2021 Prometheus Unbound

PROMETHEUS UNBOUND

Kino

PAINTING BY BAXTER BREW

2021

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POEMS

DESCRIBING AN ARC BY MATT DOUGHERTY. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 PLATON’S REQUIEM BY ALEX AZAR. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 1968 BY BAO DUONG. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 I REMEMBER YOU BY ALAN MIRZOEV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

BY JEREMIAH PEEBLES. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 ZOMBIE SONNET BY THOMAS SHELTON. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

SHORT STORIES

A LIFE WORTH SOMETHING BY ALEX ARMOUR. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 ORANGE AND YELLOW BY BAO DUONG. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 THE MONSOON BY JEFF DUONG. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

PERSONAL ESSAYS

THE NEW ABNORMAL BY SHENGXIANG GAO. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Lake and Boat

FOURTEEN BY ISSA MUDASHIRU. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

PHOTO BY ETHAN HERR

SENIOR EDITORS

lex Azar A Baxter Brew Thomas Mearns

ASSISTANT EDITOR

John Wyatt

ADVISOR

Matt Dougherty

Eyes Behind Torn Paper 2

DRAWING BY JAMES MONCUR

POEMS

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Breaking Apart DRAWING BY PETER QIU

Describing an Arc

BY MATT DOUGHERTY

(Remote Lesson from Belarus, Ms. K’s class) Today’s agenda, students: do you see my screen? do you see that baton—no it is irrelevant who is swinging it for what government— I almost said nation, isn’t that funny?

I want you to note its arc: Let’s assume the baton’s length is the standard 36 inches fully extended, as it appears in the video.

Remember the formula to compute or describe this moment should not be affected by the baton striking the person protesting, much as the arc of a bat is unaffected by a ball

rocketing into the bleachers or toward an unreactive pitcher’s head— but that’s the die they throw taking the street, the mound, right?

Fair play!

Please submit your answers by uploading the document to the math department site, and remember show all work.

For additional and mandatory points, determine the baton manufacturer, explain exactly the purpose of the protest. and tally the score.

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Adam Driver

PAINTING BY BAXTER BREW

Platon’s Requiem

BY ALEX AZAR

Peer out now into the moon-lit sky Of stoic centuries long gone by.

Of wars filled with agonizing strife With lambs, sons, both taken to the knife

It’s meaning elusive, it protrudes awkwardly from his tongue, And finds its mark with its singular purpose done.

Spherical and whole the word fills it’s needed place And fills in the marks on this convalescing peasant’s face.

In anguish, set your eyes to the night And whimper at your mortal, fleeting sight.

As light of nebulous novas near And strike your face, tormented tear.

Like a draft of spring air After a short, violent, watery flair, Tacit meaning washes over your face, but you feel no dreadful need to give chase.

Look on through the brass-covered glass Vain as is your earthly mass.

In dire confusion, the glint of an eye, The piercing blaze, now gone, small as a fly.

A new idea, though distantly known in your youth, Flutters up in your soul, an abundance of truth.

‘How have I been so obstinate’, you query, The peaceful orb responds, “ ‘ome sit, have f’ith, m’ deary”

The mystery of death you’ve only seen.

Embarrassment, humiliation, gleaned.

Mutilated flesh, merging into one, The dirt, the sky, after the setting sun.

The complexities of old dissipate as new snow melts.

The ambiguities in goodness and life together smelts.

And as this takes place this feverish peasant gives a yawn, For he knows for him, old Platon, it will soon be dawn.

Take your rest now from the worn and narrowed glass.

Come join Mars’ prisoners, brutish and crass.

Forget what wondering eyes have seen.

Cease the search for the veiled cosmic sheen.

As you drift off, into the regions of restful revery You understand the whole, the part as you were meant to see.

Surrounded by a peace known only in your heart, As the world becomes singular, its tragedy, art.

A man as round as earth toils on With whiskers uncut and teeth, many gone.

Desultory flames illuminate his pockmarked skin, Its crevices and craters carrying desired sin.

He is here you now know, in the stars in the sky, In the face of this smiling old man soon to die.

The eyes on his sallow complexion Rest there easy, like planets of an infinite inflection.

Oblivious, they land on you And dwell no longer than they are due.

With expert hands, working assiduously in craft, And skills seemingly learned before his young brother’s draft, Watch him answer the questions posed by the starving shadows And turn this freezing night into his placid, loved meadows.

He laughs and shares a jolly word, One he had only learned, just then, that day, from a man of the third.

In the blissful, whispering fields of rye, In the face-down drummer boy, no longer living shy.

In the mindless jokes and banter of camp, In the once-quiet dirt roads, now strangely quite damp.

In the bullets that grazed your sunken shoulder, In the burning of villages, reduced to a smolder.

And as you reach the temporary border Of life and death, See the simplicity in the order And the goodness in breath.

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Sunset 8

PHOTO BY GREG JOHNSON

1968

BY BAO DUONG

Both hands strapped to the rifle, index finger caressed the trigger muddy boots stuck to the pavement green helmet held on for dear life.

Around the disturbed street corner, bullets like knives sliced the air hitting the exposed brick walls of a cozy modest Saigon house.

Over the shouting of scared men played a sweet, melancholy song from the radio of a Pho vendor, who left the delicious scent wandering.

Gunshots rung persistent in his ears Popping erratically like fireworks Like when he celebrated Tet a week prior praying it wouldn’t be his last.

He thought of his humble home A simpler place, peaceful, serene.

Where the crickets chirp in the night where rice paddies had waved goodbye where mountains stood triumphant nearby where lush jungles teemed with life.

Far from the blazing infernos from napalm and agent orange.

Far from the dirtied streets of Saigon, from a city painted with dried blood from the sleeping carcass of men that lay under the apricot trees blooming golden flowers of hope.

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Hot Air Balloon Collage PAINTING BY JAMES SHELTON

I Remember You

BY ALAN MIRZOEV

I don’t know if I can say this right But I am so close to changing forever I might as well try.

It’s not easy to see That the world has kept changing And won’t let me keep up Nor is it easy to know That I’ve got this gaping hole Left by those that I remember Like the toddler that had just enough Who loved to enter worlds of magic and gods And tried, for just a bit, to be a hero I still remember that boy Who was small But blind Who was smart But naïve Most of the time Who was curious and creative enough To lift his thoughts to the clouds To make him just special enough He was small and lazy But he did what he could He was innocent But a little bit selfish He was all of this So I tell him: You may be gone, but I still remember you This isn’t what I wanted But I guess I could never avoid it Facing my flaws and shortcomings like this I thought I would change to be the same, but better But the truth is, I’m just me Someone different from those I remember Like the boy who was the center of attention Whose brain was overflowing with ideas All and none of them his; a true artist With just enough friends to be happy

So, to all of me that came before, I say: I still remember that boy Who was genius But naïve and immature Who was kind and artistic But too narcissistic Who knew something was missing But also knew he was loved And that that, alone, was enough He felt so trapped But he was sweet and alive You may be gone, but I still remember you This isn’t what I wanted All this uncertainty, loneliness and fear The truth is, maybe I would give it all To take it all back and rewrite the ending To be happy and beautiful For the boy that I remember Who was stupid But maybe, could improve Who was broken But could learn to try To ask for help And when he feels that fear of feeling empty Would get stuck and scared Till someone comes along To get him to fight with all his might To bring back that beautiful smile That I still remember We’re all messy But we’re kind We’re all angry But worth every minute We’re all lonely A lot of the time We are all of this But maybe we could try to fight Just a little, for our own happiness Because, to those that are gone, We will always remember you 11

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Travis Scott Collage PAINTING BY PIERCE RYAN

*

BY JEREMIAH PEEBLES

*Ancient Ethiopian for water The blessed tears fall from the eyes of God, Bought forth by the Prophet who struck the rock; That which blesses our fields; graces our sod, These sheddings o’ God bring gifts to our dock; To it do we owe our navy and crop, Yet it too topples kingdoms near and far, When its full wrath is shown then all will stop.

It destroys, its storms; our land it does scar.

The tears of our God will convey his wrath, And from them we know his approbation.

So to them we listen and learn our path, So we might gain Divine Ordination.

To God be the Glory for gifts of rain, For him we protect this earthly domain.

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The Two Wolves DRAWING BY PETER QIU

Zombie Sonnet

BY THOMAS SHELTON It is a very simple thing to do, To survive the zombie apocalypse.

First thing, know what is what and who is who, So that your mind will not be in eclipse.

Second, grab a cookbook for recipes Of rat stroganoff and toad fish’n’chips.

It really doesn’t matter if they please, For they have nowhere else to fill their lips.

Third, check the backseat in the Toyota For there may be a zombie dining out.

Fourth, get weapons, an ax, a katana When you need to turn zombies inside out.

Finally, grab a friend, he’s your ally, One you trip, when the zombies want some pie.

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Crab

PHOTO BY BAXTER BREW

SHORT STORIES

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Watching the Furnace PHOTO BY NATE ZOLA

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A Life Worth Something

BY ALEX ARMOUR

Part 1 William Hill was a desperate man. He didn’t want to leave his family, but he had run out of options. He needed to make money, even if it meant leaving his wife and son for a while. He snuck out in the dead of the night, careful not to make too much noise. As he was about to step over the threshold of the door, he stared back at the letter he left on the counter for his wife to find in the morning.

“My Dear Laurel, I’m sorry I left the way I did, but I couldn’t bear to see the look on Randall’s face as his daddy walked out the door. I know I’ve been a lousy husband and a worse father, but I’m trying to make it right. I’m going back to Chicago to see if Ricky can help me find some work. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

Love, William P.S. Kiss Randall good night for me” He thought, “Maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to stay.”

That flicker of hope lasted no more than a second as William finally stepped over the threshold, closed the door behind him, and disappeared into the night.

After arriving back in his hometown, he was heartbroken to find out his cousin, Ricky, had died in a car accident only a few months earlier. Not only had he lost his only way to make money, but he lost the only real family he ever had. Within days, William was on the street begging for change with no idea how he was going to feed himself...much less his family all those miles away.

The cold wind on his face and the emptiness in his stomach were both overtaken by feelings of failure for his son. Not knowing the next time he’d see him, William wrote a letter apologizing to Randall. With every word his son read, William wanted him to know his father left not because he didn’t love him, but because he did. And that every step he took until he saw his boy again was to give him the best life he could. He put the letter in his coat pocket, planning on delivering it the next day. With the weight of shame and embarrassment, his sign reading “HOMELESS-ANYTHING HELPS-GOD BLESS” felt like a 100-pound dumbbell.

Nonetheless, he picked it up and held it in front of him.

Part 2 It had been weeks since Andre Davis was fired from his job. He wasn’t out of money by any means, but he was certainly on his way. Without work and nothing else to keep him busy, Andre couldn’t help but think about how he ended up in this situation. How he went from a respected salesman to the lazy, unmotivated person he was today. A few weeks earlier, Andre and a coworker, Brad Stevens, found themselves at the same bar on a Friday night. Andre never really liked Brad, but after today, he could picture beating up Brad within an inch of his life. Seems that Brad, your most stereotypical entitled white man, couldn’t get one girl there to show any kind of interest in him. By the end of the night, he had tried and failed so many times he might as well have still been that fat, ugly kid with braces rather than the successful businessman he was.

Brad didn’t think his night could’ve gotten any worse. That was until he looked across the bar to see Andre, his most hated coworker, flirting with not one, not two, but every single woman who had rejected him that 19

night. In a less civilized world, Brad would’ve fought Andre right then and there. He would’ve lost, but he would’ve fought.

Instead, Brad got his revenge a different way. Being in the position he was in the company, convincing their racist VP that Andre was the reason 15 employees didn’t get paid on time was one of the easiest things Brad had ever done in his career. Fired from your job, a job you were great at, because an insecure white man could not bear the weight of his own embarrassment? Yeah, you would want to beat that someone within an inch of their life, too.

So here he was. Weeks later, staring at the ceiling in his apartment with no idea how he’d recover from the career ending lie Brad told. Or was it career ending?

“Go where you are treated best.”

That phrase echoed in Andre’s head all afternoon. It was his mentor, Dan Pena, who had advised him of that years ago. Dan adopted Andre when he was just a little boy; taking Andre out of that situation was the turning point of his life. Dan taught him everything he knew about making money; the “how,” the “why,” the “who to befriend,” all of it. But throughout Andre’s childhood, Dan also always made sure to tell him things that made him a better person, and to give him a better life. Dan was long gone but his words and lessons lived within Andre to this day. Hearing that phrase in his head again really made Andre think.

“In this country, I’m stereotyped, discriminated against, and one white man’s lie can ruin my reputation. Why the hell am I still here?”

Andre jumped out of bed, grabbed his laptop and booked a one-way flight to Mexico. A country where he’d not only be treated better, but still be able to work at a job he was great at.

Oh, the language barrier? Dan also taught him Spanish.

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Part 3 His bags were packed, a new start in Mexico was awaiting him, and Andre couldn’t have been more excited. The night before his flight, Andre decided to walk the streets of the city, his last evening walk in the states. All his feelings of excitement melted away when he passed a homeless man with a familiar look in his eyes. It was the same look he saw in the mirror every day at the group home. The look that said, “Why even cry? If you cry, then you’re sad. If you’re sad, then you care. You care about the fact you’re unwanted, but no one else does, so why should you?”

Andre could’ve been that man. A man on the street, begging for change, with no tears left to cry. As Andre handed the man $50, he says “Get you something hot to eat tonight, brother.

God bless you.” The look he got in return was one of such gratitude, he began to feel some happiness and excitement returned. Andre walked away wishing the man a good life.

He put on his headphones and started blasting Sunday Best, his favorite song, to listen to while life was good. Little did he know, Andre would never be able to listen to that song again.

Andre felt a yank on his jacket along with a sensation of being completely weightless.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself on the concrete in an alleyway he’d just been thrown into. Standing in front of him, was a humongous thug wearing all black and with a mask over his face. The man picked Andre up and pinned him against the wall.

“Where you think you going player?! We just getting started!

Empty your pockets right now and hurry up!”

Andre could smell the alcohol on him. As drunk as he was, there was no way Andre was calming him down or talking him out of robbing him.

“A’ight man just chill, ok? We ain’t got a problem. Take all of it, a’ight?”

Andre tossed the man his wallet. As the thug went to pick it up, Andre saw the gun sticking out of his belt.

The man abruptly stood up screaming, “No, no, no, no! Shit!”

Andre had been so distracted by the gun, he didn’t realize the man’s mask fell while he bent over to pick up the wallet, revealing his face.

“Well, I didn’t want to do this, but you seen my face now.”

In the same breath, he withdrew the gun, and pointed it at Andre’s chest. Andre couldn’t believe what was about to happen. He was about to die. Less than 24 hours away from his new life, and he was about to die. He closed his eyes only to immediately open them to the sight of a struggle between the hoodlum and the homeless man. Andre didn’t know what to do. He could run to save himself, but that would leave the man to fight the thug alone. He could help the man fight, but the two were already wrestling on the ground. Before Andre could decide what the hell to do, the man picked up a nearby chard of glass and shoved it right into the thug’s chest. The man slowly stood up trying to catch his breath. Andre started in disbelief.

“He was going to kill me. You saved my life, man.”

Before the man could say anything, BAM! The deafening sound of a gunshot was followed by the homeless man’s body falling to the pavement as the barely living hoodlum took his last breath. Andre knelt next to the man, overwhelmed and not sure of what to do. While the man lay dying, he reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a piece of paper. Struggling to speak, he barely got out his last words.

“Get this to my wife and son. I need them to know I didn’t die for nothing. That I died giving my life worth nothing...for a life worth something. Promise me you’ll get this to them.”

Between sobs, Andre managed to say, “I promise. I promise you I will.”

“Thank you,” the man said with just enough breath behind it to be heard. No more than a few seconds later, William Hill had died in Andre Davis’ arms.

The next morning, Andre was still exhausted. He drove all night trying to get to William’s family and back in time for his flight...and he did. He sat in his car for what felt like an eternity, wanting nothing more than to not do what he was about to.

He mustered all his strength to step out of the car and walk to the front door. Right before he knocked, Andre imagined what it would be like when his wife opened the door. The sight of her face when she hears a stranger tell her, “Your husband is dead.” The sound of her trying to hold back her tears in order to not wake up their son. The realization of knowing he just ruined this woman’s life. He couldn’t do it. Andre slid the paper under the door, ran to his car, and sped back to Chicago.

Later, as he sat down in his seat on the plane, Andre thought about William’s words right before he died. “I gave my life worth nothing for...a life worth something.” At the time, neither William nor Andre realized how much of a burden that was.

But Andre didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about the years it’d take to rebuild his image, or Randall having to grow up without a father, or the sight of a dying man’s eyes that he’d never be able to forget. All he wanted to do was sleep.

And maybe, just maybe...dream.

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Orange and Yellow

BY BAO DUONG

Walking along the halls of the Pérez Art Museum Miami, or PAMM, its sweetly named acronym, I am intrigued by much of the art on display there. The routes around the museum were meticulously designed and curated to create a certain desired experience for the visitor, and, as I have found it, a certain experience that would leave the visitor with unanswerable questions behind the meaning of the art. Maybe that was the goal, to leave it up to the visitors’ own interpretations, and, although it does not allow for closure, it does seem to be along the progressive steps that modern art is heading towards in the new era.

Some of the pieces on display were about activism and all the progressive liberal campaigning that society seemed to be saturated with nowadays. To me, although it is one way to draw attention towards the issues, it does ruin the subjectiveness of art and makes it seem like a sellout piece and not a genuine attempt to be truly artistic. That is all fine and dandy though because the museum still has a permanent collection on display with all the less social-political content.

Among one of them was Orange and Yellow by Mark Rothko which, in my own words, is two rectangles gently blended into each other over a background of a color that seems to be a mix of the previous two colors. A yellow rectangle is slightly smaller than an orange rectangle and sits on top of it with a splash of whiter yellow running along the border between them. Although their shape is well-defined, their edges are apparently rough whilst still retaining some sort of cohesiveness to it.

Like with most modern pieces, past me would have been repulsed by the seemingly effortless and simplistic structure and childish color palette. Past me was certain that everyone’s genuine reaction to this brand of art was: “I could do that too.”

Now that I look back, I figure that these artists deserve some recognition for being innovative and pioneering a new genre of art. The way I see it, what makes their art unrepeatable is that they did it first, and if you do the same thing after them, the originality and creativity are lost.

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When I saw the painting, I imagined a sizzling hot afternoon in the African savannah as the heat distorts the view into the blurry mesh of orange and yellow you see. The sun can be seen hanging just below the horizon emitting the hazy blushes of white, and the borders of the rectangles themselves are almost symbolic of a frame and perhaps a window to that world. However, that is just my interpretation of the painting, but whatever other interpretations of the painting are out there, there is no doubt that the painting evokes this certain warmth and even a noxiously and stifling sensation of heat to the viewer. Maybe I was just feeling extremely oppressed by the Miami heat assisted by an ill-advised clothing choice to come to that conclusion about the painting, but I think that this ability to generate multiple meanings and a certain mystique in these paintings is where modern contemporary artists make their money. It is that inability to pinpoint what is portrayed alongside the confusion and uniqueness of the pieces that makes the genre interesting and desirable to collectors.

The museum was just an attraction that I decided to visit in Miami while I waited for the right time to head to the airport, but it did leave a bigger impression on me than I would have thought. As I went outside of the museum after viewing everything, we sat on the park bench overlooking the waters and I cannot help but stare back at the architecture. In a way the building is just another piece of art on display, with its slick modern design, its blocky texture, and the overhanging mesh of metal scaffolding that shade the patio where a museum café was situated. It was an example of human advancement, another site out of many dedicated to human creativity. At the end, I figured that these things did not need to beaten like a dead horse for a meaning, and because they most likely do not have a meaning, they have served their role as an exploration of human creativity.

For reference:

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Leonardo DiCaprio PAINTING BY PIERCE RYAN

THE MONSOON

BY JEFF DUONG

UNDER the crescent moon that struck me as a sharp sickle, the rain came drizzling down around the bus stop where I was standing and waiting near downtown District 1. It was the monsoon season that comes every late spring with the torrential rain from all different directions. It covered the night sky with an endless shroud of dark clouds; only interrupted by the sweeping edge of that bright sickle in the sky that seemed to pierce through the clouded night like it’s soft butter. Heavy droplets of water fell from above; splashing all over the pavement and bouncing into puddles that were starting to spill. The ground turned loose and slippery as the water seeped beneath the surface under the mosaic bricks of the sidewalk. Right on it, there was a row of nearby trees that rustled and tussled with the Eastern wind, swaying back and forth like a pendulum.

The clashing of leaves and branches together produced a harrowing snare-like sound that rang between my ear; as if there was a rattlesnake nearby.

I’ve gotten pretty acquainted with the monsoon season over the years; having lived here for a long time now. I’ve learned to interpret the heavy droplets of water as the footsteps of a million mice, and when I started to concentrate, it transformed itself into a sort of music that ticks with a constant beat. But amidst the melodic rhythm, there was a discord of strong earthy smell that evaporated from the muddy, wet ground. It wasn’t any typical smell, combined with the humidity in the air and the mixed sewage from the overflowing drains, the moisture burned through my nostril; creating an awful taste more powerful than a spoon of wasabi.

By now, it was late into the night and I was the only one on the streets staring at flickering Neon billboards. Just two hours ago, there were pedestrians walking into shops, getting on and off taxis, and strolling out of crowded bars and restaurants. I was there amongst them, immersing myself in the vivid nightlife of Saigon. If you were there, it would be hard to imagine how a seasonal drop of water could have disrupted such an atmospheric mass. Soon after a little drizzle, an exodus of people followed and the once bustling streets were then met with barren scenes of closed stores and outlets.

I never expected it to develop any further than a small gust, but seeing the streets filling up with water; turning into rivers that reflected the iridescent glow of streetlights, I understood that it was going to rain for a long while, and I might be stuck here; waiting for a bus that would never arrive. As I sank back

onto the soaked bench, I began to feel a cold feeling. People always assumed that the rain was a mode of relaxation, meant to soothe your mentality and ease you of your stress; and to a degree, they’re right. But to experience it day and night, it’s nothing more than a vexation. “It’s always cold when it rains; it’s always loud when it rains, and it’s always empty when it rains,” I thought to myself. But then, I remembered that when I was young, I had always loved the rain. Despite my mother urging me to stay at home during a downpour, I would always take my chance to get my bike out onto the streets and shower myself in the chilly mists of water. And when I come home, my mother would scream at me for giving myself a cold; but to me, it was worth it.

Suddenly, two giant beams of light cut through the thick mist of water. The rolling tires of the bus grinded to a halt while the brakes screeched like a fork against a plate. As I got on the empty bus, the old man sitting at the wheel greeted me with a simple gesture of his hand. He was old but not frail; still possessed somewhat youth within him. I sat by the window and tilted my head against the cold surface; watching droplets race to the edge of the frame. When I looked out the window, it was still raining, and the water level was rising higher and higher till the bus sort of became an amphibious vehicle. But nevertheless, it rumbled along; smoothly cruising through the water like boats on river streams, and producing a wake in its path. I found myself staring at those repetitious wakes, and I began to fall asleep on the strangely soft worn-out leather seat.

In my dreams, I saw myself on Noah’s ark; being driven away by huge monsoon tidal waves with some as tall as a 40ft building. Underneath the boat ran a torrential current that could tear anything unlucky enough to be caught in its path.

Occasionally, a foam tower would collapse overboard and splash onto the wooden floor. Soaked mice, stinking of the smell of mud, ran on the deck and their footsteps sounded like little raindrops hitting the side of the pavement. Just nearby, a rattlesnake shook its tail and I could feel the snare in my head; tingling like the rustles of leaves. I started to wander around, looking for other survivors; though bustling with animals, there was no sight of any other human being. But lo and behold, out of the distance I saw an old man steering the wheel of the ship; it was none other than the bus driver himself.

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Mountains

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PHOTO BY ETHAN HERR

PERSONAL ESSAYS

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Jamaica 28

PHOTO BY BAXTER BREW

The New Abnormal

BY SHENGXIANG GAO

The wood crackles as the orange flame dances over it, illuminating the darkness and keeping the cold at bay. Aside from the fire, the room is filled with chatter, jokes, bursts of laughter. Grandparents to grandsons sink into their cozy couches around the fire, after a homemade meal where everyone had plenty.

That was my idea of home, or what I always wanted home to be.

In reality, the image of home is much more obscure. Moving from house to house, family to family, back and forth across the Pacific during my quest to learn distorted what used to be a crystal-clear picture of what home meant in my earliest memories: My mother, my grandparents, plates full of steaming hot dumplings and a television broadcasting special programming on a Chinese New Year.

Not long after, home became a smaller apartment where I always failed to stay up and outlast the night, waiting until the moment Mom returned from her late hours. Solitude became a synonym of a word that was supposed to provide me shelter, and school suddenly felt more like home than the two-bedroom apartment ever did.

When I arrived in Maryland for school, home became a humble bedroom in a strange house within a distant country. I would return after school each day to spend time with my feelings and thoughts, my only true friends. I was used to being alone, but when I inevitably wiped off my tears on the pillow beneath me, I was shattered. The year after, I moved to a different house, but home remained a corner of my own.

Strangely, the more time I spent alone, the more peace I was able to find within solitude.

The summer after my sophomore year, my mom got remarried. There was no wedding, but with my stepdad she was the happiest I have ever seen her. They went to the movies, had romantic dinners, did things she had not done for fifteen years. She finally felt alive, and home has meant something completely different to me since then. I was one step closer to the fire, one step closer to those cozy couches.

Home then became a tiny school in Vermont, where along with 44 other kids who chose to be here, we spent a spring semester in the mountains, free from the shackles of our old lives and technology. There, amongst the seemingly endless blizzards and the leafless yet vigorous forests; during the 76 days spent crying and laughing with the ten boys in the dorm; and under the countless, iridescent stars decorating the night sky, I found me. Or rather, a piece of me that longed for this, a piece of me that appreciates the good and the bad within the journey. A piece that, under the warm aura of home, I would never have found.

Now, home means a room in the basement at my friend’s place. A room not much different from the ones before. Every now and then I ascend from the underground, take my skateboard with me just to ride around the neighborhood, enjoying the sunlight with nothing but music and the wind in my face as company.

Looking back, every stop I made in the search for home has shaped me into a slightly different person than before. The more I move, somehow, I feel less lonely and more at ease. Maybe I am used to solitude, but moreso, home has started to mean something different for me. Sure, I still long for the fire and warmth, but instead of a place to return to, it has become a journey. The places I have been to have helped me piece together an inner sanctuary unique to myself. Though I am far away from home, I am closer to it than ever.

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30

My Grandparents DRAWING BY PETER QIU

Fourteen

BY ISSA MUDASHIRU

I was fourteen when my mother and I finally talked about Rex. Well, that was his name, until a pair of motherly eyes from the rearview window suggested otherwise. Judging by her gaze, my six-year old self figured a compromise would have to do.

Mere seconds of agonizing deliberation between my pleading arguments and my mother’s calm, authoritarian “no’s” resulted in Hammy, a nickname short for the hamster he was.

I remember having faith that he would last forever. The silence emergent between our then car’s engine shutting off and my mom’s door clicking open to our third home that year left enough time for young me to whisper a short prayer. Eyes shut with arms hugging the bars of his metal cage, I prayed that Hammy would fall in love with me as I had already with him.

But he didn’t. He never seemed to like me, nor did he last. Our morning car rides to kindergarten often began with a contagious yawn originating from my mother and her occasional recounting of a late-night hamster escapade. For instance, one night my mother woke up to Hammy’s perpetual clawing at the unfurnished master bedroom walls the three of us shared, and on another, she’d venture downstairs at the crack of dawn to meet my companion leaping from marble countertop to 10-foot dining table of the desolate mansion serving a family of two.

I remember the way she’d look at me through that rearview window when she’d tell me these things. Her glistening gaze, concerned about everything regarding her son’s health, asked me to remain positive. My happiness was her priority.

Mom always tried to take delicate care of my childhood oblivion. Our life’s circumstances, she believed, had no place in my youthful cognizance. She and my father divorced a few months prior, and in the months following, we left the one-bedroom affordable housing unit with him and squatted in empty mansions, the doors of which my mother had to beg her friend that worked in real estate to graciously open for us. She was drowning in stress; the type of stress one wipes from their eyes moments before sporting a pasty smile when picking up their child from school each day, or the type that destroys knees driven into hardwood floors, floors absorbing the dejected cries of a mother calling out to God hours before the light of morning or her young child showed face in the living room. I was living a dream, an extended vacation, oblivious to all the hardship my mother endured and concealed.

I hadn’t even sensed she was upset when I crawled into the back seat after one of my nightly swim practices; the breaking of her usually expressive countenance was a sight I had yet to see.

“Issa,” she said, voice soft yet unquivering, using the rearview window to examine my cold, damp body as I entered the vehicle. My door shut, then a pause followed, compelling me to return her tearful, red-eyed gaze from the car’s rear. Finally turning towards me, still as can be, provoking my restful visage into one of confusion, she revealed that our current home had been burgled; thieves took her jewelry, her laptop, and strangely, my hamster as well.

It was on that ride home that my childhood oblivion collided with reality. I witnessed my mother cry for the first time. It was a soft cry, one with its shudders and gasps but suppressed to avoid frightening the already wide-eyed boy in the back seat.

It wasn’t until later did I put two and two together and realize that my mother needed Hammy more than I did. My happiness was her priority.

And hers became mine. Hearing the full story pained me. I gained perspective, and for weeks, my heart and soul felt engulfed by anguish. At fourteen, I made a silent vow: to never let that powerful single-mother love be spent in vain. Every hour, rather every minute, I spend within the elegant brick edifices of my private school, on stage executing hours of dedicated violin practice, on the soccer pitch piecing passes together from defense, and in the front seat sharing yawns with my mother between morning conversation, I cherish.

Because everything I do for myself, I do for her. I do it for those tender, loving eyes smiling back at me from the rearview window.

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Mountain Side

PAINTING BY JEFF DUONG