2013-2014 Calliope

2013-2014 P

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CALLIOPE Faith

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ARIANAPOLIS

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Calliope is an annual visual arts and literary journal presenting creative writing, poetry, two dimensional, and three dimensional works of art created by students over the course of the 2013-2014 academic year. A special thank you to Robin Cassella, Brian Jacobson, Dylan-Ernst Schäfer, Kellie Ryan, Jane Hanrahan, Susan Andersen, and Karen Tata.

Kaitie Panagiotou ’14

CALLIOPE

The Visual Arts and Literary Journal of Marianapolis Preparatory School Thompson, Connecticut 2013-2014

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EDITORS Sarah Cavar Yidi Chen

ASSOCIATE EDITORS Erin Miller Chance Jackson Meghan Lauzé Megan Johnston Sarah Mitchell Lorraine Smith Julianne Holby Michaela Young Daren Wang Bennet Sage Zizheng Wu Caitlin Cryan

Cover Design Zizheng Wu

Faculty Advisor Caitlin Sundby

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Joel Cheney ’16 (right)

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Why I Write Kayla Kibbe ’15

anecdote – I gained very little from the experience, particularly with regard to my literary ambitions.

When I was very young – I

significance of this story is that it is

believe about three, no older than four

perhaps the earliest indication of two

– the dishwasher in my home broke.

traits that would go on to play a crucial

In keeping with the usual paradigm of

role in my identity as a writer:

middle class households, my parents

1. My reactions to the world

then purchased a new one, and I spent

around me are intensely

the entirety of the day of its installation

emotional.

in tears.

2. I possess an acute and

While I did begin writing around

arguably unhealthy

this time, it was in no way a result of the

aversion to change.

expulsion of my childhood dishwasher.

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The sole

My earliest scribbles had nothing to do

In short, my writing is emotionally

with failing kitchen appliances. They

driven. When I write, I seek to both

were – inconsequentially – typically

define

stories I invented involving characters

Perhaps as a consequence of being

I created out of my toys and stuffed

only sixteen years old, or perhaps as a

animals. I did not rush to my pen and

consequence of being an “emotionally

compose an elegy mourning the death

driven” person, I have often been

of the dishwasher, nor do I plan to at

made to feel that my emotions and

any point in my linguistic future. In

experiences are not valid. I find myself

reality – aside from a mildly humorous

driven to my pen in an attempt to prove

and

justify

my

emotions.

both myself as well as the world wrong.

strives to capture an aspect of human

If I can capture an emotion – however

existence in words they do just that:

seemingly frivolous – in words, then

they steal a small part of the world and

I can bring it into tangible existence.

rework it into something they can claim

The world may mock adolescent tears,

as their own.

but if they flow instead onto a page in bold black ink then they exist. They are irrevocable. They are valid.

I am no exception.

As an

emotionally driven being, I have an intense tendency toward sentimentality

The word “capture,” as applied

and nostalgia. Though I have matured

to writing, is one I first encountered in

beyond mourning the loss of home

Dodie Smith’s 1948 novel I Capture the

appliances, my aversion to change

Castle. In this novel, the protagonist

remains intact. I have a strong, pressing

attempts to detail, or “capture” the

desire to hold on to people, places,

world around her in writing. I have

events, and above all, emotions. As

always identified with this employment

a writer, I strive to fight against time.

of the term, particularly the aspect of

When I write, I have the opportunity to

stealth it implies. Writing is, in many

capture in words what are otherwise only

ways, a somewhat stealthy ordeal. It is

fleeting instances of human existence.

unnatural. The majority of people do

With my pen, I defy the laws of time

not feel a pressing need to detail their

and can seize an emotion that would

experiences, their feelings, and their

otherwise not be mine to keep. Words

observations. Writers do. Writers take

create reality. A memory will grow old

an experience, a view, a feeling, and

and in time will fade and then cease to

turn it into words. Each time a writer

exist. But ink staining through a page 5

is irrevocable. It exists. A goodbye is

I have no consideration for the reader.

not a death sentence if I can capture it in

I possess the same selfish desire to be

words and hold the heartbreak between

heard that all writers are accused of. In

the pages of a book.

writing I seek to validate my ideas, not

The development of my identity

as a writer began early in life, declaring itself my passion by the time I reached ten years of age. I am driven to my pen in both a literal as well as figurative sense.

I find that I even delight in

penning words that are not my own.

The sides of my school notebooks

the eyes of others. When I put pen to paper I often find myself imagining a future reader, and am driven by the idea that someday someone will see what I am writing and understand how I felt in a way that the world does not otherwise permit me to express.

are crammed with quotes and song

lyrics. The mere movement of pen on

a devastating fear that I cannot write.

paper has become an addiction for me.

That I have no gift for it and will never

Through writing, even words that are

make a success of it. I have no evidence

not my own, I strive to find my place in

that this fear is in any way unfounded.

reality. When I write, I can take what

It may be more valid than any emotion I

feels the most real to me – emotions

have ever put to paper. However, even

– and turn it into something that has a

if I knew this fear to be completely

valid standing in tangible reality.

valid and inevitable, I would still

While I do believe that my

writing is primarily emotionally and personally based, I no longer argue that 6

solely for my own purpose, but also in

Sometimes I am possessed by

write, simply because I would have no other way of legitimizing the ensuing emotion.

Yidi Chen ’15 (right)

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Brian Barrette ’14

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Timothy Saucier ’16

Timothy Saucier ’16

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Why I Write Kayla Casavant ’14

her third grade teacher’s face when she did her book report on Little Women.

I write to emancipate myself.

She was thoroughly and completely

I am trapped in this dreary and

content with this little life she had

predictable life. I do the same thing

created for herself. It was how she

every day. I am limited. I am limited

escaped trivial little kid problems. She

by my parents, my teachers, my

would make up all these silly little

coaches, and my peers. Most of all, I

scenarios and stories in her head. Then,

am limited by myself. Brick by brick,

she would put them into action. Some

the walls build up. The higher they get,

days, the cream cheese ceiling in her

the more resigned I become. However,

room was the beautifully hand painted

each letter of the written word acts

roof of a cathedral. Other days, the steel

like a mini stick of dynamite. Writing

blue carpet was the African Sahara.

gives me the power to be my own hero.

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books, and can still recall the look on

In the way that everybody does,

There was once a naïve girl.

she grew up. She learned the hard

When she was a very young, she

way that not all children spend their

existed quite happily in her own little

weekends in endless orchards or in her

world. She was sure that every person

favorite fictional escape, Narnia. Other

was good. Pinky promises were binding

children didn’t seem to appreciate her

agreements. She didn’t see anything

goofy and unrealistic stories, and she

wrong with her wild imagination.

was told that she needed to leave them

The trees were her friends. The birds

behind. As her problems grew, her

answered her little girl shrieks in words

dream world shrunk. The trees were

she could understand. She devoured

just trees. The carpet was just carpet.

It was in fifth grade that she first

better. However, those boy and girls

discovered writing. She wrote a pathetic

had robbed her of her ability to speak.

little poem about why she wanted to be

She was too terrified to tell any of these

a bird. However, this moment was key.

new people about herself. She couldn’t

She smiled her first real smile since that

tell them how much she cared for, and

horrible year began. Through writing,

eventually, loved them. She could write

she learned that she could save herself.

it. She could write about the horrible pain

Years of tears and bullies followed.

she suffered. She could pen down what

Writing was a constant. They could

others’ words did to her, so she could

tell her how fat she was, or how odd

figure it out herself. She wrote about

she was. They could strip her of any

being afraid. She wrote about being

confidence she ever had. However, they

horribly sad, and also about the newly

could not take away her pen.

In the

found good in her life. Corny poems

confines of her bedroom she escaped,

about friendship surfaced, as did poems

even if it was for only a little while.

about love she had never experienced.

Once she reached high school,

She wrote to sort out the

there was so much more to escape from,

kaleidoscope of feelings in her head.

but she had almost completely stopped

She wrote to strip herself naked and

writing. Boys talked about how ugly

to really look. This mighty tool rebuilt

she was, and girls stabbed her in the

her. Writing made her strong. Writing

back. Friends came and left, taking

allowed her to be who she was. By

a little piece of her with them. She

the time she reached senior year,

was so completely lost and confused.

almost twenty completed journals were

In a very dark time, she made some

stacked beside her bed. They were

new friends, and things got a little bit

filled with both poetry and prose. They 11

spoke of teenage angst and true love.

field. I believe the field has potential to

While she had long ago left behind

be beautiful and full of life. However

fairies and enchanted woods, she had

for days, weeks, and sometimes months,

discovered a new means of escape.

at a time, dark clouds fill the sky. With

I write because it allows me

to break down the mess I make in my head. Writing allows me to make sense of things that clog my thoughts.

Writing has given me confidence. It makes me feel valuable. While I am not particularly talented in my sculpting of the English language, maybe I can make somebody, somewhere feel something.

I want to make other people laugh, smile, cry, and know that they are not alone. I want other people to know who I am in my simplest terms. My words do not have a skin color or body shape.

My words allow the world to perceive me, as I want it to perceive me. I am whoever I want to be; free from the restrictions others place upon me.

I write for the sunlight. I have

always imagined that my mind is this 12

little to no reprieve, it storms. Doctors and therapists constantly throw around names like depression and anxiety. The names don’t matter all that much to me, because sitting on a stiff couch every Thursday afternoon does not break up the clouds. “Talking about it” doesn’t work either. Writing does.

Fifteen

minutes jotting down frivolous phrases in my poetry journal, or making a quick diary entry is sometimes the only sunlight I receive all day. There are many weeks where these brief moments of joy and passion are the only way I make it to the weekends. If I had not discovered writing, or rather writing had not presented itself to me; the clouds would have completely won a long time ago. Writing has given me the courage to not give up, the will to save myself.

Jiaxin Zhang ’15

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Gabriela Larrea Peralta ’16

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Robert Ahearn ’14

Mist rolls in off the ocean and it looks for all the world like the city is drowning sky scrapers tread water and houses are lost to the swell.

I watch from my fourteenth floor window as shadow-men desperately cling to telegraph poles,

City-Sea

seaweed trees swaying

Sara Spiker ’16

amid calmness of city-sea depth.

Gone are poets composing odes to nobody they’d ever met.

Gone are artists who dismantle our memories, to create something new.

Gone the explorers who sacrifice present in search of the future.

Gone the preachers who promise that all will be past come tomorrow.

Everything’s still in the water, time stops even as we move on, with echoing silence that envelopes chaos and I couldn’t have planned it better.

Mist rolls in off the water and it looks for all the world like the city is drowning sky scrapers tread water and houses are lost to the waves.

But they won’t be lost forever.

Time will render them precious still, the mundane become treasures; sacred spaces washed clean, left waiting for mist to recede.

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Katie Villa ’16

Robert Ahearn ’14

John Littley ’17 17

known that my sister had a big mouth when she was younger, not literally, but Why I Write

figuratively. As the older sister she felt it

Kaitie Panagiotou ’14

her job to fill any time where I could be talking with her own, more intriguing,

The saying goes, “even a blind

dialogue. She talked my aunt’s ear off

squirrel finds a nut once in a while.”

the entire meal. Maybe she felt she was

It was when I was going through

fulfilling her duty as the older sibling?

adolescence, blinded by the sea of

Who knows. I love my sister and now

opportunity in the world of books, that

in hindsight feel I owe her all the fruits

I discovered my “nut” in the form of an

of my labor. Even when we didn’t

author. Nicholas Sparks threw himself

completely understand each other, we

upon me with the passion he portrayed

taught each other. She taught me to be

in each and every novel. It was through

bold, yet listen well. As an infinitely

this emotional journey that I developed

small piece of the world population, I

a love for all books that fall into the

have to talk in order to be heard. Though

romance category. Cheesy some would

still quiet in person, writing allows me

say, but so became my personal writing

to be loud. Writing gives me a voice to

style. I write things I would enjoy

express my opinions, style, and self.

reading. I write to read and read to write.

What I do with this voice is up to me, so

watch out, “you’re gonna hear me roar.”

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I can remember the time my

Auntie Mel took my sister and me

Namely in morality, I have

out to lunch after a day of shopping.

always found motives to be the most

At the time we were both under the

annoying of concepts. I struggle to

age of fifteen and had yet to develop

accept the fact that I can never truly

the sixth sense of emotional telepathy

know the motives of another person,

that all sisters possess. First, it must be

unless I can find a way into their

cerebral cortex. The only thing that

learn a new pun, it has the most comical

saves me from this frightening fact is

effect. When the man paying at the

an immensely comforting one. Nobody

register offered to put in his two cents

can ever know my motives better than I

to help stifle the problem, the nature

do. That is, until I share them with you.

of the pun was nearly as impressive as

I write to be an artist. If painting

seeing a Jeep turning on a dime without

is an expression of one’s visions, then

flipping over. Plays on words amaze me,

writing is that of one’s thoughts and

for they show the potential for creativity

dreams. A blank page is exactly like

that the English language presents. I

an unpainted canvas, full of immense

could tell a cook that I want lettuce,

opportunity. Never have I ever shown

turnips, and beets in my salad or tell my

signs of being capable of creating the

friend as we are cruising to the radio,

next Mona Lisa or photographing the

“lettuce turnip the beet.” Versatility,

next cover photo of TIME magazine.

when taken advantage of can make

Yet, whenever I write I learn more

even a garden gnome seem interesting.

about my artistic abilities. I learn how

This is why I love puns, metaphors,

to use commas better and get a sense

and similes. They make writing more

for when I should provoke uproar by

fun to read. In life, they bring zest

using a semi-colon. I learn that flowery

and laughter to conversation. These

sentences do not always contribute

literary tools help me find my goofy

well to the growth of a story and that

side as a writer. I am a firm believer in

sometimes, abrupt endings are called for.

the power of laughter and a smile, thus

my admiration for the work of puns.

I write for the pun of it all.

Quite frankly, I love puns. Extravagant

I write to live. To live fully,

metaphors and similes are great too,

people must be completely happy with

but a juicy pun to season the mind will

themselves. In order for this to be true,

always take the cake. The first time you

the person must find pride in something.

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I find pride in writing. I find pride in

mouse in the corner. The transformation

the fact that nobody can be better at

became unbelievable. I remember the

portraying my ideas and style than I

times I would sit in the driver’s seat,

can. If nobody else can justly portray

running to grab tools for my personal

my thoughts, I would be a failure to

mechanic, a.k.a. my Dad. Blasting the

myself if I did not. I love reading a

country music made me appreciate

self-published sentence and feeling

the opportunity at hand and dream of

good about it. I love being a nerd and

the day that I would actually drive the

telling my friends about a paragraph

car for the first time. I remember the

that to me, seems to be ingenious. Pride

time that this time came. Words do not

is a funny thing. It goes beyond the

give the emotions justice. The Jeep is

happiness one feels about something to

now a physical reminder of the plot

the euphoria one feels about something

of my summer. Writing such stories

great. Constant exposure to pride makes

down makes them almost as concrete

the emotion harder to find, not because

as the asphalt the Jeep trolls over.

it expires, but because it transforms into

Had I not written this essay,

confidence and a vicious motivation to

I still may not know the true reasons

achieve more things to be proud of.

to why I write. That is the power of

Memories come and go in our

writing. As I speak, laugh, express, feel

mind, but can be made permanent

pride, and reminisce I discover more

if documented through writing. I

and more about myself as a person and

remember seeing the 1987 Jeep for the

a writer. I learn about my likes, dislikes,

first time. It looked unsalvageable and in

and pet peeves. I discover that I love

desperate need of a bath ten times over.

the sound of the word doppelganger,

I remember vacuuming out the interior

but sometimes hate the pronunciation

for the first time and finding the dead

of my last name. Opportunities to

learn are absolutely everywhere; we

a particular millisecond in time. My

just have to find them. When you take

aim here is not to impose my beliefs

advantage of their being, no question on the greater paradox of writing or will be left without a response. to show how I use my ego to enhance Maybe we write for a purpose,

my effectiveness. My goal is to learn.

to prove or teach something uniquely My goal is to learn about you and thought up. But maybe, just maybe, me, to see if your incentives and writing is much simpler than that. We expectations match my own. Thus, I write to write, to express whatever end not with a quote, but a question. is circulating throughout our mind at

Why do you write?

Jae Cho ’15

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Beauty Unknown

Sofia Ulibarri Karras ’14

Mr. Ray Cross Serendipity has a way of showing us that there is more to ourselves than we can imagine.

Procrastination and avoidance have the potential to keep us from greatness, so exploring our existence and questioning what we perceive to be normalcy is necessity.

Concession is a powerful tool used to keep divine design from allowing us to intently mirror our individual blueprint.

Psychological warfare waged between me, myself and I screeches to a halt with one accidental occurrence.

Though never planned, circumstances and opportunity are always welcome.

Timing is everything and this impeccable chronology encourages questioning whether or not error can be used to explain such felicity.

Invited indiscretion is such a beautiful surprise.

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Benjamin Adase ’17

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24 Yidi Chen ’15

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Simone Fournier ’17

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News Poem Emily Sheridan ’17 Newtown,

The children all huddled as one,

My town,

To give themselves strength

Your town,

To face the unthinkable

Any town.

On a normal mid-December morning.

Parents waking their young, Quick breakfasts and clothing changes Hasty kisses and waves goodbye, On a normal mid-December morning.

Across town a monster has arisen, While his mom has gone to sleep forever

Teachers giving their lives To save their students From the monster Pop, pop, bang, bang.

Everyone gave it their all To be brave and together A massacre has occurred On a normal mid-December morning.

His mind is severely damaged His weapons are loaded and ready.

Ring, ring, ring, ring The bells have rung

Newtown, My town, Your town, Any town.

The day has begun On a normal mid-December morning.

Pop, pop, bang, bang Screams, glass-breaking, doors banging Intercom blaring “Lockdown�

People running.

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Timothy Saucier ’16

Alessandra Caparso ’17 28

Paloma Namur Garza ’16

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door, I am overcome by a sense of

The Unrelenting Optimist

warmth. The wood stove is burning to

Rachel Roach ’15

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my left and the comforting smell of the

“I swear if one more person asks

burning wood fills my lungs. I am at

me about college I am going to lose it. I

once greeted by Daisy, the lovable three

know I am not going to get into the one

legged yellow lab. She licks me until I

I want, so why bother getting my hopes

relent, get down on her level, and pet

up?” As I complain angrily, I mount

her for a few minutes. I don’t call out

the stone steps up to my best friend

to Libby; I know where to find her. As I

Libby’s house. I stop for a moment to

make my way through the orange living

pet a little orange kitty on her porch. I

room, I pass two brown leather couches

assume it is from a barn cat’s litter. Ever

with just enough wear to know they

since I can remember, the front porch

are appreciated. The walls are slightly

has been home to numerous outdoor

slanted, a trait typical of a house that

cats and their adorable kittens.

The

has the age and character of this one.

porch is weatherworn, complete with

On one of the walls to my right, a huge

a set of well-loved rocking chairs. As

assortment of suns and moons line the

I stop to pick up the kitty with a little

wall. The floor is brick, but I am always

brown spot on his back, the wind blows

astonished to find it is never cold; it is

and I am overwhelmed with the sound

just as warm and welcoming as carpet.

of numerous sun and moon-styled wind

As I walk through the living room I take

chimes. I almost laugh at the comforting

a small step up to the kitchen. I stop to

sound, but I immediately remember how

get myself a glass of water and stand in

upset I am and quickly enter the house.

the kitchen observing my surroundings.

I don’t knock; I simply walk right

The kitchen is beautiful. It

in. Knocking is asking for permission to

recently has been redone and has honey

enter and I know I’m always welcome.

oak cabinets and new appliances. It was

Immediately upon opening the screen

lovingly remodeled by Rick, Libby’s

door and pushing in the heavy main

dad, for her mother when she was sick

with cancer. Yet the kitchen has always

amazing people I have ever met.

been beautiful, back when its cabinets

She is one of the blessed, filled with

were painted bright yellow and it had

unreasonable amounts of optimism.

an old white farmer’s sink. The kitchen

The kind of people you read about in

has always been my favorite. There is a

books and immediately dismiss as

feeling I get when I am in this room that

being impossible. The strength she

is unmatched. My favorite memories

possesses is greater than any imperial

have happened in this room, sitting

army or the mightiest of kings. It is

at a small wooden table with my best

strength that cannot be measured by

friend drinking cups of hot chocolate

the physical exertion of power; it is

and making plans for whatever scheme

beyond that. Regardless of how many

we had come up with that day. Libby’s

insurmountable obstacles are placed in

mom, Alicia, was always there to

her way, she never forgets to smile. I am

make us warm drinks in unique mugs

one of the lucky ones. I wholeheartedly

that I had given her years earlier. The

believe meeting her is a privilege God

feeling in this room can only eloquently

bestowed on my underserving life.

be described as the way you feel on

Alicia is the epitome of every positive

Christmas. If these walls could talk,

quality I could ever strive to emulate.

they would never stop; they would recount every lovely memory that has played out in this kitchen. I am startled

by Alicia as she walks in the kitchen from her room. I am so lost in my daydream that I jump at her greeting.

I immediately give her a hug and yet again I am not disappointed. She gives the kind of hugs that make everything a heck of a lot less troublesome.

Alicia is one of the most

It is not a feeling I identify when I first walk into the house, but I find the deeper I walk into it the more it is able to captivate me. The house is beautiful, old and well-loved. Inside it is warm and cozy. Yet no dĂŠcor can make a house feel cozy, no amount of paint, furniture, or carpet can make you feel at home. It is the people. The reason the house is wonderful is because it was the scene for many of my favorite memories.

31

Alicia makes the house inviting, every

we would like a cup of tea. We all get

smile and warm welcome add to the

a cup of tea: fruit tea for Libby, green

love of the house. The unrelenting

tea for Alicia, and regular with milk

optimism she has towards life despite

and sugar for me. We sit at the table

every obstacle she has overcome is what

with mugs in hand and laugh about the

makes the house warm. There have

days since we have seen each other.

been times during her treatment when I

The desire to emulate Alicia didn’t

visit, expecting the house to be gloomy.

come all at once, but slowly over many

Yet, every single time I am proven

cups of tea. I have found her to be

wrong and anyone else going through

the strongest, happiest person I know.

what she has would resign. Alicia, she

All at once I remember the issue I

laughs it off, makes a joke and pours

was mulling over when I arrived, the

Libby and I another cup of tea. What

problem I had come straight to Libby’s

a wonderful state of mind she has.

house to discuss. Now bringing it up

As I sit at the small wooden table in the kitchen, Libby comes down from her bedroom and Alicia asks us if

32

seemed trivial and I knew it would work out and if it didn’t what was there to do? I guess the answer is to smile, make a joke, and drink a cup of tea.

Crane earrings by Marina Kawasaki ’16

Sarah Mitchell ’17

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Shealyn Biron ’15 34

Jasmine Brouillard ’14

Lydia Tourtellotte ’16

35

Joel Cheney ’16

36

big heavy book is mentioned of men in The P.E.R.P Anna Maria Graham ’15 “Like the snow, they melt” - Unknown.

UTTER RUBBISH! I tell you. The audacity of it all. IGNORAMUS! All of you. Thinking you know of my life, my so-called primitive culture in which I supposedly use herbal necessities to clear the mind. If that’s not enough, have a man; the result of history in his

shackles. I knew not of certain “ ‘isms” before I came here yet still they suggest the indescribable dream of a lifetime. In a world where it is not a big deal to have a Chinese mother and a black father is brought to a place where suddenly it all matters. WHY DOES IT MATTER? WHY

IS

IT

SO

RELEVANT?

ISN’T THE PERSON RELEVANT? THE LISTEN

BACKGROUND TO

NOT!

YOURSELVES,

the

times framed by lines of what he feels collection of stunning reflection of the is knowledge but what I feel is utter light trying to seek the attention of ignorance define my home as simply those who don’t seek attention from sun and sand. Day by day, epitomizes

you. Boy with red Nikes suddenly

stupid irrelevant questions that I still becomes the topic of interest. LOOK AT am unsure how to answer. I BESEECH YOURSELVES really! How dare you YOU ...to seek clarity in a nation other

claim to be my friend because you can’t

than your own, a culture very different find your crew in the hall of cliques and from your own. Standing amongst complexes. The fallacies of your world familiar but not similar faces of different so petty to me, I’ve seen bigger crimes orientation, where I am the center and

committed right in front of me. Silliness

people look to me when a word in a

is GOOD, silliness is GREAT! But the 37

inability to know and speak on matter not Do not undermine yourself because you involving your environs is simply sad. do not look like everyone that walks past SO NOW I SAY TO YOU. Embrace your individuality. Let it speak to you. You are YOU. You are gorgeous, beautiful in every way. You are amazing, truly amazing. Every curve, every extra, every last strand on your head. Remember that.

You are pretty, everything, anything you want to be. Anything you wish to be. And

you everyday. You are YOU. For I, I once looked at myself and wondered if I was beautiful but then I realized I AM ME and YOU ARE YOU. So even though my mind cannot capacitate the way of thinking…

FIND YOUR HEART AND YOUR COMPANIONSHIP AND BE YOU BECAUSE “Like the snow, they melt.”

as I say to myself, take it as your own.

Ke Xin ’14 38

Simone Fournier ’17

Jasmine Brouillard ’14

39

40

Jiaxin Zhang ’15

Lucas Jones ’14

Zachary Roethel ’14

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Shannon Madden ’14

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Nan Zhou ’16

I’ve Been Framed Caitlin Cryan ’15

The bright florescent lights

when I’m looking through my camera.

seem to grow brighter overhead as the

Quickly something snaps me out

sun begins to fade out the window. The

of my fantasy. I open my eyes as three

large open room is quiet except for their

figures walk through the glass door and

mechanical hum. I look around and a

into the white room. A tall man dressed

smile quickly spreads across my face. I

handsomely in a suit approaches me. My

am surrounded by many diverse stories

husband kisses me on the cheek, gives

that all blend into one. The white walls

me a smile and says, “Are you ready for

are strategically decorated with various

this? You’ll do great. I’m so proud of

sized frames that are filled with my

you.” I don’t even have time to answer

hard work. To me this work really isn’t

him before two children come barreling

that hard, it doesn’t even feel like work.

towards me and wrap their entire bodies

I stand in the middle of the room

around my legs. “Mommy! Mommy!

by myself, probably over dressed in my

You made really pretty pictures,” the

red cocktail dress; heels that are way

little girl, wearing the pink dress I had

too high for me, and perfectly matched

laid out for her earlier, screams. I laugh

accessories. In the few minutes I have

and lift her up in my arms. My husband

to myself, I let myself slip into a

bends to pick up the slightly older

daydream. I’m holding my life in my

boy, as he chimes in excitedly, “Ya

hands. I click the button. I hear the

mommy, I really like that one of me!”

rhythmic open and close of the shutter.

We all chuckle at that remark, “and the

The sound is so natural to me, but still

bird one. It has really pretty colors.”

manages to excite me every time. I take

My perfect little family walks around

my eye off the viewfinder, and look

exploring the spacious room, looking

to see a perfectly focused landscape

at my alluring prints adoring the walls.

illuminate on the little screen. The world

has always been more intriguing to me

It is opening time, and I turn around

Just then the door hinges squeak.

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to see people begin to file in. “Here

are so well received by the public.

we go,” I nervously mutter under my

breath. The vast room quickly fills with

on the wall, too?” My little boy

people, more people than I had ever

questions

dreamed of. They all had come to see

up at me with his big brown eyes.

me, to see what I had created. I smile to

myself at this thought. I begin to notice

almost hard to answer, “No, sweetie.

little red dots seeming to materialize

Those red dots mean that Mommy’s

out of nowhere. I walk through a

pictures were sold.” I can’t help but

crowd of people, passing a multitude of

beam at him, “A lot of people bought my

simple black frames, all with little red

artwork, and it’s going to be hung across

stickers next to them. Within an hour,

the city.” I think to myself for a moment,

nearly every frame was joined by a red

“maybe even across the country.”

dot. I am filled with emotion, and am simply over joyed that my photographs

Ben Mandile ’15

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“Mommy can I put stickers excitedly,

as

he

looks

His pleading face makes it

Xiaohua Li ’16

45

26 Letters

I hang onto Sundays because my mind wanders

Isn’t it odd that

Into his.

“I love you” and

I wonder what he feels

“Goodbye”

And if he wants to be there,

Are made up of

And if I’m the only one who thinks

The same alphabet?

About his smile.

Writers Are

But, then

Writers are

On Easter Sunday,

Colors

His smile is no longer sad

that don’t have names yet

And he says “thank you” like he means it

And feet

When I utter, “Peace be with you.”

that are too big for a 8 1/2

The next time I sit in our pew,

but too small for a 9.

I don’t stare at blonde hair.

They are that weird feeling

I stare at a pine box

you get at night between

As his mother struggles to breathe

sadness and hope

And his father lays his head in his arms.

that you can’t quite place.

When I leave,

They live in the milliseconds you

I put my hand to the casket

close your eyes

And whisper, “Peace be with you.”

when you blink.

And maybe for the first time,

And they dare to believe in

I actually mean it.

Santa Claus.

After

Peace Be With You

And I love the way the world looks

There is a boy

When it has just rained

Who sits in front of me at church

The sun hesitantly peaks out

With blonde hair.

And the wet pavement glistens

When he turns around to shake my hand,

Just like your lips

I can see his sad smile.

And while the screaming is still ringing in my ears

Each week I stare at the back of his head.

And the tears are barely dry

Each week his smile grows sadder.

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I think that is when I love you the most Kayla Casavant ’14

Jiaxin Zhang ’15

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Caitlin Cryan ’15

49

Yidi Chen ’15

50

Megan Johnston ’14

Why I Write

My

deadline

for

self

found

the greatest elation in crayons and

Meghan Lauzé ’15 The

younger

construction paper. I quickly discovered this

that I was not the next Picasso, so I

composition looms two midnights from

resorted to scribbling the next best

now. I’ve toiled over this question

option I could conceive of at the time:

for more hours than I care to admit;

words. My script veered sloppily

every answer I ponder seems strange

across the page, but I hardly minded the

in my mind and only looks worse on

mess. I found it beautiful. For me, it

paper. Staring blankly at my third

was love at first sentence. My interest

failed draft, it finally dawns on me that

soon stemmed into an obsession.

I must stop trying to give the correct

wrote during every second that I could

answer. High school has ruined me as a

spare; I must have murdered hundreds

writer. I have become a slave to the A+;

of trees between the ages of four and

I have shoved aside the unadulterated

fourteen. As a toddler, I scrawled

creativity of my childhood in favor of

tidbits about the fairies that lived in my

the impersonality that English I and II

mother’s garden; as a pigtailed fifth-

demand. I’ve lost my voice in the past

grader, I penned crude love notes to boys

few years, and as I pore over bland

whose names I’ve all but forgotten. My

essays from months past, I realize that

parents swelled with joy that their little

I’ve lost my purpose as well. Why do

girl wrote in her spare time. Of course

I write, besides just for the grades? I

they encouraged my work, and of

have no idea. I simply must.

course I happily complied. My vivid

I

imagination compelled me to write 51

more, to delve further into my naïve

weary mind. Pouring my heart out to

paradise of preadolescence and to lose

a blank sheet of paper has become an

myself in a story that I promised would

instinct. I cannot deny the honesty of the

have a happy ending. I wrote for the

words that claw at my throat. I would

same reasons that I romped through

speak them, but noise overwhelms; I

playgrounds and played hide-and-seek

prefer to allow the silent prowess of

with my friends. It was innocent, it

words to roar for me. And roar they

was fun, and it exhilarated my juvenile

must. I’ve learned the hard way that

spirit. Childhood equated to freedom,

if my words do not resonate on paper,

something I absolutely took for granted

then they will continue to torment my

at the time. Never would I have guessed

mind instead. Writing purges me of

that the coming years would sap the joy

emotions; I cannot stop until my paper

and the carefree abandon out of my

is saturated with passion that once

writing. Alas, I have swapped crayon

occupied my heart. My bleeding is the

scribbles for Times New Roman font,

rawest form of myself that I can give

and a heavy heart accompanies my

to my work, and if I did not give my

yearning for the past.

entirety to my writing, then there would

I suppose I no longer write. I

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be no sense for me to pick up a pen.

bleed. The sorrows of the world tear

This essay is now due tomorrow

me apart, and words seep from my

at 10:25 AM sharp, and I still have no

wounds. They gush and they trickle,

idea why I write. I don’t aim to please

yet they seldom coagulate until they

others or even myself. I have no wise

have stained crisp white papers with

words or experiences to share with the

onyx and sapped the vigor from my

world. Even the essays I’ve written

for English classes past have lacked

The cursor on my screen ticks

much more purpose than to obtain an

impatiently, beckoning for me to hustle

A. Despite this, I am still in love with

and scribe a masterpiece. My head

writing. Words are just as much a part

throbs. Of course I struggled with

of me as my skin or teeth or heart, and

this essay, for I initially believed that

paper is the listening ear I can find in

without the “right” answer, my work

no other friend. Maybe there is no

would go to waste. But my words took

definite reason why I write. Perhaps

the reins once again, and now I see a

I only do so because breaking my

Word document laden with the truth,

own heart and watching the pieces

my blood, and everything I have to

transfigure into prose has become just

offer. Tranquility is slowly beginning

as much of a necessity as eating and

to seep into my mind, and that means

breathing have; I believe I would wither

I am one step closer to submitting this

to nothing if I ceased to write. Writing

piece and sharing the contents of my

is a journey, and the final destination

heart. Of course my words will never

is still light-years away from where I

be perfect, but imperfections can harbor

stand now. Maybe somewhere along

some of the greatest beauty. Tonight I

my travels, I will realize the reason

have been honest, and I have reached

why I write or if such a notion even

into the depths of my heart to dig for my

exists. But there are many other

answer. Perhaps this is not the “right”

discoveries to be made beforehand,

answer, but it is the right answer for

and besides, half the fun of traveling

me. Why do I write? I have no idea. I

transpires from the unexpected detours

simply must.

and adventures along the way.

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Camile Harvanek ’16 54

Danielle Tata ’14

Zizheng Wu ’14

55

Colette Guarnieri ’15

Don’t look for me now I am always there for you When you need me most Joshua Eilerman ’16

Scarf by Hannah Listerud ’16

56

Bennet Sage ’16

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Elizabeth Lippke ’15

Zizheng Wu ’14 58

Wear Yourself Well

that much gusto feel depressed?

Julia Ford ’15

1.) The outside says so much about the inside. It says something about where

I am going to share something

you have been but more importantly

with you today that I believe, I believe it

where you want to go! It gives an

with my whole heart and soul; I believe

average Joe a snapshot of who you

it to the very core of my being. As a

are but always leaves them wanting

dear friend of mine, Sophie Kinsella

more. Does this sound to you like a

once said these poignant words,

“I

depressed person? The kind of person

love new clothes. If everyone could just

that can be heavy-hearted and blue?

wear new clothes everyday, I reckon

2.) Your outfit is your first impression.

depression wouldn’t exist anymore.”

It is like the wrapping paper on the gift

Think about it- you wake up,

that is you. Is it newspaper that was

hop out of the shower, you slip into a

crumpled up and thrown away? Or is

Lilly Pulitzer floral shift dress, a pair

it shiny gift-wrapping that is topped

of Tory Burch signature ballet flats, a

with an elegant bow? Before a person

Kate Spade clutch purse, and a Tiffany

can see what is inside they inspect the

heart toggle necklace or you put on a

exterior as a forecast of what’s to come.

crisp cotton white Ralph Lauren shirt

3.) You brand yourself with your attire.

and a pair of beige gabardine trousers

How do you want to be perceived? Would

and top it off with a wool tweed Brooks

you like to be perceived as a slouchy,

Brothers blazer. You open that front

unkempt slacker? Or a buttoned-

door and take that first step out and

up, chic, sophisticated trendsetter.

you are ready to take on the world.

4.) Self-esteem is directly proportional

Every person who sees you would like

to the caliber of the outfit. Why is it

to meet you or be you. They want to

that when we have on our Sunday best

know what you are thinking or where

and we open that front door do we feel

you are going. How can anyone with

ready to take on the world? It is because

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we stand taller and we are acting as a

when you are wearing an outfit

mannequin for the clothing we wear.

that represents who you are inside?

Now how can you be depressed

Gabrielle Houssan ’15

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Alyssa Jalbert ’15

Shealyn Biron ’15

Julianne Holby ’16 61

To Myself Angel Xu ’16 Fortune may miss you Others may dislike you Life may ignore But calm your heart But smooth your brows But you own yourself And happiness will find you

Sarah Cavar ’16

62

Taylor Lovrien ’14

Shoe sculpture by Alexis Solomon ’15

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Why I Write Elaina Cosentino ’14

I write because I cannot draw,

I cannot paint, and I cannot dance.

I write because I am not musically talented. I write because my true passion only comes around one season of every year while writing is always an option. Writing is my escape and I am an escapist. I want to travel the world and experience a wide variety of things. I want to hear everything that can be heard, see everything that can be seen, and learn everything that can be taught. I crave what I do not have, what I cannot see, and what I cannot hear. I am truly an escapist at heart and writing allows me to escape from the real world situations into a fantasy land where I have everything that I crave. It allows me to imagine things that if I said aloud people would deem crazy. It allows me to express, through words, the many pictures that I paint 64

in my head. I write to express myself.

I write to overcome. I had

trouble making it through middle school English. Sitting in a classroom listening to my least favorite teacher read Lord of the Rings was just not my thing. I did not have nor now have anything against J.R.R Tolkien, but at age 14 you no longer want to be read to for hours on end. As this was one of the only books my classed focused on throughout my 6th, 7th, and 8th grade years, I was very ill-equipped going into freshman year.

I remember the first day of high school English, surrounded by unfamiliar faces at a big circular table. I remember feeling lost as I sat in astonishment realizing that everyone knew much more than I did. My first essay grade hit me like a slap in the face. I was used to receiving an A on all essays no matter how poorly they were written. C+ was written in big red writing. Ouch. The year to come was a challenging one

as all the years following have been

voices inside my head were pressuring

as well. I still struggle to overcome

me to write about Christmas and Santa

the lack of teaching I had throughout

Claus. Why? To this day, I cannot tell

middle school. But I have recently

you. I listened to my brain and wrote

found that this has helped me develop

an absurd, laughable short story titled

into who I am as a writer today and has

“When Santa was late for Christmas.”

also made me enjoy writing more than

In this story, Santa’s sleigh broke

I ever thought possible. I write now

down and the toys were not delivered

because I did not write then. I did not

on time. I was proud of it at the time.

care if the words flowed together or if

I can no longer say that this is true. I

they even made sense. I wrote to get it

was embarrassed for a long time and

over with. Now I write to overcome,

swore to never write something so

to improve, and to make up for the

embarrassing ever again. Although I

years of lost time. That is why I write.

now look at this as a learning experience

I write for redemption. Every

writer has their high points and their low points. They must use their low points to fuel their desire to be better.

That is what I did. Sadly, my low point is indeed a very low point in my writing

and I am no longer embarrassed, this story caused me to push harder, and strive for greater writing. It taught me to keep working and helped me to understand there is always room for improvement. That is why I write.

“career.” Luckily I was young at the

I write to remember. Regardless

time. Here’s the story. I decided I was

of

a creative writer when I was about 10

everyone has experiences and everyone

years old around summer time. The

has stories to tell. I am one of those

gender,

race,

and

nationality,

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people

obscure

not want the attention. I simply do not

aspects of different situations. Or I can

like it. One thing that I hate more than

remember a conversation I had with

the attention is crying in public. This

my Pepere in the car 10 years ago but

is why I write. It is impossible to keep

I cannot remember one thing I did for

all my feelings bottled up because this

a whole summer. Through writing I

would lead to an eruption of emotion all

am able to remember the whole picture

at once. I write to let out my feelings.

instead of just small insignificant

No one will ever be able to see or count

fragments. I write to remember, to

the tears that fell onto the page while

recall the feelings I had at a certain

I was writing and no one ever really

time, and to bring back memories.

needs to know. I am able to let out all

Whether it is a good day, a bad day, or

emotions without bringing someone

a family trip, I find that there is always

down with me. I write before my inner

at least one thing worth remembering

feelings eat away at my happiness.

about every day. That is why I write.

No one has to sit and pretend to listen

who

remembers

I write to express. On the

outside I am a very happy and outgoing person. I like to talk about everything except personal issues. I don’t believe

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and care about what I have to say. I can express all that I have to say with just a paper and a pen, nothing more and nothing less. That is why I write.

that everyone needs to know everything

I write because my brain works

that is going on in my life. I don’t need

thirty times faster than my mouth

to tell everyone every bad thing that

does. My ideas form so quickly but

happens to me because they are not

my speech does not. While writing

my counselor. I do not need and do

there won’t ever be someone standing

over my shoulder criticizing me for my

to me. Similarly your words as well

over use of “like” and “um” because

as others might be powerful to you.

they simply don’t show up in writing

Embrace your words and how you

as they do in speech.

The constant

write. Writing like this makes it

pressure while talking only makes

meaningful to me. That is why I write.

those words form on your tongue more often than usual. However, writing lets you relax, take your time, and relieves pressure. That is why I write.

It does not bother me that others will not hear what I have to say. I am quite content with them staying on the page that they were written on and

I write because words are

in the hands that they were written

powerful and meaningful. Words make

by. I write for myself and for no one

you feel certain things. Everyone is a

else. I write to express my ideas that

writer in their own way. Every writer

would never be able to be expressed

has their own style. And everyone

otherwise. I believe that the pen and

has a different take on which style

paper on which my thoughts are written

is most appealing to them. I write

on absorb all that I am saying as if they

because words mean something. They

themselves were people. I am happy

form sentences that form paragraphs,

with my ideas staying between the three

which form papers, which form books.

of us. Just my pen, my paper, and me.

Not everyone will like every type of writing. My words are powerful

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