editors
Phoebe Chambers ’24
Rachel Deeney ’25
Alex Fahey ’25
Toni Frank ’24
Sunny Peterman ’26
Kiley Rusak ’24
Talia Scarpa ’24
Molly Taft ’24
Alina Tuwalski ’28
Sarah Deeney ’23 and Lorna Petrizzo ’23
faculty editor
Mrs. Kathleen McGuiness cover art
Scarlett Hart ’23
As editors of The Tournesol, we feel privileged to collect and publish student artwork and writing for the magazine, and each year we feel just as privileged to learn about the tendencies and behaviors that art possesses, which exist independent of our own control and invention. These discoveries are the happy remainders of our editing efforts. This year, we selected a theme that allows us to admire one of these tendencies, and that is art’s tendency to change in meaning and appearance depending on the age of the artist who creates it. As editors, one of our responsibilities is considering works from artists of different ages and celebrating the expressions of both younger and older students. So, our collection of art and writings is representative of the development from innocence to experience, but it also suggests that development demands innocence, experience, as well as understanding, in equal parts.
It is not an experience itself but an understanding of an experience that constitutes a loss of innocence; if understanding is the full weight of knowledge and innocence a want of it, it is not until understanding occurs that innocence may subside. Usually, understanding our experiences is not immediate after an experience transpires; understanding can only occur as quickly as thoughts and feelings are able to arrange themselves coherently. So, if we only attain an understanding of an experience well after the experience has passed, it is also true that we only lose innocence well after the experience has passed. It may not be entirely foolish to say that experience is reticent, and that persuading innocence to abandon its inhabitant can only be accomplished by the steady hand of an ever-ticking clock.
However, once we have undergone the process of reflection and enjoyed the satisfaction it brings, we want to realize it many more times. The pieces of art we present may be perceived as attempts to accelerate our development so that we reach truthful understanding even sooner than we would without having created anything at all, and instead waited for fragments of time to teach us who we really are. In other words, it may be that when we are young, we write to rapidly understand. And so, understanding becomes essential to our transformation from innocence to experience.
Finally, we would like to dedicate this edition of The Tournesol to any young person who is experiencing metaphoric growing pains. If you need help in your attempts to understand that pain, you may find it in the art and literature that we have compiled for you here.
poetry
Reshmina’s Dreams
Genevieve O’Connor ’29
Afghanistan - A Girl’s Hope
Elle Bellew ’29
Soul Food and Love
Alina Tuwalski ’28
Glistening Eagle
Alina Tuwalski ’28
The Fight
Sunny Peterman ’26
Helen Who is Free
Kara Sweeney ’26
Hidden Yet Found
Shelby Parker ’26
Achilles’s Letter
Shelby Parker ’26
Catullus Carmen : From Lesbia’s Perspective
Ava DiGiuseppe ’25
The Rich Man
Alex Fahey ’25
The Lawyer
Temperance England ’25
The Musician
Ava DiGiuseppe ’25
Seven Going on Heaven
Katherine Bernstiel ’25
Misunderstood
Chloe Knox ’25
Ways to Look at Stained Glass
Molly Taft ’24
Ways of Looking at a Pineapple through the Lens of a Paintbrush
Talia Scarpa ’24
Sage in the Garden
Molly Taft ’24
Her
Ava Barrera ’24
Letter From a Locket
Molly Taft ’24
I Love Being Human
Molly Taft ’24
The Tree
Lorna Petrizzo ’23
Math
Lorna Petrizzo ’23
Oda a La Puesta del Sol
Natalie Maye ’23
Your Beautiful Sounds are Like No Other
Bridget McTear ’23
Energy/Energía
Anna Diederich ’23
Incoming
Lindsay McBride ’23
Gathering Point
Lindsay McBride ’23
Gray Pansies
Lindsay McBride ’23
A Campfire, a Scream, and a Small Lie That Gets Bigger and Bigger
Victoria Hiscott ’23
Growing Up as a Girl
Bella Proper ’23
Talia Scarpa ’24
My “Red Coat” Epiphany
Rachel Swan ’23
A Reflection on the College Process and Senior Year
Ceci Massaua ’23
Of Mice and Women
Lindsay McBride ’23
Memory Lane
Sadie Mordan ’23
Nieve Morrison ’28
My home destroyed, and I shed a tear
My people of Afghanistan trembling with fear
Girls’ education starts to disappear Will they become Afghan women without a career?
Afghans wondering if there's still hope They live with war, wondering how to cope
I want to live a life like my grandmother When all Afghan people felt love, not fear
I want a life where I can see the sun But all I see now is smoke and the sound of guns
Ella Meno ’28
Elle Bellew
Frantic screams I hear in the distance My country is fighting with bravery and persistence
The rich soil wilted with our peace I hope all this suffering will someday cease
My village is turning to dust and rubble It feels unfair we have to experience this struggle
This war is tearing my happiness apart But I feel a glimmer of hope in my heart
“A bright future,” my country will dream It can be a reality if we work as a team
Oh Afghanistan, may your joyless mountains be restored to their glory And may the world let prosperity and peace be our story
Heidi Hoffman ’29
Farrah Amenra ’27
Riley McComb ’28
Addy Lile ’29
Kendall Weeks ’29
Alina Tuwalski
Seeing everyone around the loveliest piece of furniture as I take a deep breath, I stop in my thought train, and admire the passion of them, my belly their bellies, moving up and down as we laugh and share our laughter with each other. When we are around this enormous, compassionate table, I feel as though all of my impending thoughts and worries vanished. Before the food, we pray to God and Jesus, thanking Them as we gather around as a beautiful family. While we are around this round dining table, eating food that was made with love and joy, that Our family, God, and Jesus cooked, I can’t think of anything better. Our love-worn hearts and minds are attuned to just each other. That kitchen In the room next to us, smells like soul food, and in the dining room, there is love in our table
Alina Tuwalski
When walking through the forest, I stop to take a look at some of the eagle’s beauty. The eagle also looks at me, and we share a moment together, a moment where we connected. The eagle then flew to my shoulder, its distinct, blue, glistening eyes looking at me, while I was looking at it back. The shades of the sun reflected onto the eagle. Then, I gave the eagle a piece of my beef, and it gladly accepted it as a token of our newly found friendship. The bronze of the setting sun then reflected off of me, and I saw the eagle smile. My heart then leaped for joy after I saw her smile. I didn’t want to tell folks because this was our moment. Now, the eagle and I are never going to forget this special moment. I am so glad that I was blessed by God to have a new friend to share a moment with.
Margot Lilley ’27
Nieve Morrison ’28
Maeve McDonald ’27
Sophia Labate ’27
Avery Welsh ’28
Claire Doran ’27
Nieve Morrison ’28
Sunny Peterman
A fight for justice
A fight for kleos
A fight for love
A fight for sadness
And a fight for death
Originally… it was a fight to gain back a woman that did not want to be trapped In her false, loveless marriage
Now it's a fight for all the men on the ships
Slowly dying a painful death, With all their wounds
This is a fight for justice.
A fight for kleos
For the men that want to be remembered For the men that only get remembered for The Fight
For the wounded to be “served right” or to earn remembrance In a sense
A fight for love
Ultimately fails in the story
Because, of the blind and greedy
A noble fight, but a one destined to lose
A fight that will lose you, Achilles
Your place
Your kleos
Your love
Your hope
Yourself …
Sadness
Dear, poor Achilles, sadness will overcome you
You will dwell in the sad
You will sob, and weep
To your mother
After you have lost all hope of love
All fight you once has fled from your body, And now the sadness overcomes you
While a person you loved is stuck in battle
This is your cry, the fight of sadness
Death…
He fights he picks up his wooden spear, Sadly it is useless against the god
The god of Sun and music
Apollo…
He wants you dead
He pushes you over in battle
Until Hector see’s your downfall and finishes the job for Apollo
You are struck
Then die a quick yet painful death
…
All of this happened while Achilles mourns his losses
And now Achilles has lost another
A friend
No, not just a friend
A best friend
This is the fight to the death, that brings Achilles fight
Flooding back into his bones
But he is different now, He is a mad man…
Alina Tuwalski ’28
I’m a goddess who dreamt of being free. Away and above the control of men. My beauty does not only define me. I was stronger than they could ever see. I knew I could be more than property. So my fearless heart was burning on fire and it desired that I reach higher. I needed freedom and independence and so I had to run far, far away. Because I am a woman who will never belong to anyone.
Gracie Kennard ’26
Tala Qubain ’26
Bridget Fahey ’25
Shelby Parker
Hiding away from life
Underneath a run-down bridge
Graffiti and scruffy beaten-down tents
Needles and bent burnt spoons
Comforted by other forgotten souls
Zombies
You wore those baggy long sleeve sweaters
Hiding those needle tracks
You weren’t cold, you were never cold
You just felt guilty
You couldn’t show the world your troubles
Addiction in plain sight
It wasn’t a fun one-time thing
We all know it was forever
Permanent, everlasting
It ate away at you
Your mood swings
Your gaunt face
Scabs on your skin
Scratching until you bled
Who would’ve thought?
A functioning addict but yet
You still suffer inside
Shelby Parker
I stood before you on the voyage
The waves chatter and they ring out I calm you and try to calm myself
The waves rest, cradling each other
Your heart sings a calm song
Tears gliding down softly
I took them and turned them into wine
We got drunk off of our sorrows
Slowly plagued by the insanity of bloodshed
I bestow upon you my armor
So you carry a piece of my soul
The essence of me
I comfort you
You slay through many, just as I did They freeze overcome by the dread
Radiant gold and red armor
All of the Trojans now lay Dead, lifeless
I told you with my naïveté You will be fine, Patroclus
I lied to myself and you Fury possessed my body
I jolted in agony when I heard the news
It was unfathomable
A piece of my soul withered away
The lights faded from our world
It was no more and we were no more Simply a dying song
It ended on the wrong note
Sunny Peterman ’26
Ava DiGiuseppe
Poor Catullus, oh what have I done to you?
Though I am away from you, I am not lost
At a time, we walked together in the sun
When you would follow me wherever I had led
I was loved by you as none will ever be loved
I always desired to be loving you
The sun shone brightly on our days together
You think that I do not love you anymore
But do not let this terrible feeling grow
My circumstances keep me from doing so!
My husband is the one that keeps me from you
I must harden my heart and endure the pain
Goodbye sweetheart, I will keep my head held high
I hope that one day you will find me again
When I can finally protest against him
Pity on him! What life lies in store for him!
Who can love that man now? It cannot be me
Oh, but until you come to me once again
But I, Lesbia, must stay strong and stand fast
Ella Simko ’25
Keira Kim ’25
Avery Balitsaris ’25
Alex Fahey
There was a rich man, an inventor, a VIP power investor. More interested in rocketships and space, than making his planet a better place. With his money, he could not buy virtue. Merely countries, wives, and companies to sue. He dressed in clothes that were drab in color, to paint himself harmless, a benign baller. He was told the world was his to hold, and hold it he did, choke it, tenfold . Worrying not about the limit of the heights he reaches, the image of the modern male he preaches. Though one could not spot one more adept in tact, and in the art of technology, business, and fact, intellect abundant, but he was not wise. Unburdened by affection, free from true allies. He golfed with the President on Sundays, Mondays he drove winged chariots down runways. On Tuesday he played with billions from bed, whilst others assembled the visions in his head. His smile was a shark’s, eyes watery and small. His conceit Herculean, though he was not tall. A Narcissus with a greed that was utterly obscene. He saw only black and white, but his existence was green. There were never more cryptic connections between man and his loyal inventions. A king in the age of technology.
A nonconformist without apology.
Bridget Fahey ’25
There was a man who seemed never to leave his desk. His eyes had bags just asking for rest. His hair is kept nice and neat, Staring into space, he thinks of the next case he will defeat. Others say, “Every lawyer is selfish, they just want personal gain!” But he just sits and listens, knowing he's got no shame. He makes more money than those who would wish him ill, And at the time they’ll need him, he’ll just send them the bill. When anyone challenges him, he never stops or shakes. Right or wrong, he will never stop a debate. He’ll stand in the courtroom in his clean suit upright, Just waiting for the right time to strike. No matter if he wins or loses we know what will follow, We’ll see him drinking at a bar either he will rejoice or wallow. After he sits looking like a mess opposite from when he begun, His hair all ruffled and his suit buttons undone. In court, he was an upright strong spoken man, But after his victory, his own wife and children speak louder than he can. He has children, none of which he knows well. He’s too busy with his cases, everyone can tell. He has other interests too but can never leave his office He would love to have hobbies, but the thought of not working makes him nauseous. He wishes to frolic and play with his kin, but truly his work is more important to him. He checks his watch, the day is done. He sits and wishes that he could have had fun.
Helen Coogan ’25
Sydney Batts ’25
Chloe Knox ’25
She wakes each morning with one dream in mind: To play her music for all humankind. She practices her music ‘round the clock, And knows each tune from Fred Astaire to Bach. At auditions, she seeks just to impress. And for that reason, she is finely dressed. The colors match in perfect harmony, And sparkle as far as the eye can see. She may look silly with her head up high, But in reality, she is quite shy. At concerts, she can play with grace and ease, The audience is left weak in the knees. She revels in the thunderous applause, And hopes they do not see past her facade.
“Is it fame or fulfillment that I seek?”
She wonders all throughout the long workweek. She gazes back upon her early days, When she was only a child at play. Her music was made only for the Lord, The angels and the saints beam with each chord.
“Is it fame or fulfillment that I seek?” She wishes she could once again be meek.
Georgia Purcell ’25
Halle Alexander ’25
Alyssa Meakim ’25
A young child, adorned in a hospital gown
Head completely bald, but never seen with a frown
Optimistic little kid missing his friends
A medicine taking schedule that never bends
Enrolled in an elementary school he can never attend
Emotional and mental wounds that can never truly mend
White sterile room filled with cards and flowers
He stares at them while laying in bed for hours
A scary sickness trapped in a young soul
The riddance of it is the only goal
Once seen sprinting up and down the basketball court
A normal childhood experience cut short
Nevertheless he is always seen with a smile
One that can be seen for miles
His parents feel nothing but fear
That the end of their time with their child is near
Skipping down the fluorescent lighted halls
No matter the place he’ll have a ball
Taking rides in his wheelchair with great pride
Pushing all bad energy to the side
Waiting for the day he’ll get to ring the bell
“I’m free!” the hospital hears him yell
A year old with the maturity of a young adult
The previous circumstances couldn’t have produced any other result
Strength of a bull, heart made of anything but glass
“Look at me,” he says “I kicked cancer's ____.”
Chloe Knox
A young girl developing into a young adult please don’t judge her for who she is, it is not her fault she prefers her baggy clothes any day but society feels she should wear cute dresses and carry herself in a girlier way she’d rather play basketball in the neighborhood they misgender her often, she feels so misunderstood she’s from a small city, that isn’t considered pretty but she takes pride in where she comes from, many people show her pity although her environment at home is completely different than at school she does of good job of balancing her different lives, she keeps her cool she can be as sweet as pie or she can be as sour as a baby’s cry nobody tries to get her perspective on life they constantly judge, not knowing how much she’s had to sacrifice her mother is someone she could always call all the trials and tribulations she faces, she knows her mother will be there through it all it’s not her job to fit in, so she remains unique she learn to love her flaws, and not to worry about those who see her as a freak many won’t understand the mood swings of a teenage girl but she remembers that she was born to stand out, so she embraces every curve and curl
Chloe Knox ’25
Phoebe Chambers ’24
Kiley Rusak ’24
In Hebrew my first name means “dew from heaven.” In Latin my middle name means “the giving one.” In Italian both my names signify a new life and more opportunity. My name is of my great-grandmothers before me. Both who lead a life of excitement like the color yellow or a Friday.
“Italia” was the name of my father's grandmother. She was a quiet-natured, small woman but when she talked, there was a lot she said. She had light brown hair and eyes the color of the ocean. Although she had a husband she was devoted to, she lived a life full of friends and travel. She worked as a seamstress who made expensive suits, and would create her own dresses in her spare time.
My middle name is of my mother’s grandmother, “Donata.” Unlike Italia, Donata was a wild woman who went out and danced all night long. She had dark olive skin, jet black hair, and evergreen eyes. She lacked an education, and left Italy with her betrothed husband to travel to America for a better life.
Both my great-grandmothers hid their names to fit in, and not be viewed as outsiders because they’re immigrants. Italia was called “Edith,” and Donata was called “Mary.” I hope they call me by my name. Not a face that I hide behind, but rather something loud and clear.
They say my name funny. Sometimes it's “Thalia,” “Ta-lee-uh,” and even “Toal-ah.” I never want to change my name. My name represents two women who lived their lives to the fullest. I look at myself in the mirror and know my name portrays who I am and the person I am becoming. I have inherited their names, and I aspire to take their place dancing on top of the world.
Celeste Giangiulio ’24
Grace Cullen ’24
Talia Scarpa ’24
Molly Taft
I.
Sunlight pours through the fragments. A colorful reflection of the glass on the old church floor. Muddy and blurred, like a lake’s mirror image of the sky. Dust drifts through the rays of light.
II.
Devout churchgoers hold their hands to their lips. I follow their silhouettes with my eyes, they are only shadows compared to the glass behind them. Deep in prayer, I wonder what’s on their mind.
III.
The golden incense burner rocks back and forth. An aromatic cloud floats past the pews. The back of my throat feels suddenly ablaze. Stained sunbeams shine through the haze.
IV.
Women in habits look at the window. A mosaic of their faith and their life’s devotion. Saints and their miracles portrayed in little pieces of glass. What is it like to bask in the sunlight of their God?
V.
Sometimes, the windows make my heart rush. I feel connected to their glow. The glow I have seen since I was a child. I am still growing every day, but the windows never change.
VI.
Bells toll five times. The air is moving, buzzing. But the windows stay still in their sacred splendor. They are just as important as the ringing heard all over town.
VII.
A child sleeps in the arms of her mother. And when she wakes, she smiles. The stained glass resembles a kaleidoscope. How simple life must be, to be so certain of what you’ve been taught.
VIII.
A plaque under the window reads “in memory of…”. I never knew the man the glass was dedicated to. Would he like it if he saw it now? Or would he walk right past it?
IX.
I drag my fingers across the pieces put together. I stare at my reflection. Such a fragile thing, the glass is. Prone to destruction, is that why it’s so alluring?
X.
I make my way down the aisle. A lovely array of flowers bloom beside me. The windows shine onto me from both sides. At this time I feel so grateful.
XI.
I cannot look out the stained glass window. How do I know that there is anything past it?
I have been told that if it were clear, I would see the church’s lawn. Maybe I would see the clouds, I wonder if they’re white or gray.
XII.
The sinner waits for reconciliation. The line shortens as the sun sets behind the trees. But the church grows dimmer until it is dark. And with no light, the stained glass windows disappear.
XIII.
The air is thin and hits me as I open the church’s heavy doors. Fluorescent street lights guide me home. I look over my shoulder to see the stained glass windows one last time. The window panes are frosted over, and the church is illuminated from inside.
Alicia Jonsdottir ’24
Marianna Pilacik ’24
Talia Scarpa
I
Of all the fruits in the world, The pineapple looks more unique than the others.
II
With spikes of yellow and a tall crown of green, How intimidating it seemed.
III
However, the pineapple
Was a symbol of hospitality, Of welcoming, and of celebration For all who dwell in a home.
IV
The pineapple is on a tropical vibe and takes a vacation along the seaside.
V
On the inside
The pineapple shows its true colors. With a brighter yellow than its outside, Its beauty gleams.
VI
The paintbrush looks at the object Of the pineapple And seems upset. The brush is brown followed by A clear iridescent color At the bottom.
VII
The paintbrush became angry. How come it was not a bright color like the pineapple? The brush showed too much transparency.
VIII
So, the paintbrush still angry
About how the pineapple was So great, decided to put on its breaks. The pineapple will not appear In the painting like it is in reality For its spikes and colors were dimmed To a pale white.
IX
The paintbrush realized what it had done. The pineapple still shined Even though in the shaded sun.
X
The paintbrush had to learn that True beauty comes from within. Not from an appearance Of how things were perceived, Similarly to how the pineapple Was actually sweet.
XI
The paintbrush is creative and comes in different sizes
Just like its paintings it produces. The painting tool’s friends are acrylic paints that lend The brush their colors when It needs to paint.
XII
The pineapple in its finished state Is hanging on the shelf
In an art museum.
XIII
It was later now. The museum has closed And the paintbrush Went home
To a new canvas Where it will start again.
Emma Voegele ’24
My garden lies between the hill and the old man’s shed. With trees of green around it and the sun right overhead. And in the morning when I’m still dizzy and tired from last night’s rest, I’ll water the flowers and pull the weeds and scare away the pest.
But before I go, I’ll continue to grow my favorite, most prized possession, the star of the stage, my beautiful sage, my one and only obsession. And I’ll water her, and prune her, and ask if she’s doing well. And I’ll notice that she’s wilting, a friend can always tell.
Who else matters when my dearest sage is dying before my eyes? So I water her again and again and watch the colors change in the sky.
Light blue, purple, dark blue, black. She’s going, going, gone. And suddenly there’s a vacancy, an emptiness on my lawn.
In the morning light I’ll wake up to see the other plants dry. For they have received no love from me, not a single look from my eye. But they loved me so, and I loved them too, So I pull the sage from its shallow roots.
And I water the others with precious care, remembering how they always waited there. And how they’d never wilt under too much water, because all my love was never too much for them.
Nieve Morrison ’28 Ava BarreraWaves of auburn hair, glossy emerald eyes filled with pure love, the most freckled skin I have ever seen. Everything started to make sense, the puzzle pieces started to connect. A voice as warm as chicken-noodle soup on a cold winter day. Smells of lemongrass and sleep. Never knew of someone so sweet.
Who thought it was her? Not little me, of course. Little me had no clue it could turn out like this, no one said it could. Until it did. One cold autumn night. *incoming direct message* Who knew that one little message would last this long? Eight months to be exact. In just that little time, a whole volcano erupted.
I never understood what “butterflies” meant until that day. The pure giddiness of a simple notification. Someone to finally lose sleep for. “What a dream!” little me would say. Oh if she could see me know. Her eyes would be as bright as the sun. To finally feel the romantic love she always deserved. I can see it now: “She’s really ours? All mine? Is she gonna leave?” Now that, my love, I am not sure. Doesn’t everyone always leave? I do not think this one will. She pinky promised, those cannot be broken.We deserve this, we deserve to be loved with compassion and care. Her heart now mine, beats the same from miles away.
Ella Abramson ’24
Dear Molly,
Before you were born, there was a man with a deep voice and calloused hands who met a lady with hair like yours and eyes like the mist on a stormy shore.
He picked me from a market stand and held me close in the palm of his hand. A heart shaped locket that reads her name with a picture of him, for when he goes away.
And at the station, men wave goodbye. So proud of their preeminent sacrifice. From the windows of trains, they call to their wives and pray to God for the sake of their lives.
My clasps connect around her neck. He drifts off into the bustling crowd. She stands still, now he is only a speck among the hundreds gathered ‘round.
The engine makes a loud chug and the horn goes from loud to quiet. She opens my heart with a little tug to see his picture closed inside it.
The letters inside of me spell forever. A reminder that he will return one day. But one year later, she received a letter. He was found washed ashore near the bay.
So quickly she tears me off of her neck, And locks me inside of her dresser drawer.
I listen to her crash like a car in a wreck Spinning out like never before.
She used to wear me day and night. But now I’m a secret never to be told. She married a man of good birthright, She traded me in for pearls and gold. But before she died just days ago, I saw light for the first time in seventy years. She opened my heart and looked at her beaux. “Forever” she reads and sheds a few tears.
And in her will, she gave me to you. But removed her love’s picture from my heart. As any good grandmother would want to do, She gave the next Molly a fresh start.
So please, treat me well, and don’t lock me away. No need for a picture of a man that can’t stay. To wear me is to love me, to keep me from rust. I can hold all your secrets, I just need your trust.
Sincerely,
Your Locket Celeste Giangiulio ’24
Bryanna Young ’24
I love being human. I love to stare at the night sky, little orbs of light cloaked by dark clouds. I love to wonder what’s out there, or if we’re all alone here, together.
I love being human. I love my fuzzy memories from when I can barely remember. I love the way my little hands could fit into my Dad’s palm. I love to think about the nights when Mom would lull me to sleep, Singing I Just Called to Say I love You.
I love being human. I love to roll around in the grass. And when it rains, the storm clouds roll in, and the wet hot Pavement smells like summertime. I love the way the tide washes away my footprints in the sand. I don’t mind if no one knows I was here, For I know it, and I feel so grateful.
I love being human. I love my eyelashes and my painted fingernails. I love to comb my hair and shave my legs. I love the bruises on my knees, they tell stories. I love to think about a time when I wasn’t here yet, And the time when I will be gone. I love to be a blip in time, a lucky accident.
I love the glare of the sun, the phases of the moon, the solace of prayer, the warmth of my friends when we hug. I love the smell of lilacs and little puppies. I love to put the top down of my car, blasting my favorite songs.
Scarlett Hart ’23
In Steven Spielberg’s Schindler’s List, the main character, Schindler, is a member of the Nazi party during the Holocaust. He witnesses how Hitler’s army terrorizes and murders people of the Jewish community. After seeing the atrocities, Schindler alters his perspective and works diligently to protect and save the Jewish people being victimized. Spielberg craftily presents his movie in primarily black and white. However, one specific scene is presented in color when Schindler is standing on a hill watching the Jewish people being raided and forced out of their homes. This scene is critical because Schindler spots one little girl wearing a red coat. Spielberg wanted his audience to recognize the importance of this little girl in a red coat to appreciate how Schindler distinctly saw the little girl for the first time. Despite the lack of dialogue, the little girl serves as a symbol and forces a turning point for Schindler which changes the way he perceives the Jewish community. Although he could not do anything to save that little girl while she was in the midst of a raid, he felt empowered to prevent the future torture of others.
People we encounter can sometimes unexpectedly serve a purpose similar to the little girl in Schindler’s List, challenging us to uphold morals and values despite going against the trends of society. As a young child, I was constantly battling a desire to be accepted with the responsibility of protecting my sister. Fortunately, like Schindler, I experienced a moment, similar to the “red coat” epiphany, when I finally chose to put my morals before my pride.
Growing up, my sister Amelia received all of the attention from my parents. Perhaps her title as oldest daughter and diagnosis of autism invited people to coddle her since she struggled to express her emotions. She was unable to process other people's’ intentions, and I often endured the brunt of her anger and frustration, at times being the proverbial punching bag for her outbursts. Although Amelia did not want to hurt me, I was too young to understand the difficulties she faced and frequently resented her treatment of me. It was not until third grade that I realized what it was like to live with a social disability and saw my sister through new eyes.
Amelia was sitting at the lunch table with her new friend, a boy. Their friendship was defined by simple laughter, sharing favorite snacks, and rehearsing for the upcoming drama performance. I witnessed this innocent joy, yet I feared it would soon be shattered, because I had previously observed how people with differences were mistreated. Quickly, her moment of joy turned into terror as her classmates approached the table to mock Amelia for sitting with a boy. They insulted her, saying, “you are so weird and awkward; he will never like you.” They relentlessly ridiculed her routine of eating food she defined as“safe.” After several minutes, Amelia ran to the bathroom. Seeing her distraught caused something inside of me to erupt. At that moment, I became a defender rather than a spectator. Although I was her younger sister, I confronted her tormentors and explained how insensitive and hurtful their behavior was. As the words were rushing out of my mouth, I felt her fear and frustration as if I were the one being bullied. Unlike Amelia, however, I could express my emotions and formulate words whereas she could not process the situation and ran away.
While apologies from Amelia’s friends might have helped soothe her, this “red coat” event changed my life. From that moment on, I understood the difficulties that Amelia faced, and I felt empowered to protect and support her. Amelia taught me the importance of compassion and the need to be supportive of people’s differences. Too often, I took for granted simple aspects of life, but watching Amelia struggle taught me to appreciate opportunities afforded to me and persevere. Like Schindler, my perspective changed seeing Amelia face unnecessary bullying and I realized that it is my responsibility to protect the innocent. No longer did I look at Amelia as the favored child; instead, I saw her as a strong, determined individual who can overcome any obstacle.
Lucy Hughes ’23
Lorna Petrizzo
Up! Hands scrape the sky
Middle! The lone sentinel
Down! Your feet entrenched
Lorna Petrizzo
I need help with math
Drowned in a sea of numbers
Where’s my eraser?
Lorna Petrizzo ’23
Natalie Maye
La puesta del sol alimenta mi alma. Los colores de rosado, anaranjado, y amarillo pintan fotografías en el cielo. Las nubes tintadas me traen alegría.
La puesta del sol ilumina el cielo e ilumina mi día. Me encanta cómo cada una es diferente. Cuando estoy distraída, me hace consciente. La puesta del sol es siempre legendaria.
El sol siempre se pone para terminar el día y traer uno nuevo.
The sunset feeds my soul. The colors of pink, orange, and yellow paint photographs in the sky. The tinted clouds bring me joy.
The sunset illuminates my sky and illuminates my day. I love how each one is different. When I'm distracted, it makes me aware. The sunset is always legendary. The sun always sets to end the day and bring a new one.
Bridget McTear
Your beautiful sounds are like no other. You give life to everything I know. You remind me always of my mother. Of her warm embrace I never let go. You open my eyes and speak to my heart. I love your words and sharing them with you. Your unique stories are what set you apart. With you, there is nothing I couldn’t do. I hear you in the car and in my home. Running, working, or lying on my bed, You are my friend when I feel most alone. I can never get you out of my head.
Music fulfills me and makes me smile. Come with me and listen for a while.
Aly Maguire ’23
Anna Diederich
Mi café es tan frío como el hielo. Me encanta mi café, me despierta.
Cuando tomo un sorbo de mi café, mis ojos abren. El caramelo se arremolina como un tornado.
Mi mejor amiga es mi café. Es mi única mañana felicidad. La leche, de avena, es deliciosa.
Mi café no me deja nerviosa.
Me gusta más azúcar el lunes.
Mi café es mi mejor regalo de la mañana.
My coffee is as cold as ice. I love my coffee, it wakes me up.
When I take a sip of my coffee, my eyes open. The caramel swirls like a tornado. My best friend is my coffee. It is my only morning happiness. The milk, oatmilk, is delicious. My coffee does not leave me nervous. I like more sugar on Monday. My coffee is the best gift in the morning.
Barbara Fahey ’23composed from the eyewitness testimony of Olga Kovacs
the mailbox had an unusual weight that day a postcard, from a Russian officer to his family his tone was upbeat: “we are systematically exterminating the Jews.” notes from abroad usually sting for other reasons — we miss their company, we crave their matzah, we want them home. but there is no longing, nor hoping, nor any right kinds of celebrations for that kind of cause.
the officer did not have family in Hungary. at least, not biologically — his new recruits for the Einsatzgruppen now related by the blood of locals.
the postcard did reunite with its original sender, although memory fails for the means. (should it really ever belong to anyone?)
the mailbox still feels heavy when it meets her gaze. some things remain unsent
composed from the eyewitness testimony of Olga Kovacs
“camp,” they called it it was supposed to be camp
no such “concentration” ever spoken aloud but it became quickly apparent in the people fighting for oxygen in a cramped car, and thousands more fighting for life.
it was a Thursday (the 15th of June) when the train stopped for good at Auschwitz. technically, for evil.
the bolts begin to unlock a woman cries in agony, her childbirth reaching its crowning point
creak! creeeeeak…...
unaware and without care, the soldiers proceed to unfasten the iron hands of death standing between her and the end.
the infant enters the world just as it prepares to step out. its first cry is multipurpose; the new mother and her child are the first to be separated: torn apart twice in a row.
no time to shout: it’s a girl! only:
Steigen sie aus dem Zug aus! exit the train. their shouts pierce the air verbal needles all too familiar by now. this, they decided, was the gathering point.
composed from the eyewitness testimony of Olga Kovacs
the only flowers in Auschwitz lay side by side on the way to the disrobing and gas chambers.
a glimpse of hope, to some? proof of survival, of strength, of serenity:
Zyklon may exterminate insect pests. but it cannot exterminate the spirit of Olga Kovacs, or Santa Pelham, or the millions of other stories that transcend time’s fleeting grasp.
but Auschwitz was no stranger to ill-fated irony and twisted humor. were the pansies a cruel mockery? another euphemism and cover-up? a symbol of the backwards beauty the Nazis found in death.
regardless:
the pansies, in their serene life, may have offered solace to those facing the worst of it.
the flowers, as an entry point, flourished because the humans exhaled. the humans of Auschwitz cannot again be nouns, forgotten has-beens or unknowns:
even covered in the awful remnants of being, the blossoms remained upright.
She just left
I can still feel the heat from the fire
It suffocates me
I can’t tolerate it
I tolerate it just fine
What do you mean she didn’t come?
The fire’s burning way too hot
It’s way too cold
I step closer to the fire
Embers burning holes in my skin
She told me she’d be here
Soon the fire will consume me
I’ll be nothing left but bones
I can’t wait
I can wait many eternities
I must have missed her, I didn’t see her
I’m too quiet
I’m too loud
I can’t hear anything
It’s all I can hear
I can only hear screaming
She was never here
It’s hurting my ears
The screams are hurting my ears
I try to cover my ears
My hands, my hands
They’re burning
No, they’re gone
Who are you talking about?
I’m silent
No, I’m the one screaming
It’s all I can hear
It’s consuming me
Barbara Fahey ’23 Katie Hull ’23
Katie Hull ’23
Scarlett Hart ’23
As soon as I hit the submit button, there was an immediate burst of virtual confetti all over my computer screen. I had done it. I applied to college. The feeling of accomplishment was like no other. The process that I had spent so much time, energy, and stress on was over (at least on my part). There are so many emotions tied to submitting my college applications. I’m excited for all of the firsts that are going to come in college. I’m stressed about my decision date. I’m looking forward to what’s to come beyond the gates. However, despite all these great emotions, I also feel sad. Through all of this, I'm realizing that I'm finally experiencing my year of lasts. It’s my senior year of high school at Notre Dame, the place I’ve called home for the last seven years.
Since th grade, I’ve watched all of the senior classes before me experience their year of lasts. However, I never knew mine would come so quickly. Before I knew it, I was driving through the gates in the pouring rain on September th to go to my senior tailgate in the Cuvilly gym. Then, weeks later, I jumped into the pool for my senior plunge, something I’ve been waiting for since th grade. Last Friday, I danced the night away at my last Fall Fling, dressed cleverly as “Identity Theft,” a costume I came up with the night before. Next week is my seventh and final Spirit Day, one of my favorite traditions here at ND. Our skit is going to be awesome, but I’m dreading it being over because that means it’ll never happen again. In February, I’ll have my last Winter Ball, then Prom in May, and finally, the last day I drive through the gates as a student and hear my last “have a great day Notre Dame.” This year has gone by lightning fast, I blinked and it’s already the end of the first quarter. As each day passes, June rd creeps closer and closer. As I’m experiencing each of my lasts, I’ve been thinking of my future beyond the Gates and what’s to come once I leave Notre Dame. I’ve started taking photos of the Mansion each day to serve as a reminder of this place.
Lauren Margerison ’23
I honestly never meant for this paper to become a sob story, but that’s what happened. Senior year is such a great thing to look forward to, but once you’re in it, I can’t stop wishing I was back in freshman year, not willing days to end. I remember one of the themes for spirit day when I was in middle school was “Time Flies at ND” (I still have the shirt to prove it). Everyone has always told me that time really does fly at ND, but I guess I’m only realizing it now. I’ve whizzed through this entire college process (or at least tried to) without realizing what it means for me and my time at ND. I was in such a rush to submit all my applications, that I didn’t sit down and think that I was subconsciously wishing away the rest of my limited days at ND.
While all of this reflection isn’t directly related to me hitting that submit button and seeing virtual confetti, it’s all tied together in a unique way. Each day that goes by is one less day that I have here, but one day closer to my future beyond the gates. It’ll be a new school year at a new school where I’m experiencing my year of firsts. I’m so excited for what’s to come after I graduate, but I’m just not ready yet. I’m going to cherish every single moment here at ND for the next days, hours, and minutes.
Maia Isabel Salas ’23
Hailey Bodner ’23
Iusedtothinkmicewerecute.
Theydidn’tdeserveallthebadpress—depictingthemasdirty,unhealthy,mean, orugly.FlowersforAlgernonbrokemyheartoverthedeathofafictionalmouse withextraordinaryintelligence,andasachild,IreadclassictitleslikeTheTaleof DespereauxandMrs.FrisbyandtheRatsofNIMH.JustlookatStuartLittleand MickeyMouse.Eventheircousin,Ratatouille—allresoundingHollywoodstars, belovedfiguresofchildhood.SearchingtheInternetfor“moviesaboutmice” yieldshundredsofaward-winningmotionpictures.
Just last year, Ratatouille the Musical was a legitimate performance that (virtually) raised $ million with songs like “Trash Is Our Treasure" and "Anyone Can Cook". So it seems that both the literary world and Hollywood are rather obsessed with sentient rodents. Why?
For one, they see the physical world from a different perspective than humans, sneaking into crevices and top hats alike. Also, since mice can be both pets and pests, filmmakers can tell an easily understood story about the dangers of marginalization. Ratatouille is emotional at its core. Of course, the animated rodents we see in movies are nothing like the ones we see in real life.
I had the unfortunate pleasure of realizing this last week.
Perched upon my favorite blue armchair, the venue for most of my productivity (and periodic dozing), I pored over document after document, scribbling calculus problems in succession. The television hummed in the background; Jeopardy! blending into Wheel of Fortune into professional cornhole. I was probably the only viewer, but not even an active one - unaware of the other screen in the room, I honed in on my work like every other night. It felt as if the television volume was zero - a lovely and calm atmosphere for productivity. In retrospect, I imagine this part as the scene in the movie where the protagonist unknowingly carries along, while the killer furtively prepares to strike. Just when she thinks she is safe, the unthinkable happens out of the corner of her eye.
A flash of fur darts into the living room. It makes eye contact with the girl in the chair: me. The awkwardness of it was oddly human. At this moment, I regretted every time I had ever extended the mouse a dose of sympathy. It was clearly intimidated, though, by our uncomfortable eye contact, and immediately scurried back to wherever it came from in the kitchen.
I’m not sure who was more affected by the encounter. Relaying my experience to my dad, you wouldn’t know whether I had seen a mouse or the ghost of Christmas past. It was odd — the idea that it had noticed my presence, and changed its mind about entering the space I was in. The protein-coding regions of the mouse and human genomes are % identical. Genetically speaking, we’re not as different as people might think. Mice can make facial expressions based on their emotional state, and if they do not have a companion, they can become lonely, anxious, and depressed.
Sound familiar?
After my mom noticed mouse droppings on the arm of my chair, I knew I could not in my right mind continue to sit there. Firstly, it did not appear possible within the laws of classical physics that the mouse could scale this chair, unless it somehow learned parkour or flight from a bird outside. Secondly, it couldn’t sit on the other, unoccupied chair in the room? Some entitled mouse we had.
Now, I realize I’ve continually personified this mouse and made it seem conscious of its surroundings. But in a sense, it kind of was. We study mice in the lab as animal models all the time, and depict sophisticated, CGI versions of them on TV. They’re instrumental to our success in neurobiology and modern medicine in general. Every drug you have ever been treated with was tested on a mouse. Why, then, was I so afraid to see one in my living room?
Sometimes, we don’t do well enough to consider the feelings of other creatures around us.
I didn’t encounter the mouse again for a long time. And in a weird way, I wanted to see it. I walked down the stairs at : am and tiptoed into the dark kitchen because I was nervous we’d make that awkward eye contact again. I stopped sitting in my favorite blue armchair, because I knew the mouse had been sitting there, and I’m not particularly fond of sharing. As crazy as it sounded in my head, I had waged a mental war against this tiny rodent that tormented my living room. No matter how many traps we scattered throughout the house, the mouse was indomitable. It simply would not give up. Just last night, as I penned this very essay, the mouse scurried out from under my blue chair that I was sitting in the night I saw it for the first time. It was a cruel and ironic symbol of the territory I have conceded since we first began this struggle for control of my living room.
Like Hollywood often tends to do, I have noticed myself anthropomorphizing the mouse. I found comfort in knowing that I might be its only remaining family member because my dad continues to buy rat poison and mouse traps. I referred to it as Mickey in our family group chat. I even wrote in one of my college applications that I was irrationally afraid of mice. Am I embarrassed that this has consumed my life? Maybe a little. But to be honest, I’ve been on edge a lot lately. When I’m consumed by serious responsibilities, Mickey is kind of a welcome distraction.
It doesn’t feel right to use the mouse as a metaphor for my own personal struggles and shortcomings, but I do think it is important to consider how we treat things that scare us. Fear is a healthy response in life — as the body's primal response to a threat, it has kept our species safe. But we cannot let ourselves be totally dominated by the what if, by the imagine that, by the I’m afraid.
My mom told me last night that they hired an exterminator to develop a “solution to the mouse”. I sincerely hope this is my last encounter with mice for a while.
Now to try to watch Ratatouille without having nightmares about my living room. Bon appetit.
Scarlett Hart ’23
Sadie Mordan
Some things never change, and some things always will. Take your hair, for example. Hair becomes greasy and frizzy and longer over time. Its curls may relax and its end may split, and there is nothing you can do about it. I did do a little something about it though, when it was time for my tri-annual haircut. This past week I opted in for a conscious kind of change. My bangs I once knew and loved grew out quite quickly, as did the rest of my hair, and I was desperate to get back that fresh look from four months ago. I texted my hair dresser and was ecstatic when she said she could fit me in on Wednesday. “Great!” I thought, “Now I will fit under the ‘urban chic’ category, as Dr. Califf would say, for our trip to the Met.” I was clearly eager to get to my appointment as I rushed my sister out of ND’s airport lounge. I dropped her off at work, and continued on my merry way to the town of Collegeville. Some minimal traffic later, I was strolling into Mint Hair Studio ready to take some weight off my head. The appointment was business as usual. I was ushered to the hair washing station where a pleasant woman named Katie introduced herself as she went through the steps of shampooing and applying conditioner, before I was guided to the main chair. It was there where I met my hair dresser, Maggie, and we exchanged life recaps of what was new since our last appointment. If you were wondering, her husband still has student loans to pay so he has been budgeting their spending, but she really wanted new kitchen countertops so Maggie worked ridiculous hours during the week of Christmas until she saved up enough money to splurge on the counters she wanted.
As my appointment was coming to a close, I heard the whispers of a song I used to know escape from the speakers in the ceiling. I was immediately transported back into the body of my seventh grade self. I looked in the mirror and it was as if my own eyes saw themselves dim in the reflection, now with a layer of gloss and sudden realization. It was so strange to look at myself in my school uniform and with my new haircut. Both things the polo stretched with years of wear, and my curly bob— were unfamiliar to this seventh grade self who only knew of her soccer uniform, and had long locks unlike the ones now glowing at her. It was like I was experiencing a warped sense of deja vu as I paid at the counter and waded to my car. I raised my phone to see the time; it was about half past five. I contemplated my work load for the night and considered the sunset that was likely to occur later, rather than sooner, due to the “spring forward” of daylight savings. I pulled out onto main street and started surveying the surrounding shops until I found what I was looking for. Yes, that’s it! I thought. That’s the local pizza joint we used to go to, so I must take a left here… and so the journey home began. I was greeted with the familiar backroads of Collegeville and their twenty-five miles per hour speed limits that were rarely followed when no one was watching. Most just remember to slow down when passing Morgan Lane. No police officer ever turned his head in fear of writing a speeding ticket on that road. I passed the building that once belonged to my orthodontist and thought about how I never cashed in my coupons to get a few gift cards after three years of not chewing gum. That sentiment was gone as I rolled to a quiet intersection that lacked street lights, but screamed “you should know where you are, but you’re not certain. Any guesses?” A swift right turn confirmed my guess, and I was relieved to know that my once detailed memory had not completely faded. I looked upon the house of old family friends. If you asked my parents, they would assert our families remained close, but I haven’t spoken to their daughter in years, nor had I seen the lovely display of firewood and fresh eggs now in their front yard.
Katie Hull ’23
As I was staring at the farmstand, I recalled a conversation I had with another who told me awhile back about the chickens this family got. I wished I texted the daughter congrats on her commitment to NYU, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Realizing I pulled over onto the side of the road and clicked my hazards on, I unclicked them and resumed my drive through memory lane. Houses of people I used to know, and remains of places I used to go, flashed by as I listened to the album of the song I heard in the hair salon. That is when I saw it. Through the trees, my house; no, my home. I tried not to divert my eyes too long from the road as it would have landed me in either the creek or a car crash, but that was definitely it. I would know those black shutters on that faded red stone anywhere. Two lefts and a trip around a bend would land me at the foot of my driveway. Three shifts of the gear and my car is in park, but the engine stays running with my seatbelt fastened. I could practically see the chalk city on the concrete. The number five on the mailbox remained slightly crooked from when the mailman hit it many years ago. Any stranger making a loop in the cul-de-sac likely wouldn’t notice such a thing, but then again, I’m not a stranger.
That’s my house! Except the garage doors are new, and there’s a basketball net along the fence, and a disturbing, mini stone statue in the form of a dog that is not mine. I’ve never seen those things. But the blades of grass still sway alongside the speckles of dandelions, and you can see the big black chandelier my mom bought through the semi-circle window. My car is in drive; I can’t stay long. If an emotional fit doesn’t find me, I know the little girl who now lives there likely will. Her name is Ava. Her mom told me so when she came to tour my home four years ago. I made a left off of Five Stable Court when I received a call from a friend who still lived in this neighborhood. I had sent him a photo of the house and he immediately wanted to know why I was back in town. I conceded “I was getting a haircut nearby and I thought I’d come see it… I was in need of some inspiration.” He was unsurprised that it was here I always came back to. He understands how much this place means to me. Slightly muted, he responded “Inspiration for what?...what are you going to write about?” I breathed, “For a paper, I think I am going to write about how some things never change, and how some things always will.”
Rylee Barnhart ’23
Rylee Barnhart ’23
Bella Proper
Growing up should make me want to rejoice, But as a young girl, it makes my skin crawl. “Keep your legs crossed,” says his snarky voice, “You are a girl and must act like a doll.”
And then I was ten, with dreams of free-range, But why does school only hear him day by day? So maybe if I grow up things will change, Yet now I’m growing and I am his prey.
Shall I sit still and bite my dirty tongue, Or let that man bark at me like a dog?
I scream my song at the top of my lungs, But my voice has long since been lost in fog.
Now I’m old and gray, pouring one more cup, All alone, wishing I never grew up.
