The Oak - Heartwood

The Oak Heartwood

Lake Forest Country Day School 145 South Green Bay Road Lake Forest, Illinois 60045

Introduction Every art piece starts with a seed and eventually grows into a tree that drops acorns for us to gather. We have come to realize that art follows a universal growth process. Our theme for this year’s literary magazine delves into how ideas become art, and our metaphor is a tree.

The first chapter of our literary magazine is called “Roots,” and it presents artwork and writing related to the foundation of who we are. The next chapter, “The Trunk,” explores growth and the way in which becoming a young adult provides insights on life. Everyone experiences hard times that can temporarily stop us in our tracks.

They are the storms of life. The next two chapters, entitled “Wind” and “The Storm,” present artwork and writing centered around the painful experiences that we all have in our lives, and the painful experiences of others that have an impact on us. The “Wind” chapter speaks to milder, more universal challenges, while the “Storms” chapter channels more intensity—the Holocaust, gun violence, overwhelming emotion. We have learned that, after the storm, the sun typically comes out again and good times arise, thus giving us the “Sun” chapter. Once we experience all of these stages, whether personally or vicariously, we become our own authentic self. We spread our branches. We blossom, as does a tree. When we drop our leaves or, in the case of the Oak, our acorns, we leave something behind that continues to grow. This is art.

Sometimes, we are inspired by the storms of life. Other times, our roots result in the best inspiration. Our greatest creativity may stem from the smallest or largest moments in our lives. All of the pieces of artwork and literature in this year’s The Oak were created by students who experience diverse moments and come from diverse backgrounds. But, at the same time, the students are connected. We all go through similar stages in coming of age.

As the eighth graders move on, they will leave a legacy behind in the projects they have completed and the relationships they have made with teachers. They have gone through times of growth, times of challenge, and times of triumph. Every page in The Oak is one acorn from the Oak tree at Lake Forest Country Day. Whether a piece of art is a speech, a poem, a narrative, a photograph, a collage or a painting, it contains a sliver of the artist who created it—a piece of who they are. The center of a tree trunk, the part containing the hardest, densest wood, is called the heartwood. We believe that all art, no matter its inspiration, taps into this central part of a person. The Oak is, as a whole, a piece of art that represents our community: a tree, heartwood at its core, with many different parts that fit together to make one oak.

Table of Contents...

Cover Art Introduction

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Julie Jiang Ben Arthurs and Redding Worth

Student Title Page No. Part 1 - Planting Roots Colton Thakkar Artwork 1 Louisa Back The Foundations of America 2 Kiesha Bland Can I Touch Your Hair?

3 and 4 Sy Rosenblatt The Lie That Saved My Family 5 Ben Goldfeder Artwork 6 Sime Back Nine-Word Poem 6 Eduardo Pontes Ten-Word Poem 7 Anna Satter Artwork 7 Jahnstone Martin VietNam 8 Anthony Giambrone Home 9 Fallon Anderson West Virginia 10 Michael Springer Artwork 11 Kathleen Keil Summer 12 Harry Byers Artwork 12 Nico Chapman Dear Nico 13 Malorie Mursau Nine-Word Poem and Artwork 14 Sophie Uddin Hey Sophie 15 Myles Haight Canada 16 Drake Mitchell Artwork 17 Noa Paige Bremen Into the Flames 18 Samantha Rogers Artwork 19 Part 2 - The Trunk Cedar Connell Artwork 21 Sam Hempen Understanding Introverts 22 Caroline Holland Artwork 23 Sadie Benjamin Swing Days 24 and 25 Jahstone Martin Artwork 26 Evan Varones The Young Boy 26 Lindsay Stone We Miss You 27 Sophie Uddin Artwork 28 Caroline Holland Maybe I’m an Icicle 29 and 30 Lindsay Stone Young One 31 Hayden Shortsle Artwork 31 Joshua Back Artwork 32 Part 3 - The Wind Felipe Lecheta Artwork 33 Zach Winicour You and Me 34 Matthew Hahn Coming to America 35 Grace Satter Artwork 36 Hal Jenkins Rain 36 Aliza Ahmed Basement 37

Student Title Page No. Hana Uddin Anxiety 38 Sam Erulkar Artwork 39 Hana Uddin Artwork 40 Emerson Buettner The Saddest Moment 41 and 42 Aliza Ahmed Artwork 42 John Nikitas The Wave 43 Vilius Indriliunas Artwork 44 Eli Zuerlein Drams, Light, A Gateway 45 Sara Kaplan ACB Electronics Eating Me 46 Frusher, Jezewski, E.Lee, I. Smith and J. Yan “Modern Thinker” Artwork 47 Rosie Meyer Artwork 48 Eleanor Larsen Oncoming Waves 49 Nate Wehner The Jacket 50 Esti Rosenblatt Artwork 51 Samatha Rogers Lies 51 Hayden Shortsle Why Did They Create the Bullet?

52 Grace Satter Battleheart 52 Part 4 - The Storm Aaron Fei Artwork 53 Stewart Growdon Sleep 54 Reid Primo Artwork 54 Esti Rosenblatt A Sleep That Means Death 55 Kaiden Britton Artwork 56 Anna Satter Monsters Disguised 57 Vilius Indriliunas Tattooed Numbers 57 Asher Bremen 3-7-8-2-5 58 AvaTrandel The End of the Book:...

59 Caroline Keil I’m Going to Survive 60, 61 and 62 Evalyn Lee Artwork 62 Redding Worth Footsteps, A Holocaust Poem 63 Matthew Hahn Artwork 64 Christian Chan Never Again 64 and 65 Mary Lee The Korean War Memorial 66 Jack Wyne The Wall 67 Evalyn Lee Surrendering Your Soul 68 Cedar Connell Dreams Are Drugs of Bliss 69 Avery Flood Hushed Cries 70 and 71 Sabrina Borstein Artwork 71 Part 5 - Sun Julie Jiang Artwork 73 Sari Cheung The Carnival 74 Summer Jaster Artwork 75 Sara Kaplan and Eleanor Larsen I Am a Kite 75

Student Title Page No. Matteo Shinn Waffles 76 Ashton Peterson Artwork 76 RafaKelliher THE GOAL 77 Nick Hawkins Artwork 78 Sabrina Borstein Artwork 78 Jack Gordon Milk Chocolate 79 Linley Fletcher Hiccups 80 Suhani Sharma Artwork 80 Lindsay Stone Artwork 81 Elizabeth Grace Dear Elizabeth 81 Parker Pollack Baseball 82 Brooke Mordini Artwork 83 Spencer Gilcrest Mr. Pencil 84 Nick Lubaev Footballer 85 Jason Yan Artwork 86 Posey Connell Dancing 87 Part 6 - Branching Out Sam Hempen Artwork 89 Rosie Meyer Photo Album 90 Sophie Uddin Saturday Strolls 91 Asher Bremen Artwork 92 Sadie Benjamin So Small 93 Collin Pfeifle Artwork 94 Kate Satter Red Wagon 94 Lucy Partington Artwork 95 Carla Accogli Salt 95 Sara Kaplan Artwork 96 Julie Jiang Burning the old year by 96 Posey Connell Artwork 97 Kelly Wyne The Cast of History 97 Collin Pfeifle Maybe i’m nothing 98 Now Paige Bremen Artwork 99 Teddy Berghammer Nine-Word Poem 100 Namita Aluvila Artwork 100

Part 1: Planting Roots Colton Thakkar

Louisa Back The Foundation of America As we walked through the African American Smithsonian Museum, the cool air chilled me as I passed stories from hundreds of years and representing thousands of lives. The horror of the slave trade, the harsh conditions, and injustice were unimaginable to me, living in the 21st century. One room at a time, I was beginning to wonder how the African Americans never gave up their faith, or the hope of being free.

And then I entered a room with a particularly jarring exhibit. On the wall was simply, “All men are created equal,” a common quote to find in the nation’s capital, especially when paired with a statue of Thomas Jefferson, like this one. What made this statue different was the bronze brick wall behind Jefferson. Each brick was painted with a golden name. Each name belonged to one of Jefferson’s slaves.

Thomas Jefferson, the man who wrote American freedom into existence, did not see the truth of his own words. Our founding father, one of the faces of the American dream, was a slave owner. Seeing this powerful piece of art humbled me. The founding of our nation was so entwined with the story of slavery and a legacy of hope for future generations to be created equally.

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Kiesha Bland Can I Touch Your Hair?

“Can I touch your hair?” It takes three seconds to ask that, so there is no reason why you shouldn’t ask this question before touching someone’s hair. I’ve been at this school for 11 years, and I only remember two people asking to touch my hair. Other people don’t ask; they just touch, assuming I’m okay with it. I usually get comments like “it’s so puffy” or “it’s so greasy” and a bunch of others along those lines. I always feel like an outcast when it comes to hair. My gravity-defying hair will stay in place whether there is a ponytail holder or not. It is not okay to go up to someone and touch their hair without permission. But at the same time, it’s my fault for not speaking out about it. I realize that I have the opportunity to teach people why my hair is the way it is.

There’s a big difference between African-American hair, Caucasian hair, Hispanic hair, and Asian hair. First, black people culturally have the most hair options. Those include waves, curly, straight, puffy, bought, grown, permed or even bald. Most people who aren’t of African descent cannot get waves. Afro-textured hair reflects an adaptation to protect the brain against large amounts of heat. African hair produces a lot of oil. African hair produces more oils than Caucasian and Asian hair. There are very tight curls in African-American hair, which makes it hard for oils to spread evenly along hair. Then, the hair becomes dry and roughens. Lastly, the hair becomes very coarse due to the roughness. Very curly hair from any ethnic group often lacks the texture of smooth, silky straight hair. AfricanAmerican hair is very different from other hair, yet a lot of AfricanAmericans try to alter their hair to make it look like Caucasian hair.

Although diversity in the entertainment world is growing, most of the popular movie stars, musical artists, and celebrities are Caucasian. They have luscious straight, shiny hair. A lot of African-Americans feel encouraged to have their hair look like that. In America, the White social position holds the most privilege and power. Caucasians are also associated with positive characteristics. African-Americans are usually associated with negative characteristics. So, African-Americans treat their hair to make themselves look Caucasian. A perm is a hair treatment style that straightens hair. A lot of African-Americans use this to make their hair look more European.

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According to a nationwide survey by InStyle magazine, black women on average spend $1,114 yearly on hair products and treating. Twenty-three percent of black women get their hair relaxed (Abraham). I also have a lot of personal experience regarding trying to change my hair to look like Caucasian hair. For the 11 years I’ve attended LFCDS, there’s never been another 100% African-American girl in my grade. So, I was influenced by Caucasian hair. Most of the girls here have straight (and very rarely curly), long hair. There were many times in 7th grade when I attempted to flat iron my hair so it would look like theirs. I used to hate my hair because I had to do so much work just to keep it decent. But, other girls in my class only had to brush their hair for five minutes, and they would be alright.

They could even sleep after washing their hair without blow drying it. I have been made fun of because of the style of my hair, although I’ve never faced discrimination for it.

When certain hairstyles are favored by a minority group, those hair styles can be targets of discrimination. Workplace and school discrimination is a continuing problem in Caucasian communities. African-Americans may be discriminated against because their hair isn’t like other races. Discrimination against hair is allowed, but discrimination against race, religion, age, or gender is prohibited by federal laws. Luckily, New York City is now considering discrimination against hair as a form of race discrimination.

The New York City Commission on Human Rights officially outlawed discrimination against “natural hair, treated or untreated hairstyles such as locs, cornrows, twists, braids, Bantu knots, fades, Afros, and/or the right to keep hair in an uncut or untrimmed state.” I think these laws respectfully give African-Americans the right to wear their hair in any style without being discriminated against. I also think discrimination is caused by curiosity. When other races see African-Americans with different hair styles, they discriminate since they don’t recognize these styles.

Next time you see an African-American with cool-looking hair, don’t let your curiosity stand in the way of your sense of respect. Ask a simple question: “Can I touch your hair?” Regardless of their answer, you will show them that you’re not only interested in what makes them unique, but also respectful of their individuality.

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Sy Rosenblatt The Lie That Saved My Family Hands quivering, A blazing sun in the open air behind him, Long miles of dry land ahead, A fear of fury in the official’s eyes, But no regret, Sixteen years lived, yet fifteen admitted.

Bound to be in the camouflaged green, But signing on the line that would continue, The Sunday salami in his Lithuanian cottage, Desert sands circling his walls, His siblings smelling the scent of the etrog, Jerusalem in his window, Shabbat with a view of Lake Michigan, The dark blue waters washing up on the rocks.

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Ben Goldfeder

Simon Back Nine-Word Poem Faded ranches vanish Vast farms Arise Skyscrapers Await Home

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Eduardo Pontes Ten-Word Poem When I smell brigadeiro From my grandma’s bakery Memories Soar

Memórias sobem quando Da padaria da minha avó Eu cheiro brigadeiro

Anna Satter

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Jahstone Martin Vietnam: A small country an edge touching the Pacific Ocean Southeast Asia Once a warzone, now a divided nation North and South Two different sides, Two different lifestyles Many different people A beautiful place pristine beaches clean white sand and sky-blue water Fresh delicious food Not chaotic Just calm A simple lifestyle Work during the day Shopping, eating, sleeping or enjoying life at night Some places are big busy cities Saigon and Nha Trang Others are small villages Different people doing different things are all living, Breathing, Eating, Human beings like you and me No huge wars being fought Just a small Asian country, With normal people With normal lives.

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Anthony Giambrone Home As we pull into the town of Santo Stefano Quisquina, We walk down the cobblestone streets and wonder Did our grandpa play on these streets?

Did he hang their laundry from the same lines we see overhead?

We are greeted by the mayor of the town.

The whole office excited to see us and share the town’s history It was very rare having a family from America visit their quaint town.

The Mayor is wearing a brightly colored sash Red, green and white.

The mayor’s wrinkled hand pulls the book open.

While he’s opening the book my family gathers around In the short-ceilinged room With weird patterns on the wall We flip through pages in alphabetical order looking for one name.

Inside, I see names after names Written in a fancy Sicilian script With one thing in common, Giambrone.

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Fallon Anderson West Virginia West Virginia Home of the Allegheny Mountains And the Greenbrier River Camp Allegheny, where all Ghany Girls meet The campsite is home With canvas tents and wooden floors Thursdays are my favorite Lunch under the apple tree I swim in the Greenbriar River with minnows, snakes, and turtles We cook the BEST of the best West Virginia biscuits And amazing vanilla cookies with white chocolate Fresh out of the oven I shoot my rifle, named Cookie Monster Waiting to get one more 40 to move another level, Dancing at all the grey-blue chants, We always make rock paint by picking the MOST colorful rocks, Putting them in a stream, Drawing on the big stone back at the meeting house Venturing into the stream in the woods with beautifully colored trees and flowers And having a campout with my tent mates Making delicious in-side-out burgers With lettuce cheese and onions stuffed inside I count the days Eager Until I get to go again

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Michael Springer

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Lulu Keil Summer Soft melting Vanilla ice cream With wet cold feet, On the dock Along the harbor With the friends I’ve known forever In the distance I hear the stream Of summer down the cone

Harry Byers

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Nico Chapman Dear Nico Dear Nico, This is your amazingly modern flip phone! Now, I just wanted to say a couple of things. First, your ear smells bad. It smells like a dumpster filled with Oscar the Grouch’s pet grape that he keeps meaning to throw out but keeps forgetting, so eventually, he flushes it down a toilet and somehow lands in the dumpster, and sits there before Oscar picks it up and the cycle repeats. Disgusting. Disgusting! DISGUSTING!!! Please stop putting me to your ear. Maybe put me to your nose, or even just in your hands! That other phone, something like an eye-phone? They stay in your hands most of the time, so why can’t I? What does eye-phone have that I don’t? I keep hearing noises, like very loud voices, like some kind of war battle? Is that what Cal Culator called “Net-Flicks?” or maybe whatever that “Game of Chairs” thing is? WHY MUST EVERYTHING HAVE SUCH A STRANGE NAME IN THIS WORLD!?

About that eye-phone, I know I am a different shape and all, but why are they sideways, and you don’t even TALK to them most of the time.

Are they sideways so you can see the :) face normally? They don’t even USE that face. That doesn’t make any sense. They have something called an “emoji?” That doesn’t seem right. I have emoticons, not emojis. Sideways faces are WAY more original than those weird normal facing-faces. Lastly, I feel lonely. You don’t talk to me, or use me, or do anything with me anymore. Have you ever been neglected? Like maybe when you invite all your friends over at the same time, and none of them can come because they’re all at John Doe’s Jump Zone birthday party, and nobody else is around, and you wish you were there? That’s how it feels to be me right now. I know some people like being used and to ‘be careful what you wish for’ but I personally wouldn’t mind being used every once in a while.

Your very obsolete-feeling friend, Philip Foehn

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Malorie Mursau Nine-Word Poem Sun sets on Splintered skis, Sandy ropes, Worn-out wakeboards

Malorie Mursau

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Sophie Uddin Hey Sophie Hey Sophie,

It’s me, Trampoline. How are you? You would probably be better if you were playing on me! I just wanted to tell you that Phone is being a brat… again… But that’s beside the point. I think you would really like it if you played on me, ya know, WITHOUT playing music from your phone in the background. How would you like it if your enemy started being with your best friend all the time? Let me tell you that you would become very lonely. Well, you know how Phone always sleeps when he is out of battery?

I don’t have a battery! To be frank, I think that quality makes me much better than him. And I would love to play with you for once. You’re being a dumb-dumb for not playing with me. Would you appreciate it if you were an object, were bought, and then only used like… ONCE?! It makes me wanna go jump off Mount Everest! If I could.

Also, please tell your big sister I said thank you for playing on me.

I think her pikes, aerials and other flips are getting much better. Doesn’t it look so cool to fly up in the air like that? Don’t you wanna fly just like Hana can? When you don’t, it makes me… well, sad… At least go outside!

Enjoy the the blue birds singing, on the dark brown branch. Look at the jade-colored grass swaying in the wind. Isn’t it beautiful? Anyway, beautiful landscapes aside, pleaseeee just play on me! I think you would really enjoy it!

You would probably feel better if you did.

Your unutilized friend, Trampoline

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Myles Haight Canada I wander down The long path To the rock beach In the dim light The house Resting behind my Back.

The perfect stone That fits the Shape of my hand Exactly Too flawless to throw, But I know It will be worth it.

I wrap my finger Around the stone Plip Plip Plip

Plip Across the still, blue lake.

Like my heart Beating inside my chest Silence Then I pick up another one, And start again.

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Drake Mitchell

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Noa Paige Bremen Into the Flames Imagine a fire pit. Large stones of grayish hues make up its base and a circle of wooden chairs surround it. Old chairs with rain spots and peeling bark.

And there’s the fire. Dancing stripes of reds, oranges, golds. You stand in the field, not wanting to continue on to the chairs and the fire, but you know you must. It’s a new year. Time to sizzle away memories, to prepare you. Prepare you to make new ones. You finally walk forward and take a seat on one of those wooden chairs.

Slowly you take off your backpack and place it beside you. What a backpack. Beautiful with patterns of reds, blues, and golds. The only one of its kind. Your backpack, filled with what you don’t want to let go. But everyone else has already recycled their memories, and so must you. With one hand you zip open the backpack and with the other you make sure your memories don’t fall out. You reach in and the first silver orb falls into your hand.

It’s slightly warm, and it sparkles like the night sky. You stand up and walk slowly towards the golden flames. Looking into your palm, you remember how it felt on that summer day with your family on the beach. The calming rise and fall of the waves and the exhilarating feeling bouncing off of your younger siblings as they ran toward and from the tide.

You think to yourself, “Why must we let go? Why must we recycle the happy times? We turn our family into strangers. We have to learn ourselves again.”

You reluctantly let the orb fall out of your hand and into the flames. It sends its remains into the air as it sizzles away.

You try to remember that day. You can’t, and so you reach; you reach for the next silver orb.

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Samantha Rogers

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Part 2: The Trunk

Cedar Connell

Sam Hempen

Understanding Introverts

One summer day, my mom asked me and my brothers to go outside. So we decided to go to the park near our house. At first, there was no one there. My brothers were playing in the field, and I was sitting down on the swings. I was just passing the time and listening to music, while some other people came to the park.

I didn’t think anything of it. A few minutes passed, and an adult walked up to me and asked why I wasn’t playing with my friends. I just said that I wanted to be by myself for a while. I thought it was a bit weird that she’d asked, but I stayed there and kept swinging. A few minutes later, someone else came over to me and asked me the same thing. I responded the same way, “I want to be by myself.” Then, even later, someone else came by and expressed concern, thinking I might be sad or lonely. Let me reassure you, in case you are now wondering, I was perfectly fine.

I’m just an introvert.

As a whole, I don’t think our society understands introverts. Considering that 50 to 74% of the population is extroverted, they would have to go out of their way to see things from a different perspective. That’s what I want to help you understand today.

Imagine you’ve just run a marathon: 26.2 miles. You’re exhausted, and then a friend calls and asks if you want to go swimming. Sure it sounds like fun, but you just ran a marathon and swimming will take even more energy. You just might want to take a pass. Well, sometimes, interacting with teachers and friends all day long feels like a marathon to introverts. It takes more energy for us than you realize. I want to tell you a little more about how going to school is like running a marathon. While extroverts enjoy talking to people and being social, introverts are the opposite. Extroverts “gain energy” from things like that, while introverts are “drained of energy.” I might look completely normal talking to my friends or someone I know, but small talk for me can be awkward and energy-consuming.

I really don’t hate socializing; it just is harder and doesn’t come as easily for me.

Another example is going to a party. An extrovert wouldn’t think twice about going to a party...it might not even matter who it’s for...he or she just loves parties.

Parties energize them. Introverts might go to a party for a good friend, but would rather do a quiet activity, like reading a book, playing video games, or listening to music. Those are the kind of things that “recharge” introverts. From the outside, extroverts might think introverts are sad or have no friends. But introverts really just enjoy time to themselves.

Many people don’t understand that our world is structured in favor of extroverts, and so are our schools. Think about how many of our assignments and projects rely on group work. What about class participation? Think about world language classes. Everyone wants us to interact, wants us to answer out loud, and engage with each other, even give speeches.. But that doesn’t come easily for everyone. And just because I don’t raise my hand doesn’t mean I don’t know the answer.

Introverts tend to keep their thoughts in their heads and don’t feel the need to say them out loud.

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An understanding of introverts is essential if we are to truly meet the needs of all students. According to phycologist Joseph Newman, “If we use 100% of our brain power on an assignment, extroverts use 90% of that power on a task while introverts use 75%. While it might seem like the extrovert is more focused, the introvert is using his or her remaining 25% to reflect on how the assignment is going and other possible ways to approach it.” Because of how introverts think, it often takes them longer to formulate answers to questions the teacher asks. The same thing is true with written work and creative assignments. With a different way of processing information, it can be very difficult for some teachers to assess what we know.

The world needs to do a better job of understanding introverts. Albert Einstein once said, “If you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.” But it’s not stupid, it’s just misunderstood.

Fish were not created to climb; they were created to swim, just as introverts were not created to interact the same way as extroverts. So instead of negatively judging someone who isn’t like you, consider the introvert perspective. We are different, but we are not wrong. We are quiet...and quite content.

Caroline Holland

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Sadie Benjamin Swing Days Hot summer heat blisters our faces; although it’s only June We pump back and forth on the rusty old swing set Up Down Up Down Reminisce on the intertwining of our two lives between the swings, Last bits of end-of-the-year gossip passing between us, Maybe this is my last day here, But I’ll never forget this Slow moving, Drag your feet, So, so close two years before, cold air bites my face as we pump our feet on this not-quite-new swing set our feet are still getting used to. we tip our backs downwards giggle between each other, just the five of us finding true flight as we count one two three And we jump s o a r finally, freedom i never forgot on this cold carefree high-as-you-can-go Swing Day 24

One year later, The swing is my escape from the classes that bore me to a breaking point when the bell brings me back to life.

Cursive hurts my brain! i shout, leading my friend’s complaints, a chorus against my solo. i know i will always be louder than they are. They can’t stop me, these swings will boost me higher than anyone imagined. i’ll never forget the reminder that not just swings soar on this perfect clear top-of-your-lungs Swing Day. Three years later, I remember those days When I knew nothing of the life that awaited me in the future This is so different, everything, everything, Until that one recess when a familiar scene enters my mind, A side by side comparison Almost deja vu...yet somehow not...

Second, third, fourth grade even Now that one distinct similarity shines through, As we climb on the swings and begin to pump For the first time in forever, it seems, We count down and fly, We shout, We scream, We exchange gossip back and forth And suddenly everything happens so fast In a bare twenty-minute period And I know I will never, ever, forget this.

Kick your feet, Shout your voice, Up and down, happy-like-you-don’t-care Swing Day.

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Jahstone Martin

Evan Varones The Young Boy I was a young boy.

Only 12.

Olive trees and grapevines growing.

A beautiful little town.

Lizards on the wall.

My foreign home.

From long ago.

Now I am here.

I don’t remember what it was.

This man was a young man when the boy came.

He is older now.

He has always lived here, and always will.

Once again, I came back.

Meeting my mysterious family.

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Lindsay Stone We Miss You Long lost souls Leaving motionless bodies behind Fading away slowly Leaving everything Left long ago Or Only hours You’re being remembered In small Short and simple stories In open Welcoming hearts In small or large Salty tears In the big Dark Unbelievable Universe Gone, but not completely Always here Always with us

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Sophie Uddin

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Caroline Holland Maybe I’m an Icicle Maybe I’m an icicle. A beautiful, twisted, dripping, transparent icicle. Little kids break me off, and suck on me until I am transformed into a little nub and tossed on the hard, unforgiving pavement. I break into millions of tiny shards, left to melt in the sun, only to turn into tiny water droplets, which evaporate into the clouds. Every winter I repeat this process.

Except for one winter.

This winter.

This winter I formed again hanging on the gutter of a school roof. I watched all the kids pass by. Big, small, tall, short, skinny, fat, old, and young. They walked to their classes, and through the window, I saw a kindergarten class, and all the kids inside were taking their snow boots, mittens, and hats off, talking to each other. Laughing, smiling, and chatting.

This winter I formed again hanging on the gutter of a school roof. I watched all the kids pass by. Big, small, tall, short, skinny, fat, old, and young. They walked to their classes, and through the window, I saw a kindergarten class, and all the kids inside were taking their snow boots, mittens, and hats off, talking to each other. Laughing, smiling, and chatting.

Sometimes I wish I had someone to talk to, who I could confide in, who I could trust to always listen to me. If only. They walk off to their ABC rug, to start their morning. One girl stands alone. She pouts and crosses her arms. I watch a tear roll down her rosy cheek. I want to be able to walk over there, comfort her and put a smile on her on her tiny face. I want to be able to see her pretty pink lips part, to see her cheeks show off her dimples, to see her straight, tiny, white teeth. If only.

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Later, a loud, shrill noise sounds, and all the kids line up and file out the door with their coats and hats. RECESS!! They walk outside to where I am. They marvel at all of the other icicles, then head over to one that is long, skinny, beautiful, and twisty. It is hanging off of the door handle of an unused storage facility. I am frozen, by nature, and fear. One little boy laughs and proceeds to pry the icicle off the handle until it comes disconnected, then passes it to the other kids until it slowly melts onto the snow covered pavement. The little girl who was alone earlier stands apart from the crowd of children, looking, listening, frowning. She comes over to me, and her eyes twinkle with amazement. She reaches up and. . . jumps to grab for the one right next to me. I should have known.

As the winter passes by, some icicles melt away, others get pried off by hands of curious kids. I remain where I am and slowly a new icicle forms by my side. One that looks just like me, but a little storter and stumpier.

Drip, drip, drip. The icicle on the other side of me melts away as the other grows. Over time, some shatter on the concrete, for their bases melt and their grasp loosens, loosens until they finally can’t hold on any longer.

The one next to me is a beautiful, twisted shard of ice. She is twice the size of me and my stubby, short, lumpy, unsteady being. She is beautiful. I am not. And somehow, in the cold winter breeze, more drips of cold water form between us, creating more ice. And slowly, slowly, we merge, creating one.

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Lindsay Stone Young One She holds the bags for her friends She holds their secrets Many piled up The weight heavy on her shoulders weakens her She holds her own bag dragging on the floor Eventually she’ll break

Hayden Shortsle

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Joshua Back Darkness and Light The darkness In the light Is a gap Between The universe And the world Between others And me.

The darkness is An invisible sphere That holds the unknown Hidden In the corner Of the room Full of light.

The darkness is Unnoticed There but not The light is All over the room.

People only reach for the light.

They don’t reach further Thinking it is better.

Is it better?

Or is it just easier to reach?

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Part 3: The Wind Felipe Lecheta

Zach Winicour You and Me You Come and go It will always be between You and me Not inside, outside When I hear you I feel calm What do you feel When you see me?

We have so much fun together You breeze by me, touching my hair, Forming goosebumps all over me causing my hair to walk all over me Now the question is What do I hear when I hear you?

When you blow I hear Ocean waves or Cars passing by Leaves blowing also Sounds like whooooo I will be there for you, and you will be there for me.

Even if the world ended I wouldn’t rely on you I would just feel you You make me feel like I am you

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Matthew Hahn Coming to America I can’t imagine it, What my grandparents did.

Coming to a foreign land, Planting the roots of our life in America.

My grandfather trying to speak English fluently, While the white man mocked his accent.

Bent over a pharmacy textbook late at night, Comparing Korean characters to English.

My grandmother ironing clothes at her dry cleaning store, Working hard to make a living.

A fixed camera lying in their living room, Another meal earned.

I try to imagine it, What my mom went through, Living an unconventional childhood.

Getting a $10 toy for her birthday, Because that was the only thing they could afford, Having her graduation dress sewed from cloth, Because a good one cost too much.

Eating rice with pepper paste, The only thing around.

She made her way to college, Growing the branches of our grandparents’ tree She then met my dad, Who grew the leaves of our family.

Together they worked hard to seed a good life for us, And fulfill what my grandparents started.

Thank you Mom, Dad, Halmeoni, and Hal-abeoji (grandmother and grandfather).

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Grace Satter

Hal Jenkins Rain As the raindrops fall on the roof, I hear the pitter pat on the skylight.

Suddenly, light. About 5 seconds later the boom of angels bowling.

Thunder causes my sister to cuddle up to my mom in fear. This cycle continues. Light and then a boom, light and then a boom. Then from upstairs, my dad turns on the baseball game recording. Distraction makes my sister feel safe. My brother, on the other hand, feels happy about watching the game this late at night. I still have homework, yet the rain brings me to sleep. I am awakened later at about 1AM after a huge bang.

I am still on the couch downstairs, and I can’t see anything except for the millisecond-long flashes of lightning. Fear encircles me, like an eagle circling its prey. Then the rain stops, and there is silence. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I can make out the shape of my brother, stealing a midnight snack. I tell him to go upstairs, and he goes to his room, and I go to mine.

The comfort of my bed lulls me to sleep.

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Basement

Aliza Ahmed

I watch the door as it creaks open.

I peek into the darkness.

Complete Darkness.

I descend the stairs, my fingers fumbling, For the light switch.

I stumble As the stairs come to an end.

I bump into something.

I shudder Letting my imagination take over.

Maybe it’s a slime covered monster but I catch myself and I take a minute to let my nerves calm down.

The monster turns back into a stuffed bear and I continue walking.

My arms stretch out in front of me Groping in the dark Until I find a light switch.

The dim light fills the room And everything seems normal Like there are No monsters.

I grab the vase I was looking for and make a run for it.

I see a bright light At the doorway And I push myself harder Sprinting for the doorway.

I close the door behind me Shutting out the darkness.

Shutting out whatever lurks down there.

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Hana Uddin Anxiety That keeps your toes Out of the ocean It will sink its teeth into your skin And rip you up Nobody can help you no matter How much you scream The only person you have is you Tensed muscles turn frail and You decay until you are nothing To the water or the shark Anxiety is a shark that destroyed you And doesn’t care what it did

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Sam Erulkar

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Hana Uddin

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Emerson Buettner

The Saddest Moment

I never thought about what it was like when someone you love dies. I’ve helped my friends through hard, stressful times, but for some odd reason, I never helped myself because nothing really stressful has happened to me. I never thought that a loss could change you. Either you become more grateful for your family and the things you have, or you completely just block out the world. I know I wouldn’t block out the world because that’s just COLD. Anyway, I was about nine or ten years old in fourth grade. I went through my normal school day. I thought that it was going to stay normal. Finally, I had math which is one of my favorite subjects.

I sprinted towards the class to get there first. I remember Mrs. Bowler, a.k.a my math teacher, telling us the day before that it was going to be the Math Olympiad.

Finally, at least something exciting. I got to class and started to set up my materials which took up about five minutes. I really wanted to start. We went over the rules even though I already knew them. Finally, we started. After about halfway through, my teacher started walking over to me. My mind started racing with questions.

“Did I do something wrong?” “I wasn’t talking! What did I do?” She got to my table and told me the worst news I could get. “Your mom is here; your grandma… she’s dying.” So she told me to collect my materials and meet my mom outside. I swiftly grabbed my bag and walked out of the room. When I walked out, the first thing I saw was my mom and sister bawling like they just got kicked in the stomach.

My mom told me that before headed to Ohio, we had to pick up our cousins in Chicago. That meant more people full of despair.

We left school, and I just felt like this was all just one big joke. I mean, it was completely out of the blue when it happened, and had to happen when something fun was going on. Anyway, finally, we picked up our cousins and started our sixhour drive. I looked out my window, and I saw green grass and cows grazing. I saw the beautifully white windmills and blue sky. When we were driving, we did all sorts of activities to pass the time like watching a movie, or playing a game like I Spy, or one where you have to find each letter in the alphabet at the beginning of a word.

These diversions helped me forget why we were driving which helped with the pain. I could taste the sweetness of my gum and hear the birds chirp as we drove with the sound of a rumbling car engine working hard to help us get to Ohio fast.

Finally, we arrived at grandma’s house at nine o’clock, but it was too late. She was already gone. I walked slowly inside. The first thing I heard inside was again, crying. So I started, too. I felt as if I had been sucked into a black hole, alone and mournful. We stayed for six days. Six bitter, lonely days. The most depressing part was when we had to go to her funeral. I saw her for the first time. She was like a marshmallow. She was pale and had a bunch of makeup on, and for some reason, she had a little smirk on her face. I could hear cries as I felt the smooth wooden casket holding my loving grandma. I could smell the sweet smell of fresh perfume and roses that were around her. At that moment I felt extremely depressed and 41 heartbroken.

Finally, it was time to leave. I didn’t want to go because I wanted to stay with my grandpa to help him cheer up and remember the good times, but still, I had to go.

As we left, I had one more long hug. As I hopped in the car I heard last minute “I will see you soon” or “I will miss you.” That meant another six-hour drive, but I knew it was going to be different. It was sad and full of sorrow. After six wistful hours, finally, we arrived back at my house. Everything seemed dark. It was probably because we turned all the lights off before we left, but it felt like a reflection of what had just happened.

After that experience, I realized I should be more grateful for what I have and appreciate the people I love. My grandma cheered me up when I was sad. She cheered for me during soccer games. She appreciated me, which made me feel like I didn’t appreciate her enough, which haunts me. Now I appreciate my loved ones, especially my two grandpas and one grandma. I will never forget her and all she did for me, and how special she was. I realized that, as the song says, you only need the light when it’s burning low, only need the sun when it starts to snow, but not to let her go.

Aliza Ahmed

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John Nikitas The Wave A rough wave of shock hit me as I stood on the soft, gray carpet of the basement. No, I gasped, you said she was doing better. Another, bigger wave which I knew would take longer to wash over me was looming in the distance. I tried to paddle away, to flush my feelings down a toilet, but the wave hit. Sadness washed over me, as hard as a boulder. Until happiness, that tiny boat, was submerged beneath the waves with no chance of coming up.

She couldn’t. I collapsed onto the smooth brown couch. Clear rivers of salt streamed down my face. I wanted to sink into the couch, fall into the soft, cool embrace of the cushions and disappear. To live among the dust and finally vanish from existence altogether.

Slowly, my dad rose from the couch like a wounded animal and trudged away, his head bowed. I crumpled to the floor like a discarded puppet. My limbs splayed at odd angles. I didn’t care. I wanted to fall into sleep. To drop away from the world and let the darkness take me away.

When you get swept off a boat by an enormous wave, you have to swim.

You have to float to the surface. To get a grasp of air. Or else you’ll sink, and ultimately drown. You have to swim to survive. And that’s what I had to do. I pulled my weak body up from the embrace of the soft carpet. I stumbled up the basement stairs and started to swim.

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Vilius Indriliunas

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Eli Zuerlein Dreams, Light, A Gateway It is a game of battleship A second to react Scared, uncertain Screams trigger our brains like a switch It’s the moment after we think A sudden explosion of thoughts Screams are like dreams Horrifying, relieving, exciting The bird enlarged gradually and became a giant Its feathers soft and fragile Its beak ready to swallow me like a worm Dreams, light, a gateway The path to more An animation of your fears, a second of nothing Screams are waves, crash, fizz Creating the moment A fuse sizzles If on the inside it sticks It shows weakness Screams are a light switch The reaction is instantaneous Even the old worn lights, Flicker, buzz, and finally, come ON.

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Sydney Frusher Filip Jezewski Evalyn Lee Izzy Smith Jason Yan “Modern Thinker�

In 1880, Auguste Rodin sculpted The Thinker. The sculpture depicts a human bent over in a thinking pose. Our sculpture, The Modern Thinker, is in a similar pose but has modern aspects added to it: the phone in the hands of the figure, and the figure sitting on a toilet. It depicts how our society thinks, or thinks wastefully. Back in the 19th century, thinking was done in solitude; in the 21st century, thinking has taken another form. People spend hours (which seem like minutes) on their phones, losing their thoughts and feelings to the screen.

The countless hours on the phone take place daily and have become part of society’s lifestyle, similar to the way in which we use the toilet.

The daily routines of the phone and toilet are unavoidable; humans have become dependent on their phones.

How are you thinking?

What are you thinking?

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Sara Kaplan ABC Electronics Eating Me A world with no pain Breaking me inside Cracking my spirit Driving inside where it lives Falling over a cliff, the dark Ground at the bottom rushes up Hiding in the darkness Isolating me with rocks Jagged to the core Kicking me until I Laugh apart Monsters climb with No permission into my soul and crawl Out taking my expression Practice juggling screams Quitting is the only hope but you still Ride higher Trusting only what you have left of the Urge to shame Vacuuming me across the sky, the wild Wide range of piercing Xylophones screech in Your ears Zapping the screen with rage

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Oncoming Waves

Eleanor Larsen

Staring at my mom, the sun is blazing into my eyes with what feels the all the light in the world. The straps of my bright blue bikini are digging into my freshly burnt skin. I am covered in sand, my clumsy feet incapable of leading me in a straight line with the waves pulsing at my feet. The fluorescent, nearly clear water receeds at my stomach right at my elbows which are held above my head to wave to my mom who is lounging in the sand on the white towel borrowed from the hotel. The finely ground sand settles at my feet, covering them in a silky-smooth dusting. The waters were unoccupied on the wavy, hot, sweltering day. My back is to the oncoming waves. They come less frequently now but I do not notice. Then, a wave twice the size of me engulfs me in the salty waters, so calm just a few moments ago, but now I am being forced underwater. The current spins me just under the surface. My back drags onto the once silky sand leaving tiny scrapes on my arms and legs like tiny daggers. The salt water rushes into my mouth leaving me incapable of breathing. Undisturbed by the chaos unfolding around me, floating, allowing the wave to toss and turn me like a ragdoll, I do not mind the saltwater filling my mouth, or the stinging scratches covering my legs, or the sand finding its way into my hair that will probably take ages to get out. Just floating. Pushing my head above the surface rubbing the saltwater out of my irritated pink eyes. I am moved quite a bit down the shore by the never-ending tug of the current.

Standing there watching my mom scan the now calm waters with a worried expression on her face, she looks for a mess of fluorescent glowing hair and sunburnt skin. I wave as I start to make my way back to the shore and weave my way around the seaweed scattering the sandy mass of land.

Rosie Meyer

Nate Wehner The Jacket My owner has failed me. I remember the boy who owned me before. seventh grade, an only child, bullied, had a hard time in school, but he respected me. He wore me like I didn’t cost ten dollars. He made me goodlooking. We had each other. He also had cancer. And I lost him. I was cleared out with the rest of the clothes. We cried, knowing we would not be the same without him. Sent to a thrift shop.

I remember when I was first put on a hanger. It laughed at me, telling me I was ugly. The people at the shop didn’t have the soft fingers of the boy before, or the calm manner, the gentle touch. I was slammed onto the cold metal bar, and sat there for days.

After what seemed like a lifetime I was picked up. A middle age woman walked with me to the counter. When we arrived at her old battered home, we walked out of her noisy, broken down, chipped 1997 Toyota Camry as it stared at us. She walked in through the creaking door and neatly laid me on a hard bed in the far room. “She seems very nice,” I thought to myself.

Later that day I sat there waiting on the sad, crying bed when a teenage boy walked into the room. He looked at me, smirked, and started laughing.

He yelled back at his mother, “This is my new jacket? This old thing? This discolored, gross, worn out jacket?” That was the day I knew I wasn’t going to fit in. This 6th-grade kid never gave me a chance. Never let me try to help him. He made me ugly. He made me get made fun of. He made me fail. And that is why the exact same thing happened to him.

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Esti Rosenblatt

Lies

Samantha Rogers

A clean countertop Bags and jars Baby chickens’ sounds Filling the air.

A black bowl Swallowing all that goes in Leaving drips and stains.

You promised you would do this for them.

You promised.

The traditional chicken Replaced with the innards of a goose.

Sweet things Replaced with salt.

Flowers are stolen Weeds left in their place.

Smooth silk turns to sandpaper.

Now set a light To burn.

Hours and hours And finally You have a cake.

Of lies.

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Hayden Shortsle Why Did They Create the Bullet?

Why did they create the bullet?

Were they a part of me?

Are they from the fields that lie beyond us?

Who pulled the trigger?

Could they stop murdering, destroying, shooting?

What are they?

They have no brain, just instinct.

They arrived and stayed, warmed by your hospitality.

Deep inside you, a small place echoes.

They come from a land that everybody detests.

Although in it there is beauty.

From the depths of every living thing they rise.

No one is to blame, but question yourself.

Grace Satter Battleheart Hope is the fresh white, snow After the battle It covers the blood-soaked field We count our dead Glad it wasn’t us Letting the snowflakes find Their place among the lost And when the pure, drifting snow Leaves a cold blanket To protect the dead That’s when we ride For the horizon Leaving hope far behind

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Part 4: The Storm Aaron Fei

Stewart Growdon Sleep Words don’t make sense Anymore, as reality falls apart

Reid Primo

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Esti Rosenblatt

A Sleep That Means Death Sleep in some languages is Death, completely uncalled for, it’s a bad ending that absorbs you, covers you in its silky, suffocating blanket.

Feel welcomed. It gives you a friend that stabs you in the back later.

Sleep is Death, the Death at the end of a river, you are dragged along by the slow deepening Yangtze current.

The tree-covered mountains ripple above the smoky water Sinking into the dark blue Water’s hands from a barrier between your bluing skin and the air that you know-the air that is safe.

No one can throw an inflated ring to help you stay afloat and no one can dive in to rescue you.

The magenta petals of respect and honor float above. You won’t be alone for long.

Death is a sleep of warm snow, cold sun.

A sleep when birth makes you cry and death makes you laugh.

Prophecies say, “white hair has to send black hair first.”

Sleep lies to you. Its water traps, and burns.

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Kaiden Britton

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Anna Satter Monsters Disguised Silent screams shatter my mind My eyes have seen the fields of hell My heart throbs with every breath I take I have been marked like an animal What more could god give me in this broken world Flocks of souls tour concentration camps Families walk in showers of gas Nazis guns point to our heads Tears fall as bodies tumble to the ground I have felt feelings I will never find words for My eyes watch burning bodies I see the wounds The tired feet, the twisted minds We aren’t human Just monsters disguised as men

Vilius Indriliunas Tattooed Numbers The words burn into my skin Alter my identity Their gleaming guns try to make me forget but They never will.

Others comfort me, like a shield against a sword Only, the shield can’t hold everything and so it breaks

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Asher Bremen 3-7-8-2-5 Even today those numbers are not understood.

It could be said today we are farther apart than ever.

3-7-8-2-5 Those numbers represent the greatest mistake of humanity Temples burning Crumbling down Smoke rising from the ashes Firefighters standing to the side People falling Nazis above Beating them with their bare fists Strike after strike Shouts of pain ringing through the air Bullets flying through the air Striking their targets 3-7-8-2-5 Numbers burning through the skin Walking behind the wire fences Few ever came out Their faces lined with horrors that come alive at night 3-7-8-2-5 And thousands more‌

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Ava Trandel The End of the Book: A Holocaust Story Everything happens for a reason At least that’s what they say.

But how would it feel, How did it feel, Wondering if you’ll live another day.

While I’m standing here Complaining about not enough sleep Or of the heat While you, You are being forced out of your home You are being marched to your death Your toes are frostbitten and blue.

Now I can see The shoes you took on your journey.

Your shoes are here.

Hundreds of tourists glide past the eerie display Everyday, inches away from them, and me, In an air conditioned museum With thin glass separating us from each other.

And these shoes, That tear apart every inch of my heat and scatter the remains out to be stomped on, These shoes have their own stories too.

Now I, See myself walking in your shoes Walking through your agony and melancholy In your miniature shoes.

I walk off a wooden train car Out of the stale air Into the air of despair.

You walk Into a cage Made of rusty barbed wire and an uneven dirt floor The stench of hopelessness pollutes the air.

Time becomes still for you.

And by the time it has been three weeks You have no family left.

You have no friends.

Now, you have no hope left.

This is where the pages have been violently ripped out of your book This is where your story ends.

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Caroline Keil I’m Going to Survive My family and I at home We hear “All Jews report to town” We go My mother, father, sister, and I All of us are packed into cattle cars I was against a part with a hole So I had space For the four night journey Everyone else was squished more I was lucky We get to a camp Called Auschwitz When we arrive at the front gate it says Arbeit macht Frei “Work makes you free” I am sent to the right with my Father My Mother and sister were sent to the left I wondered where they were going I felt nervous and scared I never saw them again I became depressed I knew what was coming But my Dad and I still remained My stomach growls I work It growls again The SS guard mustn’t hear I breathe We get up for dinner The same old Watery soup and stale bread It helps But I am still starving I must survive I work as hard as I can My body is weak Skin and bone Describes my appearance 60

I must not go too slow Or the Nazis will beat me Or even shoot me I work harder I must survive The Nazis grabbed my father He was taken beside me He wasn’t working hard enough My palms started sweating He was killed on the spot Beaten and then shot Tears fill my eyes I am the only one left I must survive No friends and no family I am by myself All alone I can trust no one Nobody I cannot reveal my identity I am no one I must stay hidden because I am invisible I must survive The gas chambers I heard about them I worked as hard as I could Because I am not going to be one of those Killed in the chambers I must survive A march To the next concentration camp It was cold I had no shoes, no coat, and no hair I was freezing I thought I would die We had no shelter for sleeping This march went on for two long weeks I must survive At the new camp I am now prisoner B-3087 No identity No personality 61

No heritage We are all the same At least that’s what the Nazis think That tattoo is my identity My family gone My friends gone My identity gone The pain was excruciating But I will survive And I will make a new life The end has come The Americans have freed us But the looks on their faces scared me I haven’t looked at myself in the mirror for three years I am probably like a skeleton I am going to survive

Evalyn Lee

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Redding Worth Footsteps, A Holocaust Poem I stroll along the empty halls With an unburdened mind, Perfectly spaced words line the walls.

My mind becomes clouded once I see Photos stacked in black and white, Once so vibrant and now faint.

I look closer and see longing eyes, A girl that could be me, She lies unnamed.

A breeze shakes me right to the core, Crimson redness is stale and forgotten, Vibrancy becomes dusty and dreary.

Numbers are ripped from the skin of the holy, An outline of bones cut from within, Brains overtaken by the red sign, Wounds lie on the skin but lurk inside.

Shoes to shelter feet lie limp, Ripped and charred from days of agony, Laces woven like the families, Tight with faith and hope, After the soldiers came They broke apart like a holy challah.

Some shoes that do not fit me, A few that slip onto my skin.

It could be me, It was her, Her flag was broken, Our flag has justice, We may never understand a perfect union, Our strength should be used to hold the limp, We need to cry for those who couldn’t.

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Matthew Hahn

Never Again

Christian Chan

I don’t know why I have to convince people that we need to do something to stop the gun violence epidemic. Recently, it was the 20-year anniversary of the Columbine shooting. I attended the March for Our Lives protests, and as a supporter of the gun control movement, I am here to tell you a story, the story of an organization representing good hunters and responsible gun owners turned against its own core values by corporate greed. The story of brave students who sparked a political movement in their anger and grief. The story of politicians ignoring the people and of so many victims and senseless deaths that we, as a nation, have just become numb to it. I am going to tell you the story of gun violence.

Gun violence happens to be a uniquely American issue. We are the only developed nation that constitutionally protects guns. When one person in 2001 fails a shoe bombing, ONE PERSON!, TSA agents respond, “Take off your shoes, Sir. We need to check what’s in your shoe. TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES!” But we’ve ignored more than 80 mass shootings in America.

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A mass shooting is defined as an event where four people die of related gunshot wounds.

And still, 96 people die of gun violence daily in the U.S. And still, you’re 25.2 times more likely to die of gun related homicide. Still feeling patriotic? Consider: Firearm - related suicides are eight times more likely. Overall death rates from guns in the U.S. are ten times higher than other developed nations. And we’ve done nothing.The last gun control law, Brady Background Checks, was enacted in 1993. And there have been 80 mass shootings since. But before I explain why, I need to talk about the legislation being pushed by gun control activists.

We’re not going to take away all guns. The second amendment makes it impossible to do so.

We’re really just pushing for simple things like; 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

Universal background checks, a lifesaving measure that would require a background check for every gun sale, and prevent mass shooters from getting guns. 63% of mass shooters buy guns legally.

Mandating safe storage practices Extreme risk protection orders. This allows people to start petitions to temporarily take a gun away from someone who is a risk or who is experiencing a personal crisis Banning assault - style weapons. If you need an AR-15 to kill an animal, let me just say, you are a really bad hunter.

Or even, just banning domestic abusers from owning guns in the first place. Wow, revolutionary!

Raising purchase age for guns to 21. U.S. gun legislation only requires you to be 21 to buy a handgun, but sets no restrictions on long guns, which include rifles and shotguns.

Illinois is the only state that requires a person to be 21 to buy long guns. In fact, in 31 states, there is no age limit to buy these guns, making it (in theory) completely legal for a baby to own an AR-15.

Wait, I think I figured out how to prevent gun violence. Wow. Is it really as simple as that?

Support for these proposals on both sides is strong. A recent poll showed 93% of Americans (including 89% Republicans) support universal background checks on all gun sales. We have everything we need to create change: angry students. So why hasn’t anything been done yet?

The most significant roadblock is the NRA. The NRA started in 1871 as an organization to represent hunters and marksmen advocating RESPONSIBLE GUN OWNERSHIP. They actually used to support most of the gun legislation in the U.S. They stayed that way until the 70s, when crime took over the U.S. Seeing this opportunity to profit, gun manufacturers took over the NRA. The NRA became a gun lobby, blocking and repealing restrictions that ironically, they had advocated decades ago. The NRA lobbies our politicians to prevent the politicians from passing legislation. The NRA paid our politicians $20 million last year.

We all know the list too well: Columbine, Virginia Tech, Sandy Hook, Pulse Nightclub, Las Vegas, Parkland, it goes on… and if it seems infinite, that’s because it continues to grow.

And it won’t stop, unless we do something. So please…. If I haven’t made myself clear, my right to life is more important than your right to a gun. So I would like to leave you with a question: What matters more to you; the lives of innocent children, or your gun?

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Mary Lee The Korean War Memorial I sluggishly step off the air-conditioned bus and instantly feel the grim sun hitting my face. I plod forward as puny beads of sweat already start to trickle down my face. I feel worn out and start to fall behind the group. Then I see the 19 life-sized steel statues separated by strips of granite staring at me from every direction, their legs covered with vibrant green bushes. The statues wear ponchos that cover their weapons and look s if they’re slightly flowing from the wind. The soldiers are depicted moving through the forest and continuously watching for the enemy. I look closer and see my own reflection and the reflection of the statues behind me.

The Korean War Memorial commemorates the sacrifices American veterans have made. It’s hard to imagine the harsh conditions those veterans were put through, --the feeling of death everywhere, the suffering, the loss of loved ones and the mass destruction. They had to constantly live in fear and never let their guard down. Death was always creeping around their corners. Also, veterans return from war wounded, but not just physically. Memories of the war haunt them every day for the rest of their lives, like ghosts. Imagine watching a scary movie, and you are on the edge of your seat the whole time. But, that’s how you live for the rest of your life, constantly scared. War is not something these veterans can just forget or something they can just walk away from. These wartime experiences take tolls on these soldiers’ lives long after they fight in war.

It’s hard for me to imagine what this truly feels like, because to me, war seems like such a distant idea that won’t affect me. Thinking about this made me reflect on how lucky I am to live here in the USA. It made me think about all the privileges I have just because I was born here. I don’t have to live in fear of not knowing if I’m going to live tomorrow. I always feel protected and safe, but the Korean War still has ongoing effects in Korea. Some Koreans live in fear of their fate. There’s still a possibility of more fighting, death and destruction to their homes. The privileges Americans are born with and take for granted such as freedom and safety are not free there.

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Jack Wyne The Wall As the bus pulled up along the blank curve, we all cautiously stepped off, unsure of what we would find. We went through the entrance and stopped at a statue. It looked at us with longing eyes as our guide, Mr. Garrison, spoke. I watched others weep around me. We were silent.

He said with a reverent voice, “When you go in to that jungle, you sell your soul to the god of war.”

I thought of my great uncle and grandpa, and the sheer hell and absolute terror they must have experienced. I didn’t even know the half of it.

We were ushered downward to a wall. The long black wall stared into my soul with the thousands of men who had sacrificed themselves.

I couldn’t help but think what this war had done, the thousands of names of the men who would never come home. The names of those who would not get to play with their kids or reunite with their spouses, the names of those men lined this wall.

Nobody spoke. It seemed as if we were all silenced by an unseen force. I couldn’t help but notice the sadness in Mr. Garrison’s face. He stopped at a part of the wall and looked deep into the names.

The carefully made granite slabs are inscribed with such sharp and clear detail that can be seen from a few meters back. As we left, I looked back at the memorial, back at the wall, and for a moment I could have sworn that something looked back at me. I am still unsure, but that one vivid reminder was that wall. Just staring, just watching.

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Evalyn Lee Surrendering Your Soul We stand huddling together, softly lit under a street lamp. The humid night air circulates around us causing our noses to shine. Mr. Garrison, our tour guide, shares his experience about fighting in the Vietnam War. When Mr. Garrison pauses, the silence seems to amplify the sounds of the cicadas buzzing around us.

Mr. Garrison says in a grave voice, “You can’t be who your parents raised you to be, you have to surrender your soul to the war.” I look around at our group, noticing our bright and shining eyes in the dark, while Mr. Garrison’s eyes seem heavy and tired. He shows, through his worn-out eyes, that it is difficult to find your soul after the war, and many veterans never do.

As we walk along the dark wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the rows and rows and rows of engraved names blur past me. A friend pulls me into a hug as we walk together. A thought shoots into my mind that the soldiers in war might have had to carry other soldiers, who are their friends, or who were their friends. The friends of these soldiers have names, the names that blur past me. As I stare at the wall I catch my reflection. I realize that the soldiers in the war didn’t worry about who their roommates were going to be, if they looked good in that Instagram photo, or the annoying heat. Their main concern was whether they were going to make it out alive. I was wasting my soul to pointless worries, while soldiers had to surrender their soul and survive.

I am thankful that the constant thought of death and survival does not haunt my mind. I have the privilege of being able to own my soul and not have violence and war steal that away from me. I greatly respect the soldiers who surrendered and sacrificed their souls for our country.

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Cedar Connell Dreams Are Drugs of Bliss Sometimes I view life as a shipwreck waiting to be discovered. His yacht lying on the ocean floor after I blew it up. You just have to go looking in the right places and you just might find some treasure or gold. When I lie in bed at night, trying to fall asleep, I feel as though nothing could daunt me on my journey. I remember as I drove down to the docks where he was on his boat. As I scour the sea, I dream about what my catch might be tonight. And as I idly let thought after thought crash over me like the waves of the ocean, overlapping, I delve deeper into my concerns, my happinesses, and my problems. Only my problems, they seep into my endless dream world. The ocean turns to blood. I know this blood; I have seen it before. Every thought I think about leads to the next, like exploring whole planets in mere seconds. I think back to the ship. The voyage he and I made. And as I drift off to sleep I contemplate all the parts of the sea I have not yet explored. I remember his face when I blew his head off. But when I go searching, I might find more buried treasure, waiting for me at the bottom of the waters. I have to reassure myself over and over that it was just a simple job...

My eyes open. It had been another fitful night of tossing and turning. I hadn’t slept at all. It had been four nights since his death. That man’s blood was on my hands.

Now look where it landed me. It was just a simple job...Estranged from sleep, a clean conscience, and heaven.

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Avery Flood Hushed Cries

A screech ripped through the midnight air, the sound of tires tearing across the pavement to an abrupt halt. He woke soon after that, slightly curious, but suspicious of what the sound was. He grabbed aimlessly at the bedside table, trying pathetically to find his glasses. Once he grasped the black-rimmed, round glasses, he slipped them on and headed into the rest of the house, going to the kitchen to get a better view. He sat down cautiously, glaring outside, seeing nothing but that ominous grey car. He stayed there for a moment or two more, glancing down at his hand. There was a scar there, and for some reason in the moment it was burning. Not physically. It felt as if it was looking up at him almost. In hatred.

His eyes widened when he got a glance of the contents of the car.

No one was driving, or was even seen around it. He stood from his seat, and taking his time he pulled on a perfectly knit, blood red sweater and black jeans.

His eyes, steely grey and piercingly bright, noticed movement in the vehicle as he approached. A low snarl came from inside of the car, making him stop dead in his tracks. An uneasy feeling washed through him, and he shivered. This feeling was unsettling and he was not used to it. He had always been sheltered, but now, it was different. It reminded him how helpless he had felt when he had done something he had regretted. And had had no reason to.

Another rumbling growl came, after another, after another. He kept moving towards sounds, curious and terrified. It was as if he could not force himself to stop. The rising feeling of fear made him anxious as his hand reached out for the door handle. It was cold, freezing, but tempting. When he tried to yank it open, it wouldn’t budge, but the insistent growling grew. His scar stared up at him still, upset. He put his hands on his hips, staring at the handle curiously. Do I open it? What is it? Another couple of tries later, it finally opened, almost hitting him in the face.

A low grumble came from the back of the car. Just as he opened it, he saw a shadow flash in front of him. It wasn’t just any shadow, it looked like a human shadow. He backed up, having a compelling urge to run. Sprint far away. He turned, starting to race away, but he was caught by the back of his sweater. Without even having to turn around, he screamed and yelled in terror. He tried to tear away, the claws sinking further into his shoulder. A sharp, terrible pain struck through him.

When he finally trudged into his house once again, he went into the bathroom. He tried to sigh, but noticed his lips couldn’t part. When he looked into the mirror, he saw an awful sight. His lips had been sewn shut with a metal wire.

The blood dripped down his chin and onto the white, tiled floor. He tried to shriek, but only a strangled murmur escaped. The bite scar mockingly teased him from his hand.

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When he awoke from his dream, he breathed in slowly, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. He scrambled from his warm sheets, going into the bathroom to wash his face. When he splashed the water up onto it and glanced at his reflection, it was still there. He slapped his hand over his mouth, horrified. His body froze, blood cold. He recognized the hand over his mouth. The same hand that he had pressed over his mouth helplessly when he watched his best friend perish. Those strangled murmurs. The same sounds he had made when he watched his friend getting hit by that train. He still felt that intense, agonizing bite into his hand.

Those wires, the bruises, the swelling, even the blood dripping out. He tried to yell, ask for help, anything, but no one heard. They never would again.

Sabrina Borstein

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Part 5: Sun Julie Jiang

Sari Cheung The Carnival In one second it’s my turn.

As I O H P Into the middle seat, My heart starts pounding fast, As the ride starts moving, I grip the handle hard.

My knuckles white as snow, My palms warm as a toast.

Yipee!

I feel as I go P U And then…

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

I...

D R O P To the pepper hot ground.

My heart pumps And pumps, And pumps, And it pumps faster and faster Every single second!

My heartbeat will STOP any second…

When I get off of the ride, I am happy as a pig in muck!

I wait under the hot sun For my second turn to arrive.

When I see the others get off, I want to sprint to the start of the line!!

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Summer Jaster

Sara Kaplan and Eleanor Larsen I Am a Kite Grounded to the earth Wind lifts me My tail flaps, flamboyant behind me Ants watch me from below as I dive And soar far above their heads Vibrant, high above by those below Flowing fabric in the wind I am a kite

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Matteo Shinn Waffles

Waffles I feel like they’re made of Serenity and happiness I love waffles.

WE ALL LOVE WAFFLES! Eggos are awesome, especially for dinner My brother pulls the box of Eggos Straight from the freezer And throws them in the toaster Then we wait…

The smell of dough, chocolate, and the syrup that I will Spread around the waffle is amazing.

The satisfying feeling of relaxation When you take a bite Time slows down Once you swallow You feel like you’re in Heaven.

Ashton Peterson

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Rafa Kelliher THE GOAL The crowd grows louder As I tear down the field Past the defense As I soar towards the goal The fear washes over me What if I miss?

Suddenly the goal is near It’s only me and the goalie left The other players are way behind me Trying to catch up Time is running out I shoot My foot slices The ball The shot Soars Higher And Higher Everything freezes Time seems to come back As it soars above the keeper’s white gloves It seems as though A million people are screaming As I sprint back To my friends As I meet the cheering crowd My spirits are lifted by their joy and I feel like a hero

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Nick Hawkins

Sabrina Borstein

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Milk Chocolate

Jack Gordon

When I step past the concession stand My feet say Thump Thump Thump They hit the gray concrete Like a baseball colliding with a freshly made Louisville Slugger CRACK! I see the chocolate Sitting patiently on the shelf Wrapped nicely in a brown wrapper that says HERSHEY I want it so bad My stomach is grumbling just by the look of it I might be willing to die for it I ask my mom anxiously My mom says, “NO!” “Why?” I ask “NO!” And I know not to fight back.

I imagine The chocolate melting in my mouth I’m so desperate My mouth waters I ask one more time My mom sighs, a loud breath It goes through her teeth and out her mouth I wait an eternity Finally, she says Y E S I am jumping, ecstatically My mom sprints over to the concession stand Like she’s going to miss a train She slips a 5 under the window The man gives her 3 oness, a penny, and a chocolate bar Which she hands to me I peel back the wrapper I break each square off the chocolate bar I inhale the soothing chocolate

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Linley Flectcher

Hiccups

Hiccups: a spasm with the characteristic of a cough As in: the thing I get at least once a week As in: my ARCH ENEMY Stopping me in almost every sentence.

The sound is vile.

They are annoying, little brats who want to be a part of everything They drive me INSANE! If hiccups were a person…

She would say the one word “like” all the time If they were a book…

It would be a dictionary with one word on every page.

If they were a food…

It would have that annoying aftertaste every time you bite into it.

Hiccups are like a Twizzler: They go from good to rubbery and tasting like chemicals.

How do you get rid of hiccups?

Will someone find a way to dispose of these annoying houseguests?

PLEASE!!!!

Suhani Sharma

Lindsay Stone

Elizabeth Grace Dear Elizabeth Dear Elizabeth, Hey, It’s me... your mom’s tired and dirty car. Listen, I know your family is busy and you have a dog, but really, this is getting out of hand. EVERY DAY your mom drives me to the Open Lands to walk your dog, and by the time they get back, your dog is covered in mud and has an awful smell. Then she jumps into my trunk to roll all over me and to shed like crazy! Imagine little hairs itching you EVERY SECOND of EVERY DAY. It’s torture. Last week, your little brother threw his ABC gum onto my mats! How disgusting is that?! Oh, and then, our mom spilled coffee on my seat and left the window open last night when it rained. See what I mean!? I smell like a wet, smelly dog with a hint of coffee and old banana peels. THAT is what you call embarrassing. I am so jealous of your dad’s car, the blue BMW. He gets all the meetings and fancy events when I get road trips, sports practices, and drives to school. I don’t even think your dog has touched that car! Now, THAT is very frustrating, if you know what I mean!

PLEASE, tell your mom to care a little bit more and maybe… (just maybe) take me to the car wash or go get me detailed. It’s the equivalent of you and your mom going to get a manicure after a day of peeling tape off of the floor. I’m as sickening as a banana peel that has been sitting in a drawer for six years!

Your nauseating friend, The Grey Chevy Tahoe 81

Parker Pollack Baseball Baseball.

The greatest sport in the world.

As soon as I step on my home field, I feel great, Energetic, And refreshed.

You might think baseball is just a game, But it’s not. Baseball is America’s pastime!

Baseball is as American as Apple pie!

Baseball is not just a sport!

Baseball is teamwork.

What makes baseball great is not the players, Or the coaches, It is how the team works together, How they root for each other, How they keep everyone positive.

Teamwork is the most important thing in life.

Baseball is food.

When I go by a ballpark, I smell that sweet smell of popcorn and hotdogs I think of only one thing.

That thing is baseball.

The split second decision of the umpire, The amazing play at the plate, The steal of second, Nothing catches the human eye like baseball.

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Brooke Mordini

83

Spencer Gilcrest Mr. Pencil Oh no Another day of school I despise being…

Chewed, dropped, sharpened, snapped, and thrown.

To be honest it’s just annoying!

And don’t even get me started with...

Essays.

Essays are the definition of terrible.

Nonstop writing and blazing across the paper for hours I never even get a break.

Well, that’s beside the fact.

See, The kids who use me do NOT care the tiniest bit Grimy hands constantly shove me into the sharpener until I’m as small As a french fry.

And they shave me down to the point that I’m as thin As a noodle Scratching my side along the table.

At this point I think they truly do want to hurt me.

These careless children just don’t get it.

Rarely am I glad.

This fantastic feeling only occurs when I am used by freshly washed hands Or When there is a short answer test.

I guess I just want you to know that I feel it when you Chew Drop Sharpen Snap and Throw me.

Hopefully I got all this information through to you because I’m Out of lead.

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Nick Lubaev Footballer Accomplishment is scoring the game-winning goal Being flooded by fans and teammates And being able to lift a trophy so high it grazes the heavens Happiness is the bus ride home Clutching the gleaming gold As the team celebrates the victory Tiredness is when you get home And lay on your cotton bed Wishing to go out and have fun Even though your body won’t let you Accomplishment returns the next couple of years As you add to your collection With new silverware Embarrassment is when you come to practice Late in the wrong jersey Your teammates laughing And your coach disappointed Disappointment is hitting the post on a penalty That would send you to your 5th straight champions’ league Confusion is when you get injured And can’t find a reason why you did Pain is when you’re lying in the hospital Unable to move Crying Excitement is the day when you get back on the field Feeling accomplishment when you keep winning and winning And setting records never imagined Sorrow is when you realize age can’t keep up And you have to hang up your cleats For the final time.

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Jason Yan

86

Posey Connell Dancing I have danced since the age of 3, I have always loved dance, tried my hardest and danced until my legs felt like they would fall out from under me Like an avalanche of rocks.

I remember wearing my fluffy pink tutu and running, skipping, and galloping around our brownstone Pretending I was a professional dancer.

When I get a dance move right it feels like I’ve just won 10 million dollars from the lottery, and when I’m done I feel sweaty and tired As if I had just run a mile, but also happy and content with myself.

It’s just nice to sit back and relax when I am Finished dancing I rest my tired hard working bones.

When I’m done my soul feels complete and whole like a donut that had just been filled with jelly.

When I dance all my worries and problems fly away like birds scattering from a tree.

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Part 6: Branching Out Sam Hempen

Rosie Meyer Photo Album I open An old dusty Leather Book I open a World In black and white My favorite photo Holds a young man In the driver’s seat of an ambulance With a Smile On his tired But peaceful Face The faded print On the side of the Vehicle The rolling hills in the background I see The black And white road He saw Ahead We see People Needing comfort And support Along their Road To happiness

90

Saturday Strolls

Sophie Uddin

Saturday strolls.

Walks.

Races with my cousins.

Laughter at my great grandma’s jokes.

Why did the cookie go to the doctor?

Because he was feeling crummy!

They walk into my mind frequently as if to keep the memory of her with me always.

But I was foolish.

My Saturday mornings went from walks and strolls with family, to Youtube, Overwatch, and texting.

Sometimes I sit and wonder: Would it have made a difference if I had spent more time with her?

People you love slowly drift away Before you know it.

In a heartbeat.

Before you go play on your MacBook, IPhoneX, or XBox. Go talk to your relatives.

There will be more pain after if you don’t waste your life away playing useless video games.

I always tell my mom, “I have enough time!”

But how much time, is enough time?

Implant these words in your head.

It might be too late for some of us, but it might not be for you.

Go talk to your mom.

Play catch with your dad.

Laugh with your friends.

But most importantly, Love your family.

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Asher Bremen

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Sadie Benjamin So Small It seems so small now, Doors to possibility In neat red rows, Passing those people Learning things new, now old.

It was so big.

It seems so small now, That first excitement, Fading over years past, Fading more over years to come.

It was so real.

It seems so small now, That knowing, That innocence.

Their innocence, Too small.

It was so important.

Now it’s small, But it’ll be big again in a few years Then I’ll feel it again, That first excitement and possibility But the next year it’ll be the same as it is now.

Of course it’ll be the same.

It always leaves.

93

Collin Pfeifle

Kate Satter Red Wagon A five year-old, I sat in my red wagon.

The orange drink in the built-in plastic cup holder.

My older sister, Elise, across from me Her eyes radiant in the sunlight.

Cornelia, my nanny pulled us along as Birds chirped and trees swayed about. The day was beautiful.

A few years later

Standing in the dog run, Covered in dust and spider webs, The dull red wagon sits Its color drained, The plastic cup holder filled with leaves, Closing my eyes I see the orange drink and my sister And Cornelia is there I memorize her features and, Let go.

94

Lucy Partington

Carla Accogli Salt Crystals shimmer An old brown shoe becomes light The water escapes from eyelets, flows From salt diamonds, gems De Beers work of art his dream.

How can a dead sea assemble?

Slowly emerging a maple wood cello an eight-year-old’s birthday letter a pink picture frame The dead water devours the old And brings it yet again to life

95

Sara Kaplan

Julie Jiang

Burning the old year by I got older More mature I started to understand the things that I could not understand before.

I know “homesick” I know what it’s like living away from my parents.

I know “self-regulation” I know I need to do everything by myself, I need to live in a world where no-one can hear the sadness inside me, I need to get over the loneliness.

No-one can hear inside my heart, “sadness” “fear” “loneliness” Hides in my heart These words rot in my heart.

As I pretend to smile all the time, The third person in a friendship, I am tired of changing myself all the time.

“Bleeding” “Broken” I am going to throw all these words away I will burn these words, Burn the old year.

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Posey Connell

Kelly Wyne The Cast of History Kelly I stare into the case of our family’s history At long lost teapots of ancient history, Envisioning my great- grandmother for the first time Staring further into history, teapots, brass braziers, Currency of all varieties My Great- Grandmother’s persistence As she uncovers the history of the world Digging up another Atlantis one at a time until history is in her favor

Mom Keeping memories alive I stare into my grandmother’s passion and her life’s hard work Uncovering those who have yet to be found Passing down her memory, to those who shall keep her spirit alive Through the pottery that built her life up from the ground As she dwells, around those who love and cherish her, and her memory She will always be in our memories and our hearts until life itself is limited

Collin Pfeifle Maybe i’m nothing Maybe i’m a vast piece of blank paper, Maybe i’m a snowscape,

Endless and unbroken by trees, Maybe i’m a leaf drifting through the wind, Surrounded by hundreds of others,

who are all the same, maybe i’m just one of, The billions of snowflakes.

Maybe i’m just a key,

On a hundred thousand keyboards, Maybe i’m just a fish, Swimming through an endless glistening ocean, Maybe i’m just a cloud, In a massive blue sky,

Maybe i’m one, Of the thousands of buildings, Maybe i’m just a star, In the pitch black of space, Slowly watching everyone, go out, Knowing that one day, I will go out too,

And so will everyone I know, And that is why, You have to leave an impact, On every day,

And leave your footprint on the long dirt path, Of life, And maybe, Just maybe, We all will be something.

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Noa Paige Bremen

99

Teddy Berghammer Nine-Word Poem When you know the world is Infinite It’s yours.

Namita Aluvila

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