Mariah 2018

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Mariah 2018

We call out to the Muses, to Calliope and Erato, the sisters of poetry.

We call to Thalia and seek her comedy, and to her sister, Melpomene, forlorn with her tragedy. We call to Polyhymnia, Terpsichore and Euterpe, to their song and dance. We invoke Clio and Urania, the past and the future.

We call for Mariah, the Muse of the present. The youngest of the ten sisters. Raised by her siblings. Learned in all subjects. Curious about the past, wishful for the future. Loving of all arts.

She is the one we call today.

Francesca Winterbottom

Table of Contents Literature Hope is the Child of Paradise........................5 Anika Buch

Daydreams .........................................................................6 Trevone Quarrie

Beauty .....................................................................................9 Rebecca Tone

Dark Arts: The Black Magic in Vulnerability ...................................................................10 Natalie Pruitt

Sylvette ................................................................................ 12 Trevone Quarrie

Mise en Place ................................................................. 14 Sarah Yamashita

Mama, What Am I?..................................................17 Anonymous

Carceration ...................................................................... 18 Trevone Quarrie

How to Stay Invisible ........................................ 20 Ellie Buscemi

Scene from a Jazz Club .....................................22 Anonymous

Shrouded by a cloak .............................................23 Rebecca Tone

Why You Should Never Buy a Television ..........................................................................26 Anonymous

Butterflies ....................................................................... 30 Anika Buch

Teenage Years ..............................................................32 Sarah Williams

Carrie Would Have Been Different If Periods Weren’t Stigmatized .....................34 Natalie Pruitt

Sonnet #1 .........................................................................39 Sundia Nwadiozor

To Complete the Puzzle ................................... 40 Anika Buch

Foreigner ...........................................................................42 Sarah Williams

Slowly, you taught me, ....................................45 Shift in gravity: .........................................................45 Anonymous

Sad Movies ......................................................................46 Trevone Quarrie

AP Calc Feels................................................................. 47 Sarah Williams

Hurdles ................................................................................49 Sarah Williams

Making a Mixtape ................................................... 50 Sarah Yamashita

One instant contains ..........................................55 Sundia Nwadiozor

Mid-April snow? ......................................................55 5AM .........................................................................................59 Anonymous

How Mariah Was Named................................62 Iain Jaeger

VisuaL art Zion Hobbs ..........................................................................4 Anika Buch ..........................................................................6 Pam Beniwal...................................................................... 7 Briana Diggs ......................................................................8 Sundia Nwadiozor .................................................... 13 Hannah Blake ................................................................. 15 Lilia Weider ....................................................................... 16 Izabo Ramos .................................................................... 19 Kaya Moody ..................................................................... 19 Sarah Williams ............................................................23 Briana Diggs ...................................................................24 Anna Bajak .......................................................................25 Ashley Chen ....................................................................29 Joseph DePoalo ............................................................ 31 Alison Stecker ..............................................................32 Ally Detre ...........................................................................33 Amelia Hawkins .........................................................36

Maria Marin .................................................................... 37 Sarah Karbachinskiy ............................................38 ZoĂŤ Grebin ......................................................................... 41 Greg Sutton.....................................................................43 Sarah Yamashita .......................................................44 Sarah Yamashita .....................................................45 Henry Miller.................................................................... 47 Ashley Chen ....................................................................48 Sarah Karbachinskiy ............................................. 51 Greg Sutton.....................................................................52 Briana Diggs ...................................................................53 Ally Detre ...........................................................................54 Adelyn Berrocal ..........................................................56 Juliette Pike .....................................................................57 Briana Diggs ...................................................................58 Anonymous .................................................................... 60 Sarah Yamashita ........................................................ 61

all visual artworks are digital photographs, unless otherwise noted.

Zion Hobbs (Plexiglass plate / print)

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Hope is the Child of Paradise Hope is the Child of Paradise, Who can never be found, She lives in a world where truth will arise, And love knows no bound— A place where the wind is sweet, And the sea is kept at bay, And the people never weep, A place of peace, day after day— I have seen such a place— In dreams, But never did it show its face To me— But as a child, Little Hope has little to offer, Besides her nature wild And many to bother— She relentlessly hollers— As her fruitless cries of optimism resonate in my mind, Yet she has so little care as to her cost upon others— She might as well be left behind.

She cries to the heights of Heaven and the depths of Hell, Only to burn herself trying— But only Time can tell— When little Hope will learn to stop crying.

Anika Buch

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Daydreams Two words just left my teacher’s mouth Endoplasmic Reticulum It’s last period And it looks like the train has left the station But I’m not on it So with a pencil in my hand Not much knowledge in my head I turn my textbook to a pillow My desk to a bed Sweet dreams Greet me Blues bees White tree Watch black clouds Rain red C’s They touch ground Turn red seas Sing sweet old hymns Stop someone’s flat Just And Like And

spit ice beams nice things ice cream ice queens

Anika Buch (Pen)

Thud Trevone Quarrie

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Pam Beniwal (Scratchboard)

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Briana Diggs

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Beaut y Beauty is comfort, The familiar crackle of logs in a brownstone hearth, Soft, nurturing arms pulling you into safety.

Beauty is understanding, The moment when your thoughts shift to a new language, Discovery of a vacant alcove that is entirely your own.

Beauty is nature, The thundering majesty of pearlescent cascades surrounded by elms, Gentle chirping of crickets breaking the galaxy’s vigil.

Beauty is sorrow, The fearless abandon with which a scream is lost in an abyss, Silent solidarity among victims of a common evil.

Beauty is art, The soulful reverberation of a delicately caressed key, Acrylics of vermilion and indigo splattered on a canvas.

Beauty is progress, The invention of a life-saving, humanity-preserving machine, A new law allowing millions to rise above their plight, The elimination of an enduring, destructive habit, An individual realizing their own worth.

Rebecca Tone

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Dark Arts: The Black Magic in Vulnerability You can find my personal hell in a middle school dance. The epitome of awkwardness, humans at their most vulnerable, coming of age.

Such a necessary, yet painful ceremony. It’s like watching a nature documentary—grotesque and primal, almost foreign, but you can’t look away.

For those who have never experienced torture of a middle school dance, or have felt the cringe of repressed memories of puberty, allow me to paint you a picture: short, sparkly dresses and wrinkled ties, self-segregated to opposite walls of a massive room, too brightly lit to set the right mood for what’s labeled on the invitations as a “magical night.” Makeup caked on as if it were a drag show, the girls tower over their male counterparts. But it is the boys who dominate this gathering. They pick which girls get to stray from the wall and which ones are stuck on the side, bopping their hairsprayed heads and tapping their kitten-heeled toes to the pulsing pop music. Amidst the sweat and the stifling Ax deodorant, there is the stench of tween anxiety. The terror of not fitting in.

Even I, the most sarcastic and cynical of eighth graders, attended the semi-formal and was swept up in the jittery sugar and hormone high like my peers. I was ready to dance the evening away with my friends and, as the confident woman I thought I was, forget all about the boys.

I met up with my best friend Sarah, thankful we wouldn’t have to walk in alone. Finally, after years of waiting, towering over the other middle schoolers at five foot nine in my heels, I teetered into the crowded ballroom.

The girls stuck to the left side of the room, mingling on the fringes of the dance floor, in tight fitting dresses. Some I knew from school, some I didn’t. Others I barely recognized—though I saw them just three hours ago in our khaki uniforms.

Suddenly, my blushed cheeks and copper eye shad-

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ow and painted eyelashes and glossy lips were not enough. These girls wore masks of MAC makeup and dresses from the adult section. The boys on the other hand looked no different than any other occasion except for their ill-fitting suits. Sarah and I took turns subtly peering at them, pointing out who we knew, who we didn’t but wanted to meet, and who we stalked on social media. We wouldn’t admit it to each other, but we were both hoping that one of those boys, with a Bieber, side-swept hair cut, would saunter over to ask us to dance.

The music was bumpin’. The second the opening line from Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop” played, the crowd surged the dance floor. And just when the song was on its last chorus—the peak of Macklemore’s unironic rapping—the DJ switched to Beyonce’s “Halo.” A dreaded slow jam. An exodus ensued. Sarah and I wobbled back to the girls’ home base, half still wishing for a boy to ask us to slow dance, half rejecting them still. The waiting game had begun.

It seemed like an eternity passed. We clung to the wall with the other desperate girls, as one boy after the other slowly selected his lucky date. A bronzed girl with pin straight black hair, a petite redhead, a giant in a tiny dress, the most popular girl at my school, all chosen to dance with an undeserving boy. The couples slowly trickled onto the dance floor, each stiffly holding their partner, only moving back and forth. I longed for that intimacy.

Luckily, “Halo” is a long song; even the most timid boys would have a chance to participate in this selection. Sarah and I had all but given up at this point. We pointed out all the flaws in social situations in a very 10 Things I Hate About You fashion.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned around.

A boy.

He was my height (despite those ridiculous

heels) and did not have the “lax bro” haircut. I didn’t notice him before. I don’t know why. But, in that split second where he stared into my eyes, I saw our entire relationship before me. This was MY moment. That night I would enter into society and become a woman. My period of awkwardness was over. I was going to shed the dreaded tween stage and jolt into the vast teenage-hood, finally.

I could see the words start to form in this sandy haired boy’s unbraced mouth, when a boy from my own class, a colleague if you will, barged between us, severing our eye contact.

“No, man. Not her.”

My classmate pulled my bachelor away. He didn’t look back.

I was left alone, stuck on the beige wall, a fly on a piece of sticky paper. A pity.

I couldn’t get the boy out of my head. No, not the dreamy-eyed one. My classmate. I was confused. I was furious. Why would he intervene? Did he have a vendetta against me? Did he think his friend deserved better? Better in what sense? Prettier? Not as outspoken? Shorter? More social? Less intelligent? I knew I was by no means popular, but was I that repulsive that someone needed to be saved from meeting me? Although no insult was said out loud, that was the cruelest moment of my short life thus far. I was undesirable. Mortified. Exposed. I took it to heart. As the pop music swirled through the room, I felt my self-esteem shatter.

Years have passed, yet this memory still carves me up inside. I am notorious for brushing things off and not overthinking them, but I still can’t let that moment go. Maybe because for once I had shed any preconceived notion of myself. I was just a girl at some dance and according to one stupid classmate of mine, that was not enough. We take things to heart because at that point in time, an act of rejection is heartbreak. It teaches us that we

have to be ashamed to be vulnerable.

Wise adults always say to not take things personally. This cliche goes against every fiber in a human being. We rely on what other people think of us. We feed off it. The 2.5 billion people on earth who have some form of social media thrive on it. We all like validation, to feel like we matter.

Despite all those users, hungry for likes and comments, people paint this need as weak. We hate vulnerability. That nakedness makes most humans squirm, including myself. But there is a power in being exposed. That rosy cheeked glow of being vulnerable was magical. Everything in the world was possible at that dance. Years later, I admire it. Imagine having that power again, to know that you have no defenses: you are your raw self. It was beautiful and dashed to bits that evening. I suppose that was the real coming of age ceremony— to lose that shiny magic of innocence. As I grow older, I am learning to regain that strength to be vulnerable. Though it’s playing with fire, treading the line of being heartbroken again, and being completely open in front of another human, I hope to take the power that comes with it.

Natalie Pruitt

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Sylvette She say she just wants to be friends She don’t date no rappers We’re just actors Crack open a girl’s heart And leave her after A lovely disaster

Party crasher Anything to get to her But she’s straight enigma Victor Crocodile tears can’t convince her They just make a ’dile sicker

I stole the laughter I attacked her With this mouth of adders Spitting venom at her

It’s like I’m searching for Patricia But all I find is Patrick Paint a pretty picture Like Picasso Can’t predict her

I still tried to find a ladder Instead I had to climb every rafter To the second floor Searching for her window I don’t know what I’m after I feel like Asher Lev She came to put me out to pasture Walking in with Levie’s Levi’s Told me make like Dasher

Is she five or six or Stop it There’s no scale that can list her She’s too perfect She makes it worth it Owns the earth and Walks down its streets Like SZA Trevone Quarrie

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Sundia Nwadiozor

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Mise en Place I ate fast food nearly seven days a week until I was thirteen years old. My dad drove us eighty miles an hour home from McDonald’s as we sang “California Dreamin’.” We arrived bearing greasy fried food, my parents divvied up the containers, and we planted ourselves in front of the TV. We didn’t say much, other than the occasional, “Can you turn up the volume a bit?” and, “Is it possible to fast-forward faster?”

On the nights my mom had to work late, my dad cooked homemade meals for us. “Homemade” translating to frozen food and flavor packs. It wasn’t the most balanced diet, but it made me feel cared for whenever I heard the microwave beeping.

He needed a pastime as a stay-at-home dad, especially as I grew more independent. He was the oldest person in his class, at fifty, at the International Culinary Center in New York City. He learned how to set up mise en place, how to wield a knife, how to truss and quarter a chicken… He began to cook real homemade meals every night.

Sometimes he spent the whole day setting up his mise en place.

My mom joined him in the kitchen when she retired as a way for the two of them to bond. But they fought over every recipe. One night, they disagreed on how long the lamb needed in the oven—she cooked it one way, he learned another in school—and it ended with her throwing off her apron and storming out of the kitchen. My dad finished the meal, smiling and shrugging it off for my sake, and my mom returned to the dinner table like nothing happened.

After my parents divorced, my dad bought a high-tech oven for his townhouse, better than the one my mom has. But cooking, once his escape, suddenly made him more anxious than anything.

We enjoyed our time together, but we’d watch the days go by until my mom pulled into the driveway

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to pick me up. We mostly ate fast food and went out for dinner, but occasionally he tried to whip up something special. He burned his hand badly once. He was making chicken pot pie: my favorite.

I jumped when I heard him curse. I only caught a glimpse of his brown hand, now a raw pink.

He kept his back turned to me, refusing to let me see his vulnerability. My dad later told me that when he burned himself, he’d realized, I can’t do this anymore. I need to leave. I need to get me back. He’d realized that he couldn’t recreate the past.

“Will you call after you land?”

“Of course, honey. You’ll be the first.”

I stopped crying after the call ended. The FaceTime app was still open, and I stared at myself on the screen. My cheeks were red, wet lines streaking down to my chin. I’m not abandoning you.

You know that. Right, dear? I know. I can’t stay here any longer. It’s just too painful— I get it, Dad, I do.

I never blamed him for leaving to find what he needed. I reacted at first, selfishly, as any child would. I took my anger out on my mother and smiled through my iPhone for my father. I felt jealous when he waxed poetic about his new life: exercise, new cuisines, sunny people. The most eentful parts of his day used to revolve around me: after school pick-up, comfort food, cuddling. But I didn’t know then that I wasn’t enough. Cooking wasn’t the answer either. He’s still searching for the recipe even though we’ve both known what he was trying to make: happiness. We are each responsible for our own. No one else. To me, happiness is having to accept my dad’s California dream— without forgetting those fast-food runs.

Sarah Yamashita

Hannah Blake

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Lilia Weider

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Mama, What Am I? I used to sway with my mom on a rocking chair Sprawled on her lap I lay limp as she held me I put my head on her chest She sang lullabies that were echoed by the beat of her heart Swinging to her coos Back and forth And back and forth And I try and try but a moment of peace like that has never come back around I think of our bodies moving She rocks me in motherhood, I feel her heartbeat in daughterhood We were both coming to understand The rhythms of being a human Back and forth And back and forth And I think of all of the times we have failed with each other But I realize it does not matter How could it?

She rose and fell in motherhood In her arms the whole way, my body rocked Back and forth And back and forth And what could possibly take away the flows of feeling In giving and holding We do wrong by each other in a world of wrongs There can be nothing to go back to but that chair The patter of her heart against my ear Back and forth and Anonymous

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Carceration Incarceration Through melancholy bars I speak to nations Telling them I am You are We are Trapped by social relation Flip it to find Freedom masked in expectation But you know that already Having had hundreds preach On blood On trust On loss And the teachings we ignore Are ignoring stories that hold twenty generations of wisdom Apparently we know everything about everything But freedom is a fickle mistress One that you must hide from your wife when night falls And expectations of the good husband mount So you smile pretty And whisper I love you With the mistress under the bed Waiting for death’s cousin I stand on the outside looking in And I’ve never been so sad to be happy Everyone else is stuck on a hamster wheel Running the rat race In the midst of a wild goose chase And here I stand Chained by freedom Thus I have come to expect nothing From this democratic republic of indignation.

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Trevone Quarrie

Izabo Ramos

Kaya Moody

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How to Stay Invisible

Inspired by “How To Paint Mountains” by Marcus Lund A Basic Intro: Wear clothes that are not trendy or loud or show that you are someone deserving notice. Only wear clothes that make you feel comfortable, as long as they don’t show off anything that might catch the attention of wandering eyes. Don’t dye your hair any unnatural colors because they will make you special. People will not forget you if they believe you are special.

Looking at anyone too long will be your downfall. Keep your eyes moving but not enough to make you seem like you just committed a crime. Walk in the fashion that makes you comfortable. If you are uncomfortable they will know. It doesn’t matter if that “they” is a lover or a friend or a crush or a family member. Unless you’re a show-stopping extrovert or complete recluse whose appearance can be connected to a blue moon, you are best just being yourself. If you want to change, let it take years or months or eons.

Change so gradually that it takes generations for anyone to notice you’re different but by then no one will remember how you were.

When “they” is a Lover: These people noticed you for a reason; sometimes that happens. The hardest thing is to be noticed and invisible at the same time. Find out what made them notice you, even if you only pry it out of them once the relationship has ended. Make sure to smother this quality so no one can ever find it again. Maybe next time no one will notice you…not until you notice them at least. To stay invisible to a current lover requires sticking to what they believe you to be capable of. Do not surprise them. Stay within the bounds of their reason. Eventually they will get bored…more likely they will just get complacent. To be “normal” or “average” is synonymous with invisible.

Congratulations.

When “they” is a Friend: Keep them entertained but do not wow them. Make them feel special. Do not, however, make them feel like they are not replaceable. Fight for them with your fists not your words: words are too powerful and mean too much.

Never change or always change.If you work like clockwork being invisible isn’t work: it’s as natural as breathing. Talk about interesting subjects but nothing too epiphany-inducing. Keep them curious but do not change them, for when you change them, you leave your mark and then you will never be invisible to them again.

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When “they” is a Crush: The implication of crushes is that they are either unrequited or smothered by some force. Let the fates play: do not challenge them. However, it is more probable that if you have a crush you are already invisible. Congratulations.

When “they” is a Family Member: Depending on the place from which you hail, being invisible to family is either the simplest thing in the world or the hardest. In places where greed and passion reign, the probability is that you are already invisible. Congratulations. If you come from a place where people actually care for their blood I am sorry. Run far and fast from home. Your culture is ingrained with too much awareness for others. Run to a place where no one will know your name. Start anew. Don’t look back.

In Conclusion: Don’t look or do different than what is expected of you. Never surprise or impress. Be clockwork. If no one is impressed or disgusted by you, you are invisible. Use this gift well. When you are invisible you become privy to the world and other people in ways that most would find impossible. People find it hard to stay invisible; stay invisible, however, and you will know more than anyone else would think is possible. Reap the gifts of the ordinary. People are never scared of what they think they understand.

Ellie Buscemi

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Scene from a Jazz Club She sat in the rickety wooden chair legs creaking and cracking to the sways of her hips the hiss of the cymbal vibrating on the walls her lover in her head her friend in her arms the woman preaches her lullaby the crisp clash of her lips soft against the microphone that low tune a slow lullaby her hand tightens her heart tightens the beating of the bass deeper than the smoke infiltrating the room covering the faces of those unknown Anonymous

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Shrouded by a cloak Of ignorance, he complains That he sees no light.

Rebecca Tone

Sarah Williams

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Briana Diggs

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Anna Bajak

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WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER BUY A TELEVISION Sometimes I feel everything at once And other times I feel nothing at all.

Sometimes I cry for no reason And other times I have too many reasons To keep track of.

Sometimes I can stay up for hours Pondering over the way I said “hi” to someone.

And other times I think, Why bother obsessing?

They’re not interested in me anyways.

Sometimes when I’m tired or hungry or cold It gives me relief Because at least then I have something else to focus on.

And other times discomfort isn’t enough To quiet the voices in my head.

Sometimes I tell myself I’m going To sit down and be productive And I really, really try to, But I have no mental energy left, And not in the “I’m lazy” sort of way.

A lazy person doesn’t want to do work.

I do.

I really, really, do.

But no one else can understand that.

So it’s just easier to tell them I’m lazy.

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Other times though, I don’t bother caring at all Because I have no control over how I feel And caring about the things I can’t finish Makes me feel all the more Useless.

Sometimes I see myself in the mirror And I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

Sometimes I look at an old picture of myself And it seems like a completely different person And I wonder, what changed?

One day I was frolicking on the playground Without a care in the world, And the next, two white pills are waiting For me on the countertop That are meant to help me feel Not so dead inside.

Other times, I look at those old pictures and realize The thoughts I was having when they were taken Weren’t normal.

I just thought they were Because I didn’t know they weren’t.

Sometimes I would give up anything To just have the willpower.

Cause that’s my problem, Right?

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Other times I want to point my middle finger At the face of anyone who says A lack of willpower is the problem.

Sometimes I just don’t want to hide anymore.

Sometimes I want to submit poems like this With my name on it.

But it’s either Too deep Or Too sad Or Too real.

And even if people accept you They either treat you like you’re a piece of glass Or give you advice for a different problem Than the one you have.

My dog died.

That’s ok, we’ll search around and find him!

No, I think you’re missing the point. He’s dead.

When I lost my dog, we found him behind Walgreens.

We’re not going to find him behind Walgreens.

Stop being so negative! You need to at least try!

But my dog isn’t lost. HE’S DEAD! Sometimes it gets really frustrating.

Sometimes I want to start explaining The next episode Instead of beginning from season 1 To get everyone caught up Who doesn’t watch the show.

But I don’t want to watch the show either.

Sometimes I want to be able to just Turn off the TV. Anonymous

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Ashley Chen

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ButterfLies Chewed nails.

Butterflies.

Tensed muscles Stoic face.

Shaking.

Trembling.

Freezing.

As the spotlight Shifts.

Right on You. But then you start To speak.

To dance.

To perform And all that Disappears.

Because the audience Stands.

And they Clap.

And you bow.

And you Think.

That all those butterflies Just flew away.

Anika Buch

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Joseph DePoalo

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teenage years Being a teenager feels like a joke.

Told to be responsible but treated like a child.

Hormones on steroids while discernment is meek and mild.

Question religion and questioning college.

Expected to exceed with extremely limited knowledge.

Defining your culture and what you’re about.

Trying to prove you got a whole lotta clout.

Growing slow and growing fast, Puberty puts us all on blast.

Planning our future and claiming our dreams, But nothing ever really is how it seems.

Being a teenager feels like a joke.

Pray adult years are better and I don’t end up broke.

Sarah Williams

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Alison Stecker (Graphite pencil)

Ally Detre (Pen)

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Carrie Would Have Been Different If Periods Weren’t Stigmatized My period was the first secret I kept from my mother. I had just turned thirteen—January 2013. New year, new me. I vaguely remembered the awkward “Family Life” lessons, or my school’s version of sex ed in fourth grade where we watched a movie about the female anatomy from the early 1980s. At age thirteen, it still shocked me what a woman goes through every month, and yet they never talked about it.

Though I had an older sister, with plenty of supplies at my disposal, I didn’t know or want to confront the issue, so I stuffed toilet paper in my butterfly underwear until it went away. The next month, I was introduced to inch-thick diaper-like pads with wings and non-stop leak protection.

I clung on to the words of the announcers on TV selling period products, trying to find whichever technology would help me hide it best. When all else failed, I’d wear two pads at a time if I had to. Anything to make sure no one knew. I don’t know where I learned to be ashamed. I just knew, like how we know what hunger is before we learn the word to describe it.

Of course I’m not the first woman to have felt ashamed of her body, and her period especially. Why is there such a stigma surrounding periods if 50% of the world experiences them? We’ve developed euphemisms, stealthy ways to place our tampons in our sleeves to carry them to the bathroom so a passersby won’t see the cheery packaging of shame, and our institutions fail to see these sanitary items as necessities.

From “Time of The Month” to “Crimson Wave,” we’ve developed ways to sanitize this natural process. Part of the stigma surrounding periods is simply the fact that much of the population doesn’t know what a period entails. As you may or

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may not know, most (but not all) women get their period. This is due to the shedding of their uterine walls. Each month, as a woman’s cycle begins, estrogen levels begin to rise and the lining of the womb thickens.

Her eggs prepare themselves to be fertilized and travel through the fallopian tubes to her uterus. If an egg is not fertilized, it breaks apart, dropping hormone levels and shedding the lining of the uterus. This is what causes monthly bleeding. #Science.

It’s all very natural and a sign that your body is healthy and working how it should.

If periods are part of biology and science, something that’s natural and ingrained in most women’s biological makeup, why do some women feel weird or embarrassed about their periods?

In some cultures, women are even quarantined during their menstrual cycle, cast away from the rest of society because it’s so shameful, only to be let back in once they’re done bleeding. Although in the United States women aren’t literally shunned from society while on their periods, there is still a stigma surrounding it. Studies in the early 1980s showed that nearly all girls in the United States believed that girls should not talk about menstruation with boys, and more than one-third of girls did not believe that it was appropriate to discuss menstruation with their fathers. The basis of many conduct norms and communication about menstruation in Western industrial societies is the belief that menstruation should remain hidden. A stigma that suggests you can’t talk about your period out loud. You can’t walk to the bathroom with a pad in your hand without it seeming inappropriate. And you can’t ask your friend to borrow a tampon without acting like it’s a drug deal.

Just as period health was taught in

sex ed in fourth grade, periods are often lumped together with reproductive health—something we Americans are even more uncomfortable with. But periods don’t belong locked behind bedroom doors.

The more we don’t confront the issue and further education, the more the stigma festers, leading to cultural and political implications.

Today, tampons and pads are taxed in most states while adult diapers, Viagra, Rogaine and potato chips are not. Men can walk into any bathroom and access all of the supplies they need to care for themselves: toilet paper, soap, paper towels, even seat covers.

Women, however, cannot. In most schools, girls have to trek to the nurse’s office to ask for a pad or tampon, as if menstruating is an illness rather than a natural function. The situation for prison inmates and homeless women is far more dire. Even if you do have access to tampons, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) does not require companies to list the ingredients—yet the average woman has a tampon inside her vagina for more than 100,000 hours over her lifetime.

Tampons may contain “residue from chemical herbicides,” says Sharra Vostral, a historian at Purdue University who wrote Under Wraps: A History of Menstrual Hygiene Technology. “We do not really understand the health consequences, because we are not testing for them in relation to tampons.”

Because menstruation is buried under generations of shame, women were forced to accept whatever corporations and politicians gave to them. The period is one of the most ignored human rights issues around the globe—affecting everything from education and economics to the environment and public health—but that’s finally

starting to change.

In the past year, there have been so many pop culture moments around menstruation that NPR called 2015 “the year of the period,” and Cosmopolitan said it was “the year the period went public.”

We’ll never have gender equality if we don’t talk about periods, but 2016 signaled the beginning of something better than talk: it’s becoming the year of menstrual change. There’s a movement—propelled by activists, inventors, politicians, startup founders and everyday people—to strip menstruation of its stigma and ensure that public policy keeps up. For the first time, Americans are talking about gender equality, feminism and social change through women’s periods, which, as Gloria Steinem puts it, is “evidence of women taking their place as half the human race.”

Yes, periods probably will never be considered small talk for dinner parties or grocery store encounters. They may remain private or uncomfortable. But the more open the conversation becomes, the more women who share narratives, the more we stand up for our bodies and their natural functions, we can eliminate the stigma for generations of girls to come. Economically, period products could be more accessible and more sustainable. Politically, period products could not be taxed and could be made safer for women. And maybe, the next time you’re smuggling your tampon into the bathroom and it falls out of your sleeve, onto the ground where any of your coworkers can see, you will proudly pick it up and continue as if nothing happened.

Natalie Pruitt

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Amelia Hawkins (Pen and watercolor)

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Maria Marin

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Sarah Karbachinskiy

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Sonnet #1 Building our home was not easy for me.

Swayed by your eager persistence, I built.

We hammered nails of support, installed windows Of trust, furnished with love seats and sofas.

But I ignored your heated comments despite The paper tearing from the sweaty walls.

The smoky arguments engulf the room.

I watch you pull the plug on the alarm.

Sitting me on the burning sofa, you Test my heart, a fire-blocked door, for heat.

Then you say, “There is no other way out,” This fiery lie busts the pane from the casement.

The window. An escape. “I refuse to Burn with the trust, the support, the love, with you.”

Sundia Nwadiozor

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To Complete the Puzzle I walked into a new school with my piece of the puzzle. I was a puzzle piece missing a puzzle to fit into. I couldn’t find my geography class that morning and I ended up being a few minutes late. As the teacher began to speak, I awkardly stumbled in and slumped into a chair.

“I’m Mrs. Brown, nice to meet you all, I am your geography teacher this year for sixth grade. Let’s introduce ourselves and… oh, I don’t know… say what town we live in?”

Immediately, my face turned red. Why did it have to be where we lived? Any other question or fact could have been just fine.

Any question except that one.

“I live in Morristown,” a girl named Anne said cheerily.

One more person before me.

“I live in Chatham,” Mary proudly stated as if it was the best place in the whole world to live. She adjusted the collar on her Vineyard Vines polo. She crossed her legs, adjusted her posture with her nose up in the air, and flashed a smile. Mary then began to converse with the girl next to her about a field hockey tournament she won. She seemed nice, too. I wanted to make friends with her.

Me. “I live in Newark,” I said. A gasp. And I don’t mean those loud gasps in movies. No. I mean those muffled whispers when everyone in the room is talking about you. Worse, when everyone is talking about you and you know they are talking about you. I pointed

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my head down to the floor as my face got hot, only cooled by a single tear.

“Eww… Newark. Newark is so dangerous.

I heard it has the highest crime rate like in the US.” Mary spoke the words like they were repulsive and putrid pieces of rotting fruit.

“I heard it’s like really poor. Are you poor?”

Mary continued, softly.

Still, I remained stoic. I couldn’t bring myself to face her.

“So like… how are you like here?” Mary pried, delicately adjusting her Lululemon headband to show that she could afford it.

I felt her ignorant stare burn through me.

I looked up to Mrs. Brown. For help. For a lifeline. And she said nothing. Nothing.

“Um, I think it’s the next person’s turn,” I said, holding back tears. I listened to everyone speak about how they were from Short Hills or Scotch Plains. I even listened to people bond over where they lived. They all fit in the puzzle. I was the mismatched piece.

I felt like I was wrong— wrong for being from Newark.

After class, I found myself locked in the last stall of the bathroom. All of Mary’s words repeated themselves, taking me further down. Her words flowed down my face like a river of sorrow and regret for fifteen minutes. I never wanted to leave that stall.

I spent the rest of middle school trying to find a way mold myself into the puzzle.

Eventually during freshman year of high school, I just stopped. I stopped because I was exhausted. I was worn down from

pruning myself to fit into a puzzle where I knew I didn’t belong. I was done. Done with forcing a piece that didn’t fit. Done trying to be someone I wasn’t.

So no, I didn’t have the idyllic first day of school. I didn’t get to say, “I made so many friends.” I didn’t get to say, “I had such a great time.” Because I didn’t. The question of where I live still makes my face turn red, but I’m able to answer it confidently regardless.

Mary’s ignorant words are always on replay in the back of my mind, but it doesn’t stop me from living my life and making new friends. I’ve realized that the people who are there for you and earnestly care about you don’t care. They don’t care that you wear the right clothes, put on the right act, or live in the right town. They care about you. You. If I stayed in that stall four years ago, if I gave up, I can’t say I would have ever found my friends. I found a new puzzle which I am trying fit into. Except this is a puzzle which, in order to fit into, you just need to be the best version of yourself. I still hold myself to this standard, and I have become a better person for trying to fit into this puzzle. When I met my friends, who still dare hold me to these standards, I didn’t hear ignorance or arrogance. I just heard the click of a piece being fitted into place.

Anika Buch Zoë Grebin (Watercolor)

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Foreigner This anger that lives inside me, familiar but yet so foreign, constantly makes me hate myself.

It feels so uncontrollable, it feels so unpredictable.

There is a stranger residing within the confines of my body and every now and then it takes over my conscience, presents a beast.

I become a spectator in my own mind.

I watch myself become hostile, but have no power to stop it.

I feel the negative energy fuming out of me.

It makes me feel alone and—broken.

I lash out and make decisions based on false perceptions.

I do not understand the way this anger works.

Because while some things trigger it, others do not.

A foreigner lives inside of me and I cannot get it out.

Sarah Williams

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Greg Sutton

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Sarah Yamashita

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Slowly, you taught me, Despite the years of my doubts, I can be enough

Shift in gravity: you said I looked beautiful and I believed you.

Anonymous

Sarah Yamashita

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Sad Movies “And in the middle of the color cartoon I started to cry.” — Sue Thompson

’Twas a cool winter’s night Christmas Eve if I remember correctly I had gone to see a sad movie And I called him First inviting Then asking Then pleading But the answer was no Work School Life Some excuse That wasn’t really an excuse So I went to the movies alone I walked up to the elaborate booth alone I talked to man behind the glass alone I sat in the red cushioned seats alone Waitin’ for the lights to dim And they did Then you Came walking in With my best friend In the dark You could see me not But I saw you With my best friend

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You walked down the aisle Sitting in front of me With my best friend Your lips touched hers And I shrank Retreating I hid in the deepest corners of my jacket As a Frenchman sang over an accordion Three balls of fluff Danced about Bright background gave way to a bridge And on the bridge a horse And on the horse a hat And on the hat A little black cat From there I saw no more Distorted colors filled my vision So that I could not see what was happening In the animated movie I would never watch Trevone Quarrie

AP Calc Feels Didn’t take long before it was dark.

Had tunnel vision right from the start.

Despite my efforts to integrate funcions, I kept failing due to too many assumptions.

Start a new unit, I saw the light.

Feel like I’m on a high and my knowledge took flight.

But the darkness returned when the time was due, Sat in front of that test and I had no clue.

Look around at my classmates and we all start laughing, Not for joy but because the problems were baffling.

Did we do this in class? I don’t think so.

Or maybe we did but this equation still got me like, “Woah.”

So I try to do better and study for next time, But it seems like I gotta hit rock bottom before I can climb…

Because that darkness came rolling in like a freakin’ time Bomb.

Sarah Williams

Henry Miller

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Ashley Chen (Mixed media)

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Hurdles Life is a 400 hurdle race.

And the most important factor is how you set the pace.

Each hurdle is a milestone that you will one day meet.

And each will feel like the world is at your very feet.

But sometimes you may stutter before you get there.

And sometimes you may feel like the race is not fair.

Sometimes you may deviate from your lane, And sometimes you’ll make a mistake that will cause pain.

You may fall and you may cry, You may even feel like you’re going to collapse and die.

But the race does end, nevertheless.

So the question is, will you make it your best?

Sarah Williams

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Making a Mixtape Personality. Patience. Pizzazz. To make a mixtape, you must possess these virtues. The mixtape’s roots lie in the cassette era of the 1980s.

Mixtapes were made for loved ones or teen movies or DJ sets or walking home alone. Sapling rappers sold demo tapes on the streets to make their voices heard. Mixtapes became mixed CDs, and you became bound to the order of songs and not their length of time. Then the internet crashed the party. Today, mixtapes are a dime a dozen. While everyone has the potential to be their own disc jockey, not everyone follows the beat of their own drum. Mass-produced playlists have their time and place. However, nothing beats that feeling of pride after making the perfect mixtape.

Now, how to make the thing. Making a mixtape is like painting a portrait. First, you can’t make a mixtape for a stranger. Whether it’s for someone else or for yourself, you need to have a good sense of who the muse is and their taste. (Key tip: never judge someone on their appearance. For example, a grungy-looking guy may detest your choice of Alice In Chains and Audioslave and prefer the soulful tones of Adele and Al Green

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instead.) Next, select a theme. A mixtape can’t be an amalgamation of random songs. A theme is a must, whether the tracks be related by lyrics, song titles, genres, etc. Rob Gordon/John Cusack said in High Fidelity, “To me, making a tape is like writing a letter—there’s a lot of erasing and rethinking and starting again.” Remember the virtue of patience? No one gets a mixtape right at the first go. Luckily, iTunes and Spotify allows us to drag in, reorder, and delete songs with a few taps. Be sure to start and end your mixtape with a bang.

The first and last tracks will be remembered best, so make them count.

I could go on, like how quality is more important than quantity, and how you shouldn’t repeat artists without intention. But I want to hammer home the golden rule of making mixtapes: make yourself seem more musically educated than you are. Give your listener the impression that you are Rob Gordon by using remixes, live versions, and so forth. “Take a chance,” pleads Abba. This is your time to be heard!

Sarah Yamashita

Sarah Karbachinskiy

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Greg Sutton

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Briana Diggs

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Ally Detre (Digital)

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One instant contains Two birds racing, The sound of an airplane.

Mid-April snow?

Small white flowers Surround the tree.

Sundia Nwadiozor

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Adelyn Berrocal

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Juliette Pike

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Briana Diggs

5AM The words “cuddling” and “snuggling” make me think of him.

My stomach contorts into an elaborate knot and I try everything to distract myself but Hoodies and Sleeping bags and bracelet marks embedded in my arm and on his face twist my tomach tighter.

I thought it was stress before.

Maybe it is.

From not knowing if your stomach hurts, too.

Anonymous

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Anonymous (Mixed media)

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Sarah Yamashita

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How Mariah Was Named In the early 1900s, a student by the name of John Reed from the Morristown School remained in the shadows of his peers. He had never been The Great John Reed, never “the man,” and never the one to be remembered. Yet in the end, he was more than a memory of the Morristown School: he was looked up to by almost half of the world.

The author of Ten Days That Shook the World was an alumnus of this school. His name is forgotten by most, but he had a major impact on the world. The reason for his mysterious backstory is because he was a communist who fled to Soviet Russia and was buried within the Kremlin. Add to this secret history a gift that the Morristown School had kept hidden. John Reed had sent, as he called her, the protector of his works. The last time John was in the United States, he visited the school and gave the school his cat named Mariah. He named her this because she shed a lot of hair (the last four letters backwards); and she reminded him of his Ma, comforting and protecting him as he worked. The school, after receiving the cat, took care of her until her death—on top of John Reed’s book. As more and more news of communism arose, they buried the cat in Senior Circle along with a book; they attempted to re-write history, hiding John Reed’s existence and connection to the school. A couple decades later, in the 1980s, the Morristown-Beard School visited the Soviet Union for the first and last time. When they arrived they were amazed by the security clearances and privileges they received, making the students confused after all the tales of Communism and how Russia was a terrible place. When they visited John Reed’s tomb in the Kremlin there was a picture of a cat named Mariah outside the tomb. The students took this into account and created the Mariah magazine in John Reed’s memory, despite his political beliefs.

Iain Jaeger

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mariah 2018 LITERARY EDITOR Sarah Yamashita ’18 ASSISTANT LITERARY EDITOR Courtney Norteman ’19

DESIGN EDITOR Jill Stecker ’18 ART CO-EDITORS Ashley Chen ’20 Alison Stecker ’20 SECRETARY Ellie Buscemi ’18

FACULTY ADVISORS Peter Donahue Jennafer Warner

EDITORIAL BOARD Briana Diggs ’19 Talia Gold ’20 Sundia Nwadiozor ’18 Trevone Quarrie ’19 Jessica Roitman ’20 Izzy Silver ’19