are a lot like warning labels. Not many people actually read them; yet, companies will forever cover products in as many mandatory disclaimers as will fit in the warning box.

Likewise, people continue to share their not particularly noteworthy adventures with incredible enthusiasm, despite the fact that no one seems to actually pay much attention.

Tweets (and other social networking posts) also have the tendency to be stupid, comparable to the large majority of moronic warning labels. For example, a group in Detroit that collects silly warning labels quotes a disclaimer for a children’s scooter: “This product moves when used.” Another for a baby stroller reads, “Remove child before folding.” Tweets are no better: “The bananas are growing brown spots. The race is on to finish the bunch before it’s too late! (I hate mushy ‘nanas!),” or “One of the lights in my house was on. I decided that I didn’t need the light on any longer.

I pressed the switch thereby turning it off.” What has the world come to? Seriously? People think the world cares if they turned the lights on or off? Social networking has come to represent the mentality that the world revolves around the self.

Humans are naturally selfish; we tend to notice only the things that matter to us. When people constantly publish their life (most of us do, including myself), as if the world wants to know, it makes sense that most tweets and other social networking updates go unread. But what does the trend of excessive selfpublication mean for the world? It means that modern generations are becoming so focused on the self that they tend to forget what other people may be thinking.

In comparison to older generations, younger generations have forgotten the importance of privacy. Older generations would have been disgraced and shamed at most of the information and thoughts that younger generations share through social networks.

Sharing too much information used to be a violation of proper social conduct. Now, we have as many rules of proper Facebook and Twitter conduct as they did for personal conduct.

The line between appropriate and inappropriate has also been blurred; girls post pictures of their cleavage, boys take chest shots, and middle-aged women complain about aging. It used to be considered pornography to look at a picture of a girl in a bathing suit (or the equivalent); however, such pictures are now commonplace. Will the line of social acceptance continue to recede? (continued on page 42)

“I hope to humor my audience and convince them to put more thought into their own Tweets.”

ariana morgan

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“The primary inspiration for my piece was the fallout of the recession of 2008. I hope my audience will be not only more informed about the problems facing my generation but also be inspired to do something about them.”

john rasplicka

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Growing Debt, Growing Problems for the Millenials

The greatest challenge facing today’s young Americans is the staggering national debt that has been amassed through America’s desire to help others without balancing cost. The implication of this challenge is that this group of very privileged individuals, born between 1980 and 1995, who have the power to change the American course towards disaster are at the same time very apathetic due to the environment in which they have been raised.

The wars in Afghanistan and Iraq have contributed to massive government spending; the government must pay the soldiers, pay for the equipment with which to fight the war, and pay for the operations. With each of these items considered, as well as many others, defense spending accounted for $689 billion in 2010. However, this is only one way the government must spend money; it cannot leave out health care and Social Security.

Social Security and health care, once beneficial to America, are now increasingly detrimental to the economy: as our nation’s average age increases, so do Social Security payments.

Social Security was begun as a “pay as you go” program when the ratio of workers to retirees was high; as the U. S. population ages and the ratio of workers to benefit collectors declines, Social Security adds to the federal deficit. Furthermore, the health care system, plagued by increasing utilization as the population ages, also contributes to the national debt due to heavy government spending in to Medicare and Medicaid. Social Security, according to the United States Congressional Budget Office, is the second largest expenditure in the governmental budget at $701 billion in 2010. The premise of the Social Security system is to provide retirement funds for the retired, income supplements to the disabled, and money to the surviving family of a deceased Social Security worker. While all of these are good ideas in practice, the massive spending needed to support Social Security is augmenting federal debt. Similarly, health care spending on Medicare and Medicaid has reached extremely high levels; according to the Congressional Budget Office, it topped the list of governmental

spending at $793 billion in 2010.

Just like Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid are good theories, but in practice have only exacerbated the federal debt. Medicare provides health insurance coverage to those who are over the age of sixty-five, under sixty-five and disabled, or meet other criteria. Medicaid is a health program that provides those with low incomes or disabilities with health care. Massive government spending into each of these programs (Medicare specifically) is also contributing to federal debt. Defense, Social Security, health care--all contribute to federal spending, which, according to Senators Jeff Sessions and Olympia Snowe, has exceeded tax collections by over $1 trillion in each of the past three years. The United States is borrowing 40 cents of every dollar it spends. Some portion of the American population will have to pay for this deficit; I believe a large amount will fall to those Americans born between 1980 and 1995, not the policy-makers who are creating the deficit.

The Millennials were (and are) in a society in which defense spending runs rampant abroad; Social Security and health care, domestically. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan as well as Social Security and health care spending exemplify each. However, the government cannot afford to continue this spending activity, as shown by Senators Sessions and Snowe.

Because they have been raised in a society that promotes these government handouts, Millennials will neither recognize the problem of government spending with the current system nor attempt to fix it. The “Occupy Wall St.” movement seems to be about the Millennials in the 99% getting more government handouts by taxing the 1% at a higher rate. There already is an increase in the federal budget deficit that takes away from spending on necessities; if the mentality that government handouts are necessary continues, then even less money can be put into necessities, especially education. Government spending on education is critical; an inadequate education renders anyone seeking employment not competitive in today’s global market.

This increase has many ramifications besides eligibility for employment, specifically in relation to public schooling.

Evidence of failing school systems is evident throughout the country; debts at the state level are affecting the state university, secondary, and primary schooling systems. As a result of this, the more affluent are gravitating towards private schools, which only increases the gap between the one percent and the ninety-nine. This evidence of failing public school systems starts with primary and secondary education, which is a result of state debt. Recently, around the nation and specifically in the state of Texas, teachers were cut from their jobs at all levels of primary and secondary schooling in an attempt to balance budgets. Jonathan Kozol reported on the very poor state of America’s education system in in his book Savage Inequalities in 1991; one must shudder to consider how savage these inequalities must be twenty years later. Furthermore, university systems have been affected by debt deficits. Take, for example, the University of California system, which has produced thirty-seven Nobel laureates in its history. President Obama’s debt deal, however, will lead to a decrease in funding for university research and graduate education. Because of the national debt, budget cuts are going to be imposed on a college that is one of the largest producers of Ph.D.s in the world. Government spending on war and health care and Social Security decreases spending on education with deleterious effects on the educational system in America at all levels.

In summary, the biggest problem young Americans face is the looming federal debt, which is caused largely by government spending on war, health care, and Social Security. Furthermore, the debt negatively impacts crucial elements of America, such as the educational system at all levels. Increase of government funding to defense, Social Security, and health care diminishes spending to education, which is where the most money should be spent. It is only with a proper education that Millennials will be competitive in today’s global market.

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“It’s Not All Black and White” “The inspiration for this sculpture came from my imagination, initially a simple chess board with a basic checkered pattern on top. I just kept adding

Masks

“Again.” Step-ball-change and pivot and turn.

“Wrong foot.” Step-ball-change and pivot and turn, to the left.

“Look unified! Again.” Step-ball-change and pivot and turn.

Step-ball-change and pivot and turn. My director claps out the beat with harsh, staccato emphasis.

Does this mean anything? The microphone tape residue that never comes off, the blinding theater lights on my face, the meals eaten hurriedly off plasticware on linoleum floors, the oil-based makeup spilled haphazardly on gray counters, the semidarkness of backstage, the expectant nervousness of people linking hands before closing night? Why? Step-ball-change and pivot and turn.

As a junior in high school, I was cast as one of Joseph’s eleven brothers in the musical “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” without knowing what the role would entail. I was unprepared for the effort required of me--every night for two months we practiced, learning harmonies and dances, discussing character motivation and blocking scenes until I wanted to hide in the prop closet.

Despite the stress and exhaustion of seventeen-hour days, I enjoyed rehearsal, forgetting my bruised knees and steadily declining social life. I was painfully nervous during the initial practices, afraid to sing out or be ridiculous, and I liked the other brothers because they weren’t self conscious. They embraced their characters, drilling exaggerated stage punches and singing in off-key Caribbean accents. By assuming the elaborate (and sometimes grotesque) mask of their characters, they became real, inspiring me to overcome my anxiety.

As the schedule grew more rigorous, the brothers demonstrated the value of good attitudes. Our collective sense of humor and camaraderie as we impersonated French bar patrons and cowboys and 1950’s gangsters resulted in a cohesive, (continued on page 43)

“The musical taught me about letting go of insecurity and embracing community, and in my piece I hope that I can do the experience justice.”

madison deluca

new patterns, texture and designs.”

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“I was inspired to write about what I believe in: I believe in photography, in moments, and in imperfections.”

callie parish

“Ship Abstracted”

Life Leaks

I believe in photography, in moments that define the very essence of who we are and in the imperfections that make us unique.

At seven, I believed in Fisher Price®. Fisher Price® gave me one of my first and favorite toys: a red and blue and yellow camera with an oversized black neck strap and blinding flash. Although the camera provided joy, my pictures always appeared blurry, blinding, and confusing. They weren’t pretty, and they weren’t easy to look at. Sure, my parents would claim, “Oh honey, these are so good!” But I knew the truth. My childhood photographs weren’t masterpieces; they were clay molds, waiting for my inner Michelangelo to sculpt them.

At thirteen, I believed in all things digital. My first Nikon® digital camera cemented the belief that taking pictures of myself (also called “selfies”) was the pinnacle of my existence.

I documented sleepovers, bowling parties, and late night movies with blinding flashes, drawing ridicule from others, but filling me and my friends with joy. Again, my pictures were not generally pretty: they contained silly faces that only my friends and I were able to appreciate. Peers and strangers alike judged my cherished photos as immature; at the time, their judgement upset me because I wanted social acceptance.

Today, at seventeen, I believe in film. After going through my Fisher Price® and “selfie” stages, I discovered a love for vintage cameras. Pictures captured with film are more raw, more exposed. The colors aren’t quite as perfect and life-like as my digital or as blurred as my Fisher Price® camera. In order to use a film camera, one must work, and the process isn’t as simple as the pictures seem. Not only do I have to take time to load the film, to wind it forward, and to unload and develop it, but because film literally captures raw moments, I often find light leaks (foggy spots on a photograph caused by stray light that seeps into film from holes in the camera). If too much light leaks, it can ruin a picture.

But usually, there’s only a tiny bit. The tiny bit of light that shines (continued on page 43)

“From a chosen ship image, I adjusted the colors in Photoshop and painted the resulting image on a canvas. I painted back through and made the optical illusion effect.”

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Nick

I’m sitting in a hospital, at 9:00, on a weekday. The sun is weak

through the window, hidden under a layer of clouds, and I lay my head on the armrest of the puke-blue colored couch, completely exhausted. I imagine being somewhere else, anywhere really.

Cancer (kān’sər) – n – a malignant and invasive growth or tumor, especially one originating in epithelium, tending to recur after excision and to metastasize to other sites.

“Loss is almost impossible to express; but writing has helped be come the closest.”

I have not seen my sister-in-law Andi in almost twelve hours;

she is always in there, next to her husband, my brother, as he continually struggles for breath. It is hard to imagine, as I bite my nails and pull my sweatshirt tighter around me, that only a few days have passed since I last went to school, since I was among the living, and not the dying.

Palliative (pāl’ē-ā’tĭv) – adj – Relieving or soothing the symptoms of a disease or disorder without effecting a cure.

katie garbarino

He’s on a lot of painkillers. His eyes dart back and forth, half

closed, and his moments of lucidity are tempered with long stretches of complete confusion. Time passes, and people come and go. My mother sits across the room with her sister beside her; two ladies from church bring lunch; family and friends file in and out, hugging, joking, crying.

“Stripes of Color”

Disaster (di-ˈzas-tər) – n – a sudden event, especially one occurring suddenly and causing great loss of life, damage, or hardship.

It is darkening outside when I finally stand up, stretch, and

“I hope to challenge my

spread a puzzle out, sorting the edges out and trying not to cry. People

audience to see the color

and I stay sitting there. It gets darker. I finish the edge of the puzzle and

start to say goodbye, to go home, to see their families, to keep on living,

in life, instead of simply

begin on the middle. Others occasionally stop and help, but I’m in a daze,

seeing the black and

wish it all would end, yet how I desperately want to stay there. Because

white. I want them to see the in-between.”

putting in piece after piece, thinking of how long I’ve been there, how I at this point, leaving would mean something unthinkable.

Belief (bə-ˈlēf) – n – conviction of the truth of some statement or the reality of some being or phenomenon especially when based on examination of evidence.

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Suddenly, it’s already past midnight and my whole family is

gathered in the room. I join them. Andi is there, lying next to him, holding his hand. They have been married for nineteen months. We all stare; I am more lost than I have ever been for a moment, completely without convictions. There’s a bible on the bedside table, and my dad hums a hymn. I leave and sit outside on chairs near the door, feeling choked.

Then, while I sit, the unthinkable happens, and I am called back in the room. He’s very still. The room is filled with remorse, anguish, and pain.

Yet from some amazing source, behind the sorrow, and bitterness, and grief that has only just begun, I feel a pinch of hope. He’s gone to be with God. In a time where I believe almost nothing else, this I believe.

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“This piece came from a portfolio collection I created my senior year...”

kathryn quandt

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Beyond the Noise

Balloons and confetti. Twister and Limbo and Pin-the-Tailon-Whatever. Cheese pizza and Diet Coke® and chocolate cake and ice cream. Laughing and screaming and singing and shouting and crying and clapping and clanging and whizzing and booming and--I can’t take it anymore!

My five-year-old self runs, hands clasped over my ears, from the game-filled living room into a deserted part of the birthday boy’s house. The colors, the excitement, the noise is all too much for me. I take deep breaths, just like my mommy told me to do, and try to quiet my overwhelmed senses. I don’t like it when this happens, when I go to birthday parties and there’s so much going on that I can’t focus on anything, and my head starts beating. But I can’t help it. How am I supposed to handle all the noise? It’s as if everybody’s trying to get attention by being the loudest! They’re still out there, shrieking and giggling and stamping and bashing and--Knock! Knock! Knock!

“No!”

My mommy leaves me alone. Ten minutes later, my head stops beating, and I return to the living room, ready to play again. …………

“Do you know what she did? She smiled at him! She likes him! I can’t believe her! I liked him a whole hour before she did!

I’m never speaking to her again.”

Sympathetically, I put my arm around Bailey’s trembling shoulders. We’re at Julia’s house for a normal, junior high movie party, but Bailey has been venting to me for nearly twenty minutes about how her best friend Anne stole her crush. We had been watching the movie for a while, but Bailey kept getting so distracted

by Anne’s presence in the same room and the action-packed film that she pulled me to the bathroom with her. After a few more minutes of crying and talking, Bailey regains composure and sighs heavily.

“You know, if I wasn’t best friends with Anne, I’d be best friends with you. She can’t shut up long enough to listen to me.

And even if she did want to listen, I’m sure she’d get too distracted

to listen to everything I said.” She pauses thoughtfully. “I feel better now, though.”

We go back into the TV room, where the movie has just progressed to the climax. Even with the speakers blasting, I hardly pay attention to the screen; I rub my lightly pulsing temples as I sort through all the drama that I have just absorbed.

It’s not the first time I’ve gone to social events where girls confess all sorts of things to me (Anne had given me her side of the story two hours earlier), but it’s the first time I’ve realized how strange this is. Though I am neither Bailey’s nor Anne’s best friend, each turned to me for a verbal catharsis... Should that even happen in the realm of best-friendship?

Regardless of whatever the answer is, I decide then that being a “good listener” is acceptable for me. Having no drama of my own to contribute anyway, I find it easier to listen attentively to one girl’s story at a time than to pay attention to a pandemonium of emotional anecdotes all at once. Not only does it hurt my head less, but it allows others to open up and trust me more. It helps me understand more about the other girls, even though I know I’ll never be more than an open ear to them. I think I’m okay with that.

I return my attention to the movie. …………

Surrounded by his circle of friends, Mike cracks a joke, to which they all respond with euphonious laughter. He checks his cell phone and then makes an even funnier comment—my ears perk up. Mike waves his friends good-bye and walks toward the high school parking lot; I follow him, dodging the flow of students still pouring through the hallways.

“What happened?”

Mike stops abruptly but doesn’t look at me. I walk around to see his face, but his eyes are closed, his breathing quick and shallow. I grab his arm and pull him into the less-crowded library, where we sit at a table. Voice struggling to remain level, Mike tells me that his aunt, to whom he is extremely attached and for whom he is composing a song, is on her deathbed. This isn’t Mike’s only tragedy: his grades have dropped, his girlfriend dumped him, and his father never seems pleased with him. By the end of his speech, a tear has fallen; Mike looks at me desperately. But I don’t know what to say. He begins speaking again...

After nearly an hour of talking, Mike turns to me. “You know, when you asked me what happened, I felt like my life was just as crazy as the hallway we were standing in. I thought you might freak out if I started crying about my aunt. But you didn’t.” He smiles. “Thank you for caring.”

When did I tell him I cared?

As Mike leaves the library, my mind wanders. I remember a birthday party when my situation seemed out of control, lost in the commotion of the celebration, when I ran away from the noise. I remember a movie night when two girls thought their worlds were collapsing amidst blaring distractions, when I decided to embrace the noise. And now, I think listening is more than hearing noise altogether.

Listening, in its true form, isn’t listening to the words that a person says; it’s listening to the things that a person doesn’t say. It’s the tone of someone’s voice, the restlessness in someone’s eyes, the quiver of someone’s lips, all wanting to be recognized and accepted. Listening is the experience of an argument, a plea, a demand, taking shape and begging to simply be understood, to be calmed, in spite of the noise.

I believe in experiencing that argument. I believe in calming the noise.

I believe in listening.

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“Hope for Courage and Try for Honor” (continued from page 4) thick layers of clothing and a frog-suit (a waterproof jacket and pants combination), an unknown fear of tight spaces quickly reared its ugly little head. Time after time, my legs would scrape against the roof of the tight, dark tunnel, or my hips would drag against the sides a little too much, and the panic would jump up inside of me, ready to whisk me off to a land where I wasn’t in control, where I wasn’t going to get out of that tunnel. The panic was always there, evident in my racing heart, my terrified breathing, and my shaking hands as I clawed my way through the cold darkness.

When I found the puppies, they were afraid and silent. It was a struggle, moving the seven little boys out of the way of the Tonka truck I had brought and then loading them into it. Their warm, squeaking bodies trembled and wiggled in my hands, but they were obviously healthy. Plump little butter-balls, they were more like a batch of piglets than puppies, but their silky fur beneath my fingers was like the redeeming touch of water to a sinner. They gave me a purpose; they quelled the panic lurking inside of my chest.

Even after I had them securely in my possession, getting them out wasn’t easy. Eventually, I got stuck.

A rock that was in our path made the tunnel even tighter, and I wasn’t as small as the puppies, nor was I as indestructible as the truck. When my ever-burdensome hips tried to get past it, there was just no going back. It wasn’t happening. The panic made my vision go black, and I couldn’t feel the stab and slice of the rocks and the rough concrete as I flailed about, screaming, convinced, though not resigned to the fact, that I was never going to get out of the dank, cramped tunnel.

Nonetheless, I was talked down like a horse that had been spooked, and I got myself and all seven of the pot-bellied puppies out of the tunnel. Their mother, who had been pacing frantically the entire time, was overjoyed and refused to leave their sides.

Three days later, it rained. A lot.

To this day, I am absolutely certain that those puppies would have died had I not gotten them out.

Of course, I’m no meteorologist, nor can I tell the future. What I am, though, is loyal and devoted. When I took in the hungry, pregnant German shepherd, I made her a promise, whether she understood it or not. I told her that I would take care of her, and that encompassed a lot more than just feeding her. My mother commended me for facing the majority of my major fears to save the puppies, though she still chastised me for doing it.

Nonetheless, I learned a lot of important things in the tunnel. I learned that loyalty, to both humans and animals, is one of our greatest gifts. It’s the thing that makes people heroes, the thing that distinguishes the brave from the craven.

Loyalty is the key to happiness; integrity is the key to respect and affection.

“Sushi Roll” “Art is important to me because it serves as a way to channel my feelings in a creative and constructive way.”

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“It’s Gonna Be My Year” (continued from page 11) absolute trash, and I didn’t make much of an effort to hide it. When lunchtime came, I only felt a bit better because I was going to a meeting, which is always fun.

In today’s meeting, Leader was sure to keep us focused, but not too serious. This was a good thing to do because our group was made up of hyperactive kids. We were like dogs, paying attention to what was being given, but then getting distracted within seconds of the beginning. “Most of the time when people are upset, it is because they are stuck on what happened. They refuse to move on,” Leader caught my attention. This made me think, what is the point of worrying about the past? It’s not like the past is going to change. The only thing I should be worried about is the present and the future.

Maybe it wasn’t my weekend, but it’s going to be my year. I figured it out. I was so sick of watching all the minutes pass as I remained in this bottomless pit of sadness. Sure, every school day is the same, but it’s up to me to make each day its best and treat it as if it’s my last. I don’t need a reason for this pointless drama; it happened, it’s over. This is going to be my year.

No, these are my years. No matter what past experiences have led me to, this is the only chance I’m going to get to live.

What I have to do is take it, and run.

Leader made a great impact on my life, not only in this redeeming moment, but also throughout the rest of the year until now. Whether it’s being up in the front of the chapel with him while the Praise Team is playing, going crazy on my tenors while he’s conducting, or focusing myself on my work while he’s tutoring, I find him influencing pretty much my every move.

The indescribable energy from him has fully installed itself into my heart, and I’m spreading it, too. It’s like some sort of sweet disease has infected us all, but this disease is the cure. continue on page 42

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For the second half of freshman year, I made an effort to be more like him and less of a past dweller. I’ve talked to more people. I’m not as self-conscious. No matter how down I feel for whatever reason, nothing is going to change the past.

Now, it’s about the future. Now, I’m stuck on this moment, living it to its fullest, and putting all my energy into every forward move I make so that nothing can hold me back.

“All Finish, Few Run” (continued from page 15) that I could stop dogs my every step. But workout plans and personal resolve matter nothing if I cannot stick to my decision through the sweat and sun. What good is a marathoner’s training if the race is not completed?

Whether running through summer heat waves or leaf strewn streets in the fall, I move forward. Every step fulfills a promise made to myself amidst the optimistic hum of an air conditioner. I chose red cheeks over idle hands, trickling sweat over whirling ceiling fans; I made the hard decision to move, to act, to run. Though a tough decision to make, I have never regretted choosing to run, never regretted trading the plush fluorescent ecosystem of the apathetic and thrusting myself farther into the world of earth and sky and sweat. I have never regretted choosing the hard path.

“I Know These Faces...They are My Own” (continued from page 18) solemn smirk. The pictures themselves all looked about the same age, yet they all represented different stages of life: in the center, a couple at the altar; underneath, a young man as a teen; to the left, a gray haired woman in her fifties. They were all different, different from who I was, yet, I knew these faces. They were my own.

The nose of the man standing at the altar with his bride is my grandfather’s nose, my father’s nose, and now mine. The shape of the young lady’s chin, the bone structure of her petite yet resilient face is mine. This hallway is short, no longer than ten strides on my little walking legs, yet the photos make it last longer than many decades. Many years passed throughout these halls--years full of triumph, years full of sorrow, years full of pain, years full of gladness. Time has passed through these people, time I have lived and time I have not lived. Yet, I know these faces. I don’t know their feelings, their personalities, what makes them “them,” or what their lives were like. I don’t know their ideas of the Christian faith, their favorite hobbies, or their dreams, but I know one thing; I know these faces. The hallway is poorly lit, unfamiliar, all embracing; yet, this hallway is my family. I know these faces. They are my own.

As time passed, I grew older. Oma eventually passed on, and these frames came into my father’s possession. Each frame, black and white, aged and worn, hangs on the pale brown walls that lead to my father’s bedroom in the same position and order as they always have been. Looking back, I now realize that these pictures are a part of me. My family, where I come from and how I have been raised, all determine who I am today. I now gaze at these pictures and see my Oma’s face in many of them, young and active, just as I am today. Her smile radiates from the picture, her softly curled hair placed perfectly on her head. She had changed a lot from those pictures, and as I look back, I can’t help but think how these people in every one of these pictures, although their names and stories are unknown to me, have shaped me into the person I am today. I share physical traits with those in the pictures, and many personality traits of those people as well. They have set moral standards that they have taught my grandparents, my father, and now me. Although I am unaware of their names or how they acted, I know that they have made an impact on my life, a type of impact I think many fail to see within their own lives. As I look through these hallways, I realize that I know these faces: they are my own.

Because of this, I will be thankful for my inheritance from them. The inheritance of my family’s wisdom, my family’s looks, but most of all, I will be thankful for the inheritance of my family’s love.

“My #Hastag is Better than Your #Hashtag” (continued from page 29) Another possible motivation for the incessant posting of social networkers may be competition. We always want to post the best stories, look the best in pictures, start the best hashtag trends. But who are we comparing ourselves to? All the other competitive network users? That’s real cool. My mother is a Facebook user.

Because the exploitation of self-privacy and increase in self-importance may now be considered socially acceptable, network users will continue to only read posts that catch their interests or apply to their life (there are some that only read posts in which they or their significant other(s) are hashtaged), just like consumers tend to read warning labels only for entertainment. So why bother posting?

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“Masks” (continued from page 33) unified, cheerful group of people. We didn’t complain, even when choreographers lectured us on minute details like proper snapping technique; wrist flicked, fingers taut, elbow extended. My mask could communicate worry or sorrow, but behind it I was genuinely happy.

Our tireless work inspired me to accept only my best effort. As the show approached we practiced constantly, drilling rhythms offstage, clarifying dance steps in line for dinner, even sacrificing our much needed sleep time the morning before opening night to restage a number. But our persistence was realized in our performances, and as I left the dressing room each evening I was proud. Our carefully designed masks--makeup, costumes, lyrics, sets and props--were liberating.

So, yes. I believe in microphone tape residue that never comes off. I believe in the lights and makeup and limitless feeling of the pre-show circle. I believe in theater. I rely on the ability of people to unite over something greater than themselves. The brothers’ relationship proved the value of humor, perseverance, and loyalty, principles that define my life today. They made me a better singer, dancer, and actor, which was tangible in our performance. But more importantly, they made me a better person.

Sometimes I have to look through the eyes of my mask to see things clearly.

“Life Leaks” (continued from page 34) through is fantastic, even awe-inspiring.

I believe in moments. Cameras capture the moments that define us. And film cameras capture even more raw moments. Light leaks, which are indeed an imperfection, are beautiful. That’s why I call my imperfections life leaks. Life won’t always be perfect, it’s blurry and quick, like my Fisher Price® and digital cameras. I will be judged throughout life, but that’s okay. My imperfections make me beautiful; my life leaks make me stronger.

“Syrup in a Bowl”

by Callie Parish “Although I chose to draw syrup dispensers, this piece is inspired by tradition: the tradition of family breakfast and the bonds that come with it.”

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