The English and Art Departments, Danny Vega, Suzanne Calleja, Sandi Wood, Adrianna Truby, and Bruce Musgrave
Cover Page Artwork: Anais Fabregas
Back Cover Artwork: Taniya Coldham
Letter to the Reader
As I began writing this letter, my thoughts kept straying to the pieces featured in this edition of Green Sky Blue Grass. Each piece was reviewed by members of the board and voted on with an open mind. No single piece was preferred over another, and it was incredibly difficult to deny a piece, because it was so obvious to us that each one was created with confidence and pride.
For whatever reason each piece was conceived, the emotion we found in every one was outstanding. So many students and staff members put time and effort into creating this gorgeous array of literature and art and were comfortable enough to share their work with the whole Palmer Trinity community, comfortable enough to share an intimate part of themselves with so many others that they might not know.
This comfort is what makes PTS so special. Every student here is given the opportunity to express himself or herself how he or she wants to, without the oppressing fear of judgments. Those who submitted understood this cl early. They knew that whatever they wrote, painted, or photographed would be seen by different eyes and interpreted in millions of ways, but knew that in the end, their pieces would be respected in their own right.
The pieces featured are examples of the multitude of layers found here at PTS, from the internal to the external, the physical to the mental. Each piece puts you into the mind of one of your classmates, and gives everyone who reads it a look into another layer of the world that they might never have thought about.
This year’s edition of Green Sky Blue Grass is also just another layer, growing from last year’s, and will be overlapped by the following year’s. Thanks to all the submissions, Green Sky Blue Grass has flourished into what you now hold in yours hands, and it is up to you to help it grow more and more.
Therefore, I want to give my thanks to everyone who submitted for making this magazine what it now is. Green Sky Blue Grass is a reflection of our community, of the amazingly cohesive layers that make up our student body, and of the amazing trust we have in one another.
Paulina Andrea Acebal-Aybar Editor-in-Chief
The cover picture, which I took, is a special symbol for me because it represents my stay in Miami. I come from France and had the chance to study at Palmer Trinity School for a three-month period this past fall.
The picture was taken on the school’s parking lot, at about 8am one October school day morning. The sunrise had already started but only the sun’s light was visible in the sky. I had been told that sunrise colors in Miami are unique and wonderful. I now know that to be true from experience.
The picture first shows, in the lower part, the earth as we know it, with its elements that make the ground we live on so familiar to us. But what makes the picture meaningful is the sky and the beauty of the morning clouds that turn out to be taking up most space in the picture. For me, the picture represents flying away into the unknown sky from the place you know and landing in a foreign place in order to discover the beauty of other continents and the greatness of different people. My trip allowed me to meet so many wonderful people, friends as well as teachers and families, whom I will always remember for the amazing time I spent with them. I definitely am so glad the pl ane took off from Marseille that day to take me to meet you all at Palmer because the discovery of a different life is an experience a thousand times worth having.
Thank you Palmer Trinity School!
From France, with love,
Anais Fabregas
Chocoholic, Anyone?
Godiva, Lindt, Ferrero Rocher, Rolos. My obsession keeps growing. Saturated fats, calories, and cholesterol leave my mind when I see those gorgeous wrapped chocolates shining brightly in the shelf. From there my biggest problem is choosing between one or the other.
Got an F? Got dumped? Got lost? Got booed? Crying is definitely not an option, but chocolate is the solution. Chocolate can be used for anything: to cure a broken heart, a failed report card, and even an embarrassing moment. It’s a multipurpose medicine that is much more effective than Tylenol, Advil, and Motrin. Unfortunately, every medicine has its side effect. With this one, for each dose you take, the chubbier you get. Of course, as a chocoholic, you must have a secret hidden stash so when you are not ok you have your medicine just a cabinet away.
That creamy hazelnut Godiva can be a miracle worker. Every time I bite into those amazing almond and hazelnut truffles, my heart melts and my brain freezes. All my worries are gone, and all I can think of is, “I need more!” When I travel, I make it my mission to find exotic chocolates from all over the world so that I can feel at home and still be 1000 miles away. The best place to find chocolate is the one and only E. Leclerc supermarket in Europe, where they have hallways of every chocolate imaginable. My mouth dries and my eyes sparkle as they glimpse the hallway. With just with a cart and with my short arms, I grab a bunch of those shining trophies and make heaven here on earth.
Fabiana Vivacqua
Taniya Coldham
Asphalt
I can close my eyes and see the moment as if it happened an hour ago. I am fourteen years old and standing in an asphalt-paved parking lot adjacent my junior high school on a hot, humid day, waiting for the arrival of the yellow bus that will soon take me home. I am drinking a bottle of ice-cold Coca Cola, purchased from a grocery store across the road, and on the ground next to me, stacked in a neat pile, are all of my textbooks. But it is the memory of the asphalt that is most vivid. I can feel its heat soaking through my shoes, and I can smell it – an acrid, almost pungent smell, sort of like boiling roofing tar.
I was not a popular kid…by anybody’s measure. I was physically and socially awkward, and I wandered the labyrinth of hallways in my massive school as a loner. I compensated for the absence of friendships by losing myself in the world of books, storytelling, and stamp collecting. While I was not popular I was undeniably smart.
It was in junior high school that I discovered that there were people who seemed to believe that they were entitled to abuse anyone at any time. Three of these people had made my life a veritable living nightmare for two consecutive years. They resented and humiliated kids who were smart, especially the ones who learned and achieved with seemingly little effort as I did. In the eyes of these three bullies it was as if I walked around with a target painted on my back.
Trying my best to disappear amidst the hundreds of students in the parking lot, I was constantly vigilant. You know how you can spot your mother’s voice in a crowded room almost instantly? Well, I could identify my three assailants, this trio of enormous bullies, with even swifter precision. I remember clearly my throat tightening as I heard the sound of one of their voices approaching from afar. I try to move but it is not easy; holding a bottle of Coke and trying to manage a stack of five or six thick textbooks prevents me from moving very quickly…but I try anyway.
Danielle Burke
I bend down and that’s when I hear his voice.
“Give it to me,” he demanded in a voice that had prematurely deepened to that of a fullgrown man. “I said, give it to me!” he repeated in a furious roar.
I was terrified, and I did not know exactly what he wanted, but it did not matter. He reached out, ripped the Coke out of my hand and turned it upside down. The cold caramel liquid spilled out, splashing on my shoes, my pants, and my books. When it was empty, he threw the bottle at my chest.
It was then that I noticed the students around me, gazing in silence. No one said anything and no one did anything. The bully, whose name I cannot remember, laughed, turned around and vanished into the crowd, his moment of amusement now over.
The time between that instant and the arrival of the bus was probably ten or fifteen minutes, but it stretched into infinity. I wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. So I just stood there, alone on the sweltering asphalt.
It would take many, many years, including over a decade of military service, until I finally figured out how to respond to a bully. I came to the conclusion that it is almost impossible to alleviate all fear when rising up against oppression and intimidation, but that fear can be minimized. All it takes is for one person to find the courage to speak up in order to liberate others…only one. I learned that where there is one victim, there are almost always others, equally afraid to fight back. Find those people and join forces…for there is comfort and a sense of empowerment to be found in numbers.
I learned that it is possible to fight back and remain safe simultaneously. Fighting back does not have to be with violence, although I have certainly fantasized about it. I have learned that bullies feel fear just as acutely as anyone else and what do they fear most? Courageous compassion. They fear that one day the victim or victims will have had enough of their intimidation and will rise up with a voice that commands, “This must stop!”
In almost every single instance of bullying, there exists a power differential – it can be physical size as it was in my middle school experience or it can be based on authority. All bullies, regardless of where they are or who they are, rely on this protective cloak ,and they tremble at the thought of having it stripped off. But if the suffering is to come to an end, which compassion demands, it must indeed be removed. Bullies are not entitled to an indefinite reign of terror. There are reasonable consequences for bullying behavior that, if appropriately administered, can transform bullies into compassionate human beings.
If you are either the victim of bullying or you witness it happening to someone else, know that you can be powerful beyond all measure, regardless of your physical stature. Know that no one, absolutely no one has the right to intimidate, harass, ridicule or threaten another human being…period. Bullying tears at the social fabric and attacks a person’s spirit like acid. When you read the teachings of such peopl e as His Holiness the Dalai Lama, Gandhi, and Martin Luther King, you see that they are in fundamental agreement as to the
sacredness of every human being and their right to lead lives of freedom and safety.
And remember the courageous campaign waged in Pakistan by fourteen-year-old Malala Yousufzai. Starting at age eleven, Malala began to give voice to the provocative idea that girls should be allowed to seek an education. Writing under a pseudonym, she became a beacon of hope for young girls throughout the nation. She continued to advocate education for girls despite horrific threats from the Taliban. The Taliban were so threatened by her ideas that they attempted to assassinate her on a city bus. Miraculously, Malala survived, and her struggle has made international headlines. This young girl stood up to violent opposition with the heart of a lion and the spirit of Buddha. Her struggle is our struggle, for we are all connected by our common humanity. She reminds us that bullies are essentially cowards and that the voices of reason and compassion will not only reveal their cowardice but will overwhelm them, and the world will be a more serene and humane place.
John Griffin
Caroline McGregor
Taniya Coldham
The Desert
The night sky is full of stars, unrivaled by the moon or the city lights from across the river, as we make our way back to our hotel rooms. I pause in spite of the soft pillow beckoning my tired head.
And then, I feel a new kind of heat brush my face. It is not the steady, stagnant radiations from the ground, but rather a quick, unexpected burst as one gets when they open the oven with the convection turned on.
I realize it is wind, winging across the desert like the spirits of the pharaohs buried secretly in that once-secluded valley just beyond the cliffs framing this one. I have never before felt warm wind.
I wish I could bottle this wispy akh, halting its journey to the Underworld to carry it home with me, a souvenir intimate and personalized in the way that anything I could buy from the tangle of stalls surrounding Karnak, or Deir el-Bahri, or the Valley of the Kings could never be.
Those sprouted like weeds in the desert, just to profit from the tidal waves of people who come this way each year, but this wind blows for not one of them.
The wind has always been blowing, crossing the desert on a nightly pilgrimage for thousands of years, if not longer. It has stirred the sands before people were here, in a time before the Nile Valley was populated, if there ever were such a time. It fanned the face of many a worker, toiling away on their ruler’s final resting place, building palaces only the dead will enjoy. It beats still against countless blocks of granite, stacked and shaped into wonders of the world, loudly proclaiming the greatness of those gods on earth. It has kissed the faces of the people of Egypt as they united to topple the cheap shadows of the pharaohs from an era long past,
as they put those tyrants behind them and made their voices heard. It dances past the victors now returning home from casting their votes in Egypt’s first democratic election, the first of many in a new age, or so they hope.
I turn to call “goodnight!” to my parents, my voice mingling with the desert’s breath. What other voices have mingled in it as mine did just now? How many sounds has it carried as it flies across the desert? Was a hot wind stirring on the day the people first marched on Tahrir square whipping up the voices in that teeming city as it would the waves of the river flowing past? Did the wind quicken their blood and whet their appetite for change? Did the wind spark the passion for revolution which smolders on in the people still now as they hunger for even more difference?
I think of all this, then go inside, shutting my door against the story of Egypt told as it is not by the Great Pyramids or the unmoved, stony-faced sphinx, or the motionless paintings and faded carvings, but by a simple breath of wind.
Allegra Hill
Girl With Flower, Ashley Tagliero
Me
I don’t belong.
Like pieces in a puzzle I should fit into the throngs of the cool kids, but I don’t. I don’t.
I don’t qualify as cool in the eyes of the bully. I don’t.
I don’t laugh at the same jokes, wear the same clothes, think the same way. I don’t.
Days go on and on, but I don’t.
I am left behind in a sea of sorrows and wonders with wistful waves slowly washing away my strength, as the ship with the crowd sails on, and on, and I don’t.
I don’t mind not being aboard. I don’t mind not belonging.
Sometimes.
Sometimes it gets hard, but I am me. I feel like I am nothing, but I still stay me. I look into the mirror and I see me. Me.
Only I can see me.
The kids in the crowd, they don’t.
They laugh at me because they don’t see me. They won’t.
I am open, they are closed.
I am yes, they are no. They can, but they won’t. They won’t.
But I don’t change because I can see them. And I don’t like what I see.
So, I stay me.
Tiana Krstajic
Home
PLOP. My head pops up as I take in a huge gulp of fresh air. The slight summer breeze blows the remaining droplets of salt water off my face. I turn around and look down into the translucent turquoise water of the Bahamas and see my friend Shelby rising to the surface. She emerges from the water and shows off the beautiful pictures she’s taken. “Anabel, move back a little. This’ll make a great picture. C’mon!” she begs. I lie on my back, take a few strokes backwards, and tread water, smiling as I hear the click of the camera go off. I lie back down and let my mind and thoughts wander endlessly, as if they were the ocean themselves. I close my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve been gone from home too long, I think to myself. The current nudges at me and carries me farther from the boats, but I don’t care. I can almost taste the rays of the sun hitting my skin, filling me with warmth and joy. I put my snorkel back on and dive back under the waves. I do flips and turns and run my hands along the corals of the coral reef. Each coral has a different texture; one is squishy and sponge-like, another firm and solid, with intricate patterns carved into it. The giant purple sea fans gently rock back and forth, back and forth as if they were rocking a baby to sleep. I head to my right and disturb a group of minnows, sending them scattered and distressed as they dart in all different directions. I look up and see the sun beaming down on me, and I kick my way to the surface. I slowly lift my head out of the water, savoring every second and spit out the salt water that was drying out my mouth. I turn around and see the rays of the sun bouncing off the waves of the sea, making each wave appear as if it had a diamond on its crest. This is what I love, this is what calms me, this is where I can have the time of my life—in my home, the ocean.
Anabel Danon
Skyler Saucedo
The Best Fried Mozzarella
I step out of time and back into a neighborhood that’s no longer mine, but the songs we play in the car are still the same. We pull into the parking lot of an out-of-the-way shopping center. A small window is the first thing to greet us. A woman stands by a coffee machine serving someone café con leche. We pass by the small convenience store where my dad buys lottery tickets and good hot food when we can’t cook or go to a restaurant. Towards the back of the mall a ballet class is taking place behind a glass window. The whole place is a couple of stores curled around a grassy peninsula which leads back to the parking lot.
Papa Piccolo’s is a modest restaurant: one room with six or seven tables, a counter with a coffee machine, and a sports program playing on a TV monitor in the background. The lights are dim. The walls have the same furnishings as they did a decade ago. I know this place the way I know my family room couch. We sit down where we have sat many times before, the same wooden tables my parents have sat at since they were only a couple, not
Daniella Almanza
yet a family. It’s a home between homes, a place between memories. With new siblings, new schools, and new houses, things tend to change, but here has always remained the same.
This man who owns the dive has been here for years. His combed hair may now be a bit greyer, his eyes a bit more set into his expression. All the same, he’s still here, taking every order, serving every coffee and pizza, handing his customers every bill himself. I’ve never had a missed order or a wrong drink. I’ve never seen him without the restaurant or the restaurant without him. Time after time, no matter how many weeks or months pass, my parents greet him as always without any distrust on their tongues. Is there a word for something so timeless and so priceless?
There’s always enough butter on this bread, soft and warm in the hands I held it in when I was a child, when my feet didn’t touch the floor. I have never found a flaw in the pizza that is never too burned, too gooey, or too spongy. Every time I’ve eaten here, from the stuffed shells to the chicken parmesan, everything is so simple and it all exists only among these seven tables. The dish I anticipate the most, however, is always the fried mozzarella. It is served in a small metal tray with the two squares of cheese lying in a savory pool of tomato sauce. The breading and cheese melt beneath my fork, tomato sauce dripping to my plate. I don’t know how to describe a flavor that belongs to a moment now gone, but for me, this food requires no particular mood or craving, and there is not a food that reminds me more of the family that has been my home for all this time. I often question whether something like luck can exist, but it if isn’t luck that gave me this place, then I don’t know what did. All I can think as my favorite dish softens on my tongue is that I’m glad that my mom said, “Yes,” when I asked, “Can we eat at Papa Piccolo’s?”
Jesse Alvarez
Pretty in Pink
I sat patiently as the teeth of the comb ran through my matted hair. With a tender touch I felt my hair being pulled back into a pony tail, braided, then wrapped into a bun, every so often being secured with a bobby pin. I slipped into my glossy new tights and leotard, which perfectly conformed to my petite figure. Frantically digging through my bag, as if looking for lost treasure, my hands met a small, rectangular box with black lettering spelling out the word Capezio. Cradled in my hand was my very first pair of pale pink ballet shoes. Since a very young age, dance played a big part in my life. I fell in love with dance when I was only three years old and took my first ballet class. The dance studio became a place where I could escape from my hectic daily life, a place where I could just let go and be transported into a perfect state of bliss, where all my worries were lost in the movements of my body. It was in this state of tranquility that I could find my true self.
Ellie Nosich
As a little girl I always dreamed of dancing on a lighted stage in an extravagant costume in front of thousands of people. Seeing my old ballet shoes, I realize that, aside from physically allowing me to dance, these shoes made my dream possible. When I learned I was going to be an angel in a production of The Nutcracker, a frenzy of excitement overpowered me. After overwhelmingly long weeks of rehearsals, the day had finally come. I sat motionless as pounds of makeup caked my face. I jumped into my costume and hurriedly made my way through backstage. Before I knew it, I was standing in the wings, seconds away from taking center stage. I heard an angelic song begin to play, and I glided on stage. I looked out into the crowd and was immediately filled with awe. My mind was frozen, but I felt my body move with grace. As the lights shined on me, I felt like a star. At that moment everything felt surreal. I finally saw the images in my head unfold onto a painted canvas.
Not only do my ballet shoes represent a fulfilled dream, but they also symbolize free will and the ability for me to make my own decisions. It was my decision to put those shoes on for the first time just as it was my own choice to stop dancing. Now, being fifteen and no longer dancing, I realize that these shoes will always define the dream I accomplished, and they will continue to define who I am and who I will become.
Victoria Lopez
Still Life by Galicia Rothe
The Foreigner
And now here I am.
Struggling to connect to a place.
A place my parents called home, In this foreign land.
I watch a man bathe himself on the sidewalk, While his son pushes the hand pump. They carry jugs of water, And hang them on the handlebars of their bike. Their drinking water for the day, The process will begin again tomorrow. And I watch as they pedal away…
I am unsure of how to fit in here.
Wearing flip flops inside the bathroom,
As it’s too dirty to shower barefoot.
Sharing towels as there aren’t enough to go around.
Layering myself with warm clothes at night, As the house is cold and dreary, without air conditioning.
Finding stray dogs on the streets, With no owner to love them.
Trying to look away from the poverty, Even though it is sitting, And begging beneath my nose.
Shreeya Mishra
Thinking Tea
My mom always seemed to be drinking tea. She would come home each day bringing with her a cloud of tension. She walked as though she were still in the office dealing with pointed stares and heated voices. She was drawn in upon herself, and her shoulders were stiff as royalty, but she was not the queen. She was the butler, or the maid, or any other serf. Always working for something else, trying to make ends meet. She would huff and puff and place the kettle on the burner. “How was your day?” was the simple question that unleashed the hurricane.
“Taxing,” she would say as though trying to brush her problems aside. Then she would go into a long dialogue with big words and occasionally ones that I recognized from earlier rants. My partner…litigation, Mike, Denis, conference call. I had no way of deciphering the torrent of words she threw at me. Occasionally I asked a question and the story seemed to change directions, but I listened. I didn’t understand how they went together but with each story her shoulders sagged slightly more and more.
Suddenly the air seemed to take in a great breath and then blow it all back out with a piercing scream, and my mom would take the kettle off the burner. “Can I have some?” I would ask her. She would nod her head and get out two mugs. Always the one with the polar bears for her, and the one with the drink in my small hands.
Teapot, Caroline McGregor
We would sit in the dining room while she worked, or the living room where she lounged and she would ask me how was my day, and I would say, “Fine.” She would sip at her tea, and I would hold mine in my skeleton-like hands, trying not to breathe in through my nose as the fumes made me gag. And then my dad would come in and pick up my mom’s empty mug, look disgustedly at mine, and then say, “You shouldn’t get tea if you’re not going to drink it.” I would nod my head obediently; he didn’t understand.
Later, I began to drink tea on long, late nights when I was overtaxed. My skin stretched so thin my veins seemed to pop out as the tension coursed through them. Tea is for thinking, so I would use it to think.
Sarah Corbishley
Botanical, Drew Dorsy
Canción de Cuna con Música del Big Bang
Un niño duerme plácidamente en su cuna. Aún no sabe que es centro de interrelaciones con el Universo, como el diente de león que crece en el patio de su casa o la ranita azul que vive en el bosque tropical.
Aún no sabe que es un animal, pero busca ríos de leche nutriente en el pecho de su madre y me agarra un dedo con su manita prensil legada por chimpancés y gorilas.
Desconoce que los nueve meses que vivió en el vientre materno son el resultado de 3,700 millones de años de creatividad de su especie y que su peso de 6.6 libras es el cordón umbilical de amor en gravedad que lo une con su Pacha-Mama.
Ignora que es portador del misterio que vive en el segundo anterior a la gran explosión que creó las galaxias; que Tiamat, la supernova, le legó el ritmo de vida que lleva en su corazón y que el primer asomo de conciencia de Gaya en él, le hará sentir el palpitar de todo el Universo.
Desconoce que desciende de homínidos adoradores del sol que documentaron su órbita en piedras, inventaron la historia de las estrellas y maravillados con el canto épico del universo lo tradujeron en poesía y arte.
Ignora que su especie se asignó derechos de autor sobre el concepto de Dios.
Ignora que sus antepasados separaron el yin del yang convirtiéndose en huérfanos del Todo y olvidaron un día la solidaridad hacia las demás entidades vivientes.
No sabe que algunos de los animales que cuelgan del móvil en su cuna, aparecen en la lista de especies en peligro de extinción.
Un niño duerme plácidamente en su cuna aséptica, confiado de que el universo lo resguarda y cuida; lejos del azul del agua; de las palmeras y los malinches; de las garzas, los azulejos, los manatíes y el velvet de la yerba que crece en la biorregión que lo vio nacer. No sabe que a medida que vaya haciéndose consciente del ecocidio que hemos causado, el dolor, como un abismo negro, perforará su alma. Y entonces cuestionará y querrá saber por qué no detuvimos el ecocidio. Y yo me pregunto, qué par de zapatos, qué par de aretes, qué prenda de mi guardarropa, cuál de las orquídeas de mi colección voy a mostrarle cuando me pregunte qué me detuvo.
Teresa Campos
Teacher Spotlight: Teresa Campos
Green Sky Blue Grass: Tell us about your writing process.
Teresa Campos: Well, I started writing what in human time would be considered late, but I don’t see it that way because everything you write has a destiny. I don’t know the destiny about what I have written so far, but it fascinates me, and I truly believe that everything that is written under heaven is going to be read. I really love poetry. I read as much as I can because it is a fuel for my writing. To write something you need to pay attention. I just wrote a short story that I started from the middle because there is a passage there that was emotionally very difficult for me to write, so I decided to write it from that part first. Then I wrote in the end, followed by the beginning. Sometimes I am not that crazy and start from the beginning. I always have a pencil and a paper to write down ideas or other people’s ideas because writing is stealing ideas. So you pay attention, and you hear wonderful things people say and I write them down and use them later.
GSBG: Who are you favorite authors?
TC: When a book doesn’t seem interesting to me, I don’t force myself to finish, but there are books that have impacted my life so much. For example, Albert Camus’s The Stranger El Quijote by Cervantes is always teaching me something. I re-read El Quijote every once in a while because to me re-reading is like an act of humility. Other favorite are Jorge Luis Borges, Cortazar, Emily Dickenson, Rilke, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
GSBG: In which language do you prefer to write: English or Spanish?
TC: Spanish. I am not comfortable writing in English, but I have had the guts to write in English.
GSBG: How did you come up with the idea of writing this inspiring piece, “ Canción de Cuna con Música del Big Bang”? What motivated you? Is there a story behind your lullaby?
TC: I met this little boy that belongs to the universe, and when he was born, he opened up my heart to all the children in the world. I have two sons, and I thought I knew love when I had them, but then Christian was born. He is the son of one of my sons. When he was born, something happened inside of me; the love I thought I knew multiplied geometrically, infinitely. I thought I knew love, and then he was born, and it went to the infinity. He became all the kids all the children in this world. I wanted to leave a legacy or something that when he is older he can read as a gift.
GSBG: Do your family members also love to write?
TC: Nobody else writes in my family, not that I know of. I have actors and an opera singer in my mom’s side but I think I am the first one who began to write.
GSBG: What motivated to you to submit your piece to Green Sky Blue Grass?
TC: I just wanted to leave something for people, for the students, to think about. I would like to do something for this planet and every single entity living in it.
Skyler Saucedo
Intrinsic Emotion
Many an innocent layman or disgruntled English student has asked himself or herself (and on occasion the surrounding three-block radius) why writers cannot simply say what they mean. To answer this age-old frustration, I offer this: the indirectness of an expressive piece is not a question of sophistication or pedantry, but rather one of meaning. If the topics mean very little to the authors or if they would like them to, their writing appears blunt and rigid in meaning. If the topics puzzle the authors, they might end up musing aloud, allowing readers to spectate on a unique and solitary exchange of the mind. Should the topics, however, mean a great deal, authors inevitably express their emotions through seemingly unrelated anecdotes or metaphors in order to maintain a certain gravity associated with the sentiment. Writing “I’m so happy today” implies a fleeting happiness, which may not be further cheapened, and so truly content authors avoid such barbarism; hence the poet’s frequent use of paradox and vague allusion. Spelling out a day of peculiar precession would simply tell the reader a silly story, whereas reliving the tale would allow the reader to participate and experience the emotion firsthand. Sorrow and anger, on the other hand, are shrouded in nebulosity for an entirely different reason; that is to say, ambiguity in an upset mind protects the mind from the subject in question. Writing “I just lost the girl of my dreams and now life feels pointless” exposes the author to his or her own emotions while subjecting the reader to an entirely unintelligible form of output: intrinsic emotion.
Emotion exists as an abstraction, ethereal in nature. To drag it into our world—whether by means of artistic demonstration, linguistic exercise, or some other medium—is to destroy it by pulling it out of its own universe. The ambiguity commonly associated with romantic and modern writing such as Shakespeare or the Chuang Tzu serves as a bridge that we may cross in order to access the universe where pure emotion dwells; only then may we observe true sentiment without vitiating it, and so appreciate it while keeping it alive.
Max Matiauda
Warm Metal
My routine is as follows: wake up, stretch out of bed, then put on my jewelry. Not a day goes by in which any of the pieces are forgotten, and if, by some stroke of horrible consequence, they are forgotten, their presence is so missed that it drives me to distraction and sickness.
The claddagh goes on first, the thick silver band and smooth onyx will quickly warm, turning to fall into the creases it has left on my skin. Its position, faced down on my right hand, declares me “unloved,” but in truth it symbolizes the exact opposite. It radiates love from my mother and the sweet coolness of the crisp wind of the Highlands.
Next are the two thin rings, of sterling silver and white gold, purple amethyst and dark blue sapphire, bringing me the protection of my aunt and the memories of Transylvanian smells and sounds.
Lastly, my sundial, worn leather soft around my neck, settling against my solar plexus, copper and iron a pathway to the inevitability of time and nature and the all-consuming vibrancy that is in the world if you just open your eyes to what is going on around you.
After that, it doesn’t matter if I am going to school or the doctors or even just to the market. The pieces around my fingers and neck will ground me and remind me of everything that is my being; my ancestry, my beliefs, and the protection of my loved ones all contained in smooth warm metal at the ready to comfort me and offer all who care to look a little bit of my soul.
Paulina Andrea Acebal-Aybar
Daniella Almanza
Dear Drivers of Miami-Dade County,
Alright, Alright, I get it. I’ll race you to the end of US-1.
However, I propose I get a handicap of 1-mile. Being newer to Miami-driving, I haven’t yet learned the skills you vets have. I’m still carrying the self-conscious habits of the uninitiated Miami-driver. Only recently have I realized how much time I waste by looking through my rearview mirrors, checking blind spots, and, of course, braking. What can an amateur like me do compared to you masters of drifting lanes and cut-offs?
When I think of driving as a race, Miami makes so much more sense. Of course no one uses their blinkers—after all, no one in NASCAR uses them. Only fools give away their next move. Of course, no one would check their blind spots. We should be worrying about the cars in front of us, not the cars behind us. As for braking, if you actually think about it… there is no actual benefit to stopping the car. My advice to fellow amateurs: ditch the brakes, install nitrous.
My only issue is...I’m a little afraid of dying. Couldn’t this race possibly lead to a gruesome collision, resulting in, perhaps, my own death and, most certainly, the deaths of others? Maybe it’s just my imagination. I can just imagine you all now, reading this while driving—when else?—and laughing at my ridiculous ideas. I’ll probably just do what you pros do and deliberately avoid thinking about these possibilities.
I will be thinking of the prize, though. It better be worth the gas expenses. Before I thought your racing would only be rewarded by the frustrated obscenities belted out from other drivers. Now, I think there has to be more…so, what exactly is at the end of US-1? A pot of gold? Beautiful women? Maine?
Also, do we need a driver’s license to participate? I find the nonsense taught by the state can only hinder my performance in the long run—having taught me the aforementioned bad habits. Therefore, I think it may be advisable to ignore the license and just let everyone participate. Why not let our five-year-old cousins drive? At that age they have developed the motor-skills necessary to qualify for at least the semi-pro level. I’ve even seen five year olds work iPhones, and it’s common knowledge that knowing how to use an iPhone constitutes half of modern driving—the other half being driving. Following the natural progression of things, they’ll soon be both behind the wheel and their phones, responding to incoming texts as well as incoming cars. The only thing in their way is the one rule we don’t often break: the “you can’t drive without a license” rule. Honestly, if we’re not using the state’s uptight road rules, why bother to wear their seal of approval?
Anyway, sorry to take your eyes off the road. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Sincerely,
Steven Angueira
Inshallah
“Your name is Asma Aftimos?”
“Yes.”
“You have been living in the US for approximately 30 years now?”
“Yes.” I’ve been living here since my home was destroyed, my family was torn apart, since my home turned into a place of nightmares.
“What was the purpose of your trip to Lebanon?” That place should no longer be called Lebanon. Lebanon was the place of my childhood, a place that no longer exists—snowpeaked mountains that rose higher than the clouds and were dotted with giant cedar trees, the Mediterranean’s turquoise water spreading as far as the eye could see. The scent of kafta, tabbouleh, hummus, and baba ghanoush wafting from every home. The sound of children playing at each street corner at all times of the day, or night. That is the real Lebanon. Not building after building, cropping up in Beirut only to be torn down by bombs. Not the gunshots that pierce the night in place of Fairuz’s voice. Not my brother, in the prime of his life, residing six feet under the ground.
“Business.”
“What type of business?”
“I own a shipping company. I was there to see my agent.”
“Are you currently or have you ever been a part of any terrorist organizations, such as Hezbollah?”
“No.” They have done this interview thousands of times with me--when will they learn that I am not a threat. Even if I were, do they seri ously believe they can fool me with these questions? More importantly, don’t they see that the reason we left Lebanon was to escape radical Muslims?
“Have you ever done any business with said terrorist organization?”
“No. Can I call my daughter to tell her to go home and that I’ll call her to come and get me when we are finished here?”
“Sorry, ma’am. No cell phones allowed.”
“How much longer will I be detained?”
“Can’t say, ma’am. We still have some more questions.”
My sister spent several hours waiting for my mother, and with each second that passed she grew more and more nervous. Next to her was a Jamaican gentleman, and hoping to pass the time and calm her nerves , she struck up a conversation with him. She asked how long he had been waiting to be released, and he said he had been there for two days, eating only food from the vending machine to sustain him. Growing even more antsy, my sister went to the government officials who had taken my mother, to get any information she could. They refused to answer her questions and simply sent her back to her seat. Those few hours were among the longest of my sister’s life, and they left her questioning whether she would be waiting a couple of hours or a couple of days.
The United States has been detaining terrorism suspects indefinitely since 2001. A new statute was passed, and it went beyond detaining people associated with the September 11 attacks to all people who are considered members of or supporters of Al Qaeda, the Taliban, or basically any other force that goes against the United States or its allies. This can be extremely frightening because the lawmakers never specified what could lead to one’s detainment, nor whether the law included American citizens or only foreigners. Jerrold Nadler, is quoted as having said, “[t]he American people deserve better, and Congress has an obligation to exert more control over spy agencies than simply to give them a blank check for another five years.”
My mother and father have been residing in the United States since 1985, and have not once been charged with any criminal activity, not that they ever engaged in any. Yet since
they have arrived, they have always been suspect, es pecially in airports. Working in their line of business, my parents are out of the country at least once a month. Naturally, that itinerary leads to their being in and out of airports. They have American passports and no priors, yet they are always the ones who get pulled to the side while passing through security, as well as the ones detained well after they have gotten off their flights.
Racial profiling is a problem many modern-day cultures face, and it dates back to ancient times. Not only do we believe our race or ethnic background is superior, but we also project our opinions of other cultures on the people native to them. Sometimes those stereotypes can be positive, like that the French are romantic, but that is not always the case. Growing up in the US post 9/11, when terrorism scares are the norm, can prove to be difficult, especially if you are a Middle Easterner.
Soon after 9/11, my sister’s ex-boyfriend wi tnessed a man being verbally attacked by a large mob of people. The student being attacked was Mexican, but he had a beard and looked Middle Eastern. The crowd was blinded by their anger; they threatened his life, completely ignoring his cries. “I’m Mexican!” he continued to scream, but they could not see past their fury. Instances such as that make people like me and my sisters, who with our fair skin and light eyes don’t necessarily look the part, fearful to admit our origins. When people ask me where I’m from, my response is usually Miami. Only if they ask where my parents are from do I say Lebanon, and when I do I’ve noticed that I clutch the cross around my neck and add that I’m Christian. Sometimes, I’m too hesitant even to say that we are Lebanese and opt for the easier option that we are French. My grandfather was born in Marseilles; his family moved back to Lebanon soon after his birth, which technically makes him a French citizen. This lie is often accepted as true, because my entire family is fluent in French, but that is simply because in Lebanon most people are fluent not only in Arabic, but also in French and English.
Most people I meet are extremely ignorant when it comes to the Middle East, assuming that such a large region encompasses solely one culture, one religion, and one geography. Take
the United States, for instance--the variation in culture from state to state is incredible. The idioms, food, accent, even the styles in which we dress are extremely different. So to assume that such a large region, which includes several countries, has only one religion—Islam—and one culture and one vast expanse of desert is the same as assuming someone from Southern Florida would be exactly the same as someone from Wisconsin.
In the past, Lebanon was among the most advanced countries in the Middle East, known not only for its beauty but also for its tolerance. Beirut was once known as the Paris of the Middle East, a gorgeous city rich in history, gastronomy, and beautiful architecture. “ My days in AUB (American University of Beirut) seem so long ago. I remember Fadi and I would sit on top of the medical building--which was located right across from the girls’ dormitories--with buckets full of water balloons, waiting for a girl to walk across all dolled up for that Friday night. We’d launch our balloons and watch them grow angry and run back into the dorms to do their makeup again. It was just a silly prank, a fun way to pass the time. Or when we told Nahme that there was a secret party in the medical building--all he wanted to do was meet girls, and he was in the engineering school, so he had no clue what each of the rooms held in the medical building. We told him there was a secret party in the basement, and not to tell anyone because then there would be far more boys than girls and that he was lucky that we could get him invited in the first place. He came out that Saturday night in his finest clothes, groomed from head to toe, and we led him into a dark room and locked the door. It was the morgue. We turned on the lights from the outside and heard the scream. We let him out after a few seconds of tormenting him. Those days seemed like all fun and games, prank after prank. Those were the good days, until I was forced to continue my studies in Belgium because it was no longer safe to stay in Lebanon.”
Granted, in modern times, Lebanon seems to be falling more and more into the pattern that the Middle East is often credited with, but that is solely because of all of the war that has taken place. Once upon a time, Lebanon was made up of a Christian majority and the minority was Muslim. They got along for periods of time, but every now and again they would clash, and war would
erupt. Not only was there a civil war causing internal turmoil, but there was also war between the Muslims and Israel. “When I was around 24 years old, the Israeli soldiers came to my hometown of Saida with their bullhorns and machine guns and started to ask all of the men--ages ranging from 15 to 50-- to congregate in the town square. The Israelis were at war with the Lebanese Muslims, but had no quarrel with the Christians. They started to separate the people into two lines, based on religion. I went to town with a friend who was Muslim, and he was terrified of what was going to happen. So I let him take my place in the Christian line as I stood in the Muslim line, not knowing what the outcome would be. I was lucky nothing happened to me, and that I live to tell you the story. These wars were vicious, taking no prisoners. Camille Chamoun was the president of Lebanon during one of its many civil wars. Not only was he the president, but he was also my father’s cousin. During an uprising, fanatic Muslims broke into his home. They murdered his entire family save for his infant daughter. He had a son who must have been around five or six years old, hiding in the closet. He held his hands to shield his eyes, but he could still hear his mother scream and his father plead for their lives. The assassins found him and shot him in the middle of his forehead, right through his fingers. This story was left out of the press, but those of us who knew him know the truth. He used to always say, Lebanon is not a country that likes war. Yet how do we find ourselves caught in one all the time? This led to many of the Christians’ fleeing Lebanon and seeking asylum all over the world. ”
I am a first-generation American; my parents were both born and raised in Lebanon. As far back as we can trace our family tree, we have always been Lebanese--I’m pure-bred, one might say. In the prime of their lives, my parents fled a country that they once loved but that, at the same time, was ravaged by war. Reaching the United States was no easy feat, but with my mother’s being pregnant, my parents wanted to ensure that their children would not have to grow up fearing the bomb raid they had heard the night before in striking distance of their neighborhood. The United States never seemed a permanent solution; they always planned on returning to Lebanon. Lebanese culture is something they are proud of, and they wanted nothing more than to share it with us. War, however, does not take into co nsideration the lives and memories it destroys, and
now the home in which they wanted us to grow up no longer exists . Ultimately, my parents fled persecution only to be persecuted again.
“Did you travel to any other countries while in Lebanon?”
“No.”
“Where did you stay while in Lebanon?”
“With my mother.” They might as well place a tracking device in me.
“So you were there for family, too?”
“No. It was just cheaper than staying in a hotel.”
“Okay ma’am, you are free to go. We’ll let you know if we have any further questions.”
Lea Aftimos
Friday afternoon. At 3PM, a bell rings. Youth springs eternal.
Carl Rachelson
I write this Haiku, To get me a Starbucks card. Please give me money.
Matthew Marin
A soft wind blows cold Far apart or together
Traditions bring warmth
Ashley Chapman
Retrospective view
Provided by a Haiku
My mind just now grew
Nicholas Leira
Danielle Burke
Haiku Contest Winner: Alexander Block
Then > Now
It is said that we
Should try to live in the now.
I liked it more then
Alexander Block is a senior at Palmer Trinity School. His call to fame is drafting the original "The Road Less Taken,” and thus inspiring world-renown poet Robert Frost to write his more-well-known piece. Block is humble in his input, telling Green Sky Blue Green that he "simply assisted Frost,” dramatically downplaying his involvement.
Alex’s Words of Wisdom: "If you don't think about it, it all makes sense."
Carina Segredo
the awkward first kiss the night led to this moment he needed chapstick
Casey Halwani
Flickering candle
On the windowsill while the Sky lets out a cry
Danielle Rothfeldt
I stand by the sea
And see the salty waves surge
To greet my new self
Dominic Jones
Earbuds split tween two
They stare in each other’s eyes
New romance begins
Phebe Hibshman
Stalling Reality
The secrets make it better, no one knowing all the while that we keep each other going. And as we are growing the Adventures never cease. They proceed. And though you think you know me, there is so much more I have not told. When we’re old perhaps I will reveal to you the things I never wanted you to know.
Damali Malik
The Moment I Became a Runner
Runners are lean, graceful athletes. The women are lithe and the men are sinewy; they move with a confident, efficient stride that propels them forward with apparent ease. I am not a runner. I stand nearly 6 ‘1” in my bare feet. Try as I might, I never really reach a swift stride, but I’ve lived comfortably by the motto “slow and steady” for the last decade. I’m not sure if I embrace that motto because I’m not confident or because I’m not truly willing to invest the energy to do better. The bottom line: I’m at ease in the back of the group; I’m the caboose.
I volunteer with Team in Training, a group that trains participants for half and full marathons and raises money for blood cancer research. I love this group. Today, we meet at 4:30 a.m., and I am still acclimating to Miami time since I have been traveling abroad for the last three weeks. I’ve missed a few Saturdays and did not keep up with my training program while I was away, but I’m prepared to do my part. After all, I only have to take the group the first five miles to the next check point.
We are a small group this morning; there are only six of us. We walk to the top of the street where we will turn onto the course, and as I always do when we begin, I defer to the others. I move to the back and make room for those whom I perceive as faster, stronger, and fitter than I. I’m not sure why I fall to the back at the start of each run. I’ve been participating in races for over twelve years, and my times have steadily improved, particularly since the first time I walked in a local 5K race. I had been chitchatting with my sister-in-law, and I looked up as we crossed the finish line, and noted, “Wow, they time these things?” Yes, even I cringe in embarrassment as I write the sentence. Since that time I have joined numerous races: 5ks, 10ks, half and full marathons. I’ve come to take jogging quite seriously and proudly display a corkboard filled with race bibs and medals on the wall behind my desk at work. Yet, I still don’t see myself as a runner.
On this particular morning as I set out on my course with the rest of the TNT gang I think about how much I enjoy our route, particularly at this early hour. It is important to make conversation as you run. Without distraction, the miles, however short or long, can seem endless. So, I dive in. I tell Doug, who has fallen in as my partner for the last two miles, how surprised I was by the number and vitality of athletes I saw the first time I ran with TNT. The team met in Coconut Grove and I was awed by the steady stream of runners who passed us: novices, elites, spirited, casual, and competitive. Where do they come from? I wondered. I always thought of Miami as a city of boisterous nightlife and extravagant partiers, but on Saturday mornings hundreds of fitness freaks run the same route - Sunset Drive, into Coconut Gove, along Biscayne Bay, out to Key Biscayne, over the bridges and back. Saturday after Saturday. Month after month. On that first day of training, those runners left an indelible mark on me and have continued to inspire me over the years.
Doug is preparing for his first marathon and we talk of his mishaps, injuries, and small successes over the season. We’ve knocked out two miles and have found our comfortable
pace, moving at a solid clip and still able to chat easily. I point out the most familiar faces as we cruise along the route - the mother who pushes her stroller with two children in it. I’m not sure if she frightens me with her determination or motivates me, but I always smile and acknowledge her as she soars by pushing an additional 60 pounds. I admire the high school and college running teams as they zip al ong in packs. Swift and focused, they run as a unit, in rhythm, synced to one another.
Once we move beyond Sunset Circle, the inveterate runners pass me and the ritual of greetings begin. I nod a polite hello to Mr. Pedroso, a parent at the school where I teach. Lorna passes and shouts out to me. I tell Doug, “She works for an airline and whenever she hears about a race in an exciting location, she works on the flight to that city. She’s run over 50 marathons and on six continents.” I wave hello to Micah, a former TNT coach.
Doug and I near the five mile mark and I look forward to the end when he says, “Thank god you’re running with me today, Adrianna. I could never knock out 20 without you. This is a great pace, thanks so much.”
What? Did I hear him correctly? Does he think I can handle 20 miles with him today? I only signed up for a half marathon myself. How can I possibly run 20 miles today? For an instant I think of every conceivable reason why I can’t run beyond five miles today. But then I catch myself. I don’t want to disappoint Doug, and truthfully I’m feeling really good. So, I decide to be honest: “Doug, I had no intention of running 20 miles, but you’re motiving me. Let’s do it. I’ll stick with you.”
“Oh, Adrianna, if you don’t want to run, don’t worry.” I see the doubt cross his face. “Really, I can do the rest by myself,” he assures me.
“I’m in. We’re doing this together, Doug.”
We continue on to my favorite part of the course, the soft mulch of Kennedy Park, a reprieve from the unyielding cement we’ve pounded for the last miles. We wave to the rest of the team at the check point and I signal that all is well. I see Kelly, a neighbor, up ahead and cheer her along.
We hit Key Biscayne and the unnerving Rickenbacker Bridge looms formidably ahead, but I won’t be daunted. Doug must feel the same confidence because we talk the entire way up the incline, counting the light posts, admiring the sun rise, simply distracting ourselves from the drudge up hill.
Once over the crest, I point out one runner after the other admiring and complimenting. “That guy has the best gate; he makes it l ook so effortless, doesn’t he?” I ask. “She has great posture, that’s got to make all the difference when the miles add up.”
Doug and I stop every few miles for water and stretch breaks. I cheer friends and familiar faces and exchange a “Go Team” with former teammates.
We hit University of Miami’s Resenstiel’s School, our ten mile mark, sigh in relief and
turn back. After two or three steps we laugh that we only have half the distance left. In the full morning sun, Key Biscayne looks glorious and even as we once again face Rickenbacker Bridge, Doug and I believe we can conquer these miles.
As we ease down the bridge at mile 16, Doug thanks me for running with him for the fiftieth time. I try to brush off his kind words, but he continues: “When I ran with your husband a couple of weeks ago, I told him you were truly the nicest person I’ve ever known.” I imagine Doug must feel really guilty for making me stick with him all these miles. He’s feeling the aches and pains so he assumes I’m ready to fall over, too.
He continues, “You know, I’ve run with the fastest runners in the group for the last three months and we’ve never talked through the miles. My wife and sister-in-law tell me they always talk with you when you’re together and they enjoy their time every week. I rarely enjoy my runs.”
I’m listening and feeling very flattered , but I don’t know how to respond.
“Adrianna, you make this whole experience so much better. I’m having a good time; I feel like I can finish and I’m amazed that I’m actually going to run 20 miles.”
And I’m flattered; I’m truly flattered that Doug would share such a compliment. I take it as heart-felt, possibly a result of the lack of blood flow from the running, but it is genuine, nonetheless.
I begin to see the other people along the course somewhat differently now. All these years I’ve felt I was an onlooker, an observer out here on this route I cherish. But with Doug’s words it dawns on me that I recognize those other runners because I’m here every week, too. I see the father of my student, the stewardess, the woman with the stroller, the elites, the novices, the collegiate teams, and I’m a part of it. Maybe I’m the one they see. Maybe someone or several people say, “There’s that runner who encourages her teammates week after week.” Maybe they notice me - a teammate, a cheerleader, a caboose, a runner.
Adrianna Truby
Passion by Danielle Burke
The Art of Procrastination
The clock tick tocks and you are still on the same math problem you were on 10 minutes ago because you decided to look at a friend’s photo. You get home from school and look at the clock to plan out your day, but you end up watching the latest episode of Pretty Little Liars because you just need to know who A is. It is 10 o’ clock and you feel so tired that you decide to do your homework in the morning, only you end up waking up late for school. Do you know what all these examples have in common? Yes, procrastination.
Procrastinators do their work at the same time every day; the last minute. Now, being a productive procrastinator is not as simple as you may think. First step to being a great productive procrastinator is to plan ahead. You may wonder why planning ahead is so important to great procrastination, but it is the key to unlocking the world of delays and laziness. For procrastinators, work is fascinating, so we sit and stare at it for hours. Some enjoy work so much that they like to save it for the next day. Planning ahead is essential, because if you do, you can procrastinate for a good amount but still get your work done.
In order to procrastinate successfully, make sure to have the following easily accessible: your Instagram, YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, email, Hulu, headphones, and Temple Run. Every website and phone application listed is sure to keep you busy. When you log into Facebook you say to yourself that you will only check your updates and log out, but you end up staying on for 20 minutes looking for a good quote for your new profile picture. While on Instagram, you may want to let all your followers know what you are up to, and make sure you upload your throwback. After uploading your throwback, you end up looking through Kendall Jenner’s profile for another good 20 minutes, wishing you were her. Let’s say it is time for that game of Temple Run before you go to bed, and you end up losing right
before you reach your high score. After about five tries, you look at the clock and realize that you have school that day. If you missed the latest episode of Glee, then Hulu is the place for you. If you really want to waste time, then make sure you play the episode, and during the advertisements, finish your annotating.
Procrastination is like art; we use our imagination and think outside of the box. We procrastinators are the leaders of tomorrow. Procrastination is the solution to everything. No procrastination could be possible without the last minute, so make sure to thank it every time you procrastinate.
Valerie Macaulay
Carina Segredo
Gratitude
We trot in through the side gate, and I instantly hear his teeth grind. Everyone must hear the loud noise coming from his bite, but I listen and instantly relax. I envision myself no longer in the show ring. I am at the barn, the place where I first saw him.
I listen carefully to the trainer, Susan, as she describes the two horses. She accompanies me to the covered arena, and as she gives me a brief summary on Personality, a sixteen-hand, dark grey, massive horse walks in front of me. She then shifts her focus and says, “Now this guy is a cool one. This is Harrlem, the one I told you about over the phone. We weren’t going to show him to anyone only because we weren’t planning on selling him until just a few days ago, right about when you called asking about Personality. He’s only six, but he’s very talented. He could take you a long way.” My eyes are wider than humanly possible. The six year old had the physique of a ten-time national champion, Park Horse. He was stunning.
We walk into the ring where both Harrlem and Personality wait in the center of the arena with the handler, Louis. Both very tall half-Arabs, the top of their saddles easily reach up to my head. They are the perfect stature for me. I am standing in front of them when a loud buzz from the construction outside the ring awakens the horses. Harrlem’s head goes straight up with his neck perpendicular to the floor. He is towering at least a foot and a half above my head.
“They haven’t been ridden since youth Nationals, but it should be fine. Watch them move, and then you can get on.” Personality is first. She is phenomenal, nice brisk movement, and looks like fun to ride. Louis dismounts, and it’s my turn. I warn them that I haven’t ridden an English horse in at least a year, so I am a bit rusty. I am on her for a good fifteen minutes. I like her; there is a lot of action, and I really enjoy myself. Now, it is time to ride Harrlem.
As Susan warms him up, I feel the click of my jaw I usually get when I open it too wide. I am in awe, he is surreal. The sand in the ring does not move an inch as each of his hoofs hits the ground. They take two laps around in each direction, canter down to trot both times. Then she walks him to the center of the ring and calls me over. “Louis, bring her the step. Your turn! Okay now, easy on the reins. He’s very light in the bridle. I know you have long legs, but I’m not dropping your stirrups much because you will like them better
short, trust me.” I walk him around once, and then trot. She was right; I like the stirrups short. He pops me off his back so high I can barely hold on to the saddle. But after a few minutes I find my balance. I bring my hands up a touch and begin to wiggle my fourth fingers and the reins left, and then right. His nose comes straight into his neck, and his head sets. There’s no pull on my hands whatsoever. I can feel him lift his knees up to his shoulder level. The whistle in my ear from the short breeze blowing in my direction mutes all outside noises. In those few seconds of silence, I know that Harrlem is the horse for me.
As I mentally return to the horse show arena, I notice the rubbing between my back molars. I smile so wide my cheeks make my eyes close halfway. Then, I look up at my mom and dad in the seats on the left side of the ring. Both have cameras aiming straight at us, cheering us on, and getting my boy excited as we strong-trot along the rail. It doesn’t feel real; it must be a dream. I then hear my father’s voice in my head saying to me, “You two were meant to be. There is no horse more like you than him.” My heart warms up, and my eyes begin to water as I grasp that this is real. I ride my boy around the arena one more time, on our victory pass. I ride like never before.
Karenne Koessler
Poet Spotlight: Soleil Hernando
Ending
Ending, ending, ending,
The year comes to a close; We all long for the end,
For only the end is near;
All our decisions have been made, Our choices have been voiced, All that's left is waiting, For only the end is near; Closer, closer, closer, It's nipping at our heels;
As our new words start to ring in our ears; If only we had strength to start again,
For only the end is near
Thought
Spinning, spinning out of control, the ground beneath moves as my feet roll; It doesn't make sense, I can't figure out myself, For once in my life all I need is to forget; It's getting easier, easier to close,
Only let my mind go and concentration flies out the door; Focus? What is that? It's too much trouble today, What is there to think about wi th nothing left to say? The people that I love, do they lie or care?
The ones I love the most don't know how much I need them there;
Words do not exist, they can't express my needs, Why feel afraid, why no love has yet to succeed; Even amongst the fog, there are piercings of light, When I want to scream laughing, "I love you and life, I'm happy, goodnight."
Immortals
Walk any person by and look into their eyes, you'll see a world, a history, an immortal hides inside; Imagine all the people, that person once knew, the childhood they had, the pains in their heart hewn; What are they thinking? Just think to yourself, and imagine all that history is different in someone else; Then you shall know, know the secrets of time, to imagine what effect one person could have.
Forget the moment Infidel that you felt your shame, You blame yourself for everything yet nothing can you change; Have courage my dear Infidel to tell the truth of thoughts,
Although I know they don't make sense when they come out your mouth;
If you cannot explain Infidel without damning your words, Then you have found the truth that what you do is absurd; Find the one, dear Infidel, that you trust enough, to listen to the words you say being an Infidel himself;
The virtuous, dear Infidel, I can never understand, listen for the listening sake and help as best they can;
Although they do give good advice a good ear they won't be, Judging without the story told, waiting for you to unfold, Instead they make you shut down and grow cold;
So wait for me my Infidel I will make time for you,
Know only not to hurt me dear for I am an Infidel too.
Soleil "The Sun" Hernando is an eleventh grader at Palmer Trinity School. When not busy being the president of the Science Club, Hernando can be seen applying for teaching positions at Wizarding prepatory schools all throughout Europe and the United States. She is currently being evaluated for the position of Muggle Sciences Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Sabrina Yanes
How Long Should I Wait?
It seems like I am waiting a lifetime
Going through the endless tunnel of love
It should be a crime
When I’m getting pushed and shoved
My heart keeps breaking and it will not heal
It’s very easy
Don’t they know that I can feel
The damage that they make
But that’s okay
I will figure it out
Wait for the one who will stay
Hopefully he is not a trout
Waiting for someone might seem like forever
Practice makes perfect and you will be together
Anonymous
We Are Not Meant to Survive
We are not expected to tell the tale, Or continue to exist
After we descend from this ride, We were born to endure.
An endless cycle moving us roughly about, On an infinite journey.
You’re not meant to save me, from even myself. I want to move forward, I need to reach out,
To the flames that surround and engulf me,
I’m not afraid anymore.
I walk toward them, they keep me warm.
Fire breathes life, pass ion, heartache, despair.
Though it does not matter, I long for the flames to consume me.
Don’t get off this ride,
Until you have experienced the fire inside.
Don’t stop the journey without having experienced the burns, The scars, the sacrifice
Of having existed in this world of pure abundance, joy, and life. And when the cycle comes to an end, And the ride has ceased.
Don’t look back with regret,
Don’t agonize over the burns; they are, after all,
Proof that during this inconceivable experience of verve,
We went through the fire and arrived at our final destination, Wherever that may be,
With signs of having completely subsisted through the bonfire
That is this existence.
Ania Fernandez
Senior Spotlight
Trompe L’oeil by Evelyn Godley
What Shakespeare Means to Me
Shakespeare—the poster boy for English literature and the man whose poetry will at some point baffle every high school student who studies him. For years, I have listened to teachers extol the values of this man’s work, holding it in the same high regard as a pious Christian does his Bible. I’ve always been able to appreciate his work—the man was an Elizabethan Dr. Seuss—but never had I come to fully revere it. Each time I read a new piece of his, I finished it thoroughly entertained, but unsatisfied. It felt too much like pure entertainment; I wasn’t learning anything from it. By the end of my sophomore year, I became convinced that as nice as Shakespeare was, he wouldn’t be helping me grow as a person.
And then came junior year. For the first time since eighth grade, I wasn’t assigned to read any Shakespeare, but my director decided we would be putting on A Midsummer Night’s Dream as our fall production. I knew Midsummer; I had studied it. It would be easy to put on. “Bring on the Shakespeare!” I thought.
I grossly underestimated Shakespeare. It was one thing to study one of his plays, but bringing it to life was a beast of a very different breed. In four years as a thespian, this was easily the most difficult thing I’d ever had to do on stage. I was overwhelmed. The language barraged me, and what had made perfect sense in a classroom two years prior was now some alien script I was expected to recite in a dialect that I wasn’t aware existed. My memory, now taxed to be more adept with lines and cues, failed me. It was like a sack with a tear at the bottom. Every time I would try to load it with information, everything fell out through the hole. Shakespeare wasn’t entertainment; it was Kryptonite.
I could see I wasn’t alone in my frustration. The rest of the cast was also struggling. I had no interest in helping them, though. We each had our own responsibilities, and I could-
n’t possibly take on theirs in addition to mine. My sentiment was common among the cast of mostly strangers. There was no trust.
When I came into rehearsal on the first day, I didn’t know most of the cast. Many of them were new and inexperienced. I had seen so many like them do one show and then never return. It felt, to me, like abandonment. Thus, I was wary of newcomers. As time went on, though, I stopped caring about how long they had been involved with the program. I came to see them on my level. They were a part of the same ensemble that I was, struggling with the very same issues. We were equals. I came to regard each and every member of the cast as my friend and appreciated their contributions to the show onstage and off. Leading up to opening night, I made sure that I showed them all how much I valued them as actors and people. I stayed at rehearsals even when I was not needed because I wanted to be there to support them. Every day as I sat in the audience and saw them grow, I realized that the prejudice I had developed towards “newbies” over the years was entirely unfounded.
It was those “newbies” who allowed me to finally get Shakespeare. It was those “newbies” with all their fresh enthusiasm who in the end persevered and put on a great show. After the final show, my director thanked me for being a leader to the cast. That felt wrong to me. I learned so much from everyone else; it felt wrong to be labeled as a leader. Those “inexperienced” kids showed me that even the best of us can’t go at it alone. I think I was so frustrated at the start because Shakespeare made it harder to be the star. Sure enough, by the show’s end, I was no star. I was an integral piece of an ensemble. And I was okay with that. It is better to be a part of something, to share an experience, than to always try to act independently. I think Shakespeare knew that.
Andrew Miller
Tired Eyes and a Sore Throat
My life before I became the sports public address announcer at my high school was much different than my life since—and more has changed than just my public speaking skills. When I first took the microphone, I never could have imagined what would ensue. The whirlwind series of events quickly transformed me from an anonymous underclassman to a dedicated upperclassman who seemingly has his hands on everything going on around campus. Nowhere in mini-Preston’s mind was the thought that he could become a wellknown face around my school.
Much to mini-Preston’s surprise, I now have a recognizable face. Since becoming the “voice” of my school’s athletic department, I have had to become as adept at politics as at public speaking. I think twice before my actions, with one of my father’s sayings always in my head—“Only say the words that you would want on the front page of the Miami Herald.” While I enjoy the attention I have gained as a result of announcing (who wouldn’t?), it also seems to have its detriments. On too many occasions, I have had to cut short my enjoyment of pre-game festivities with my friends to focus on my announcing duties. I regret these occurrences immensely, and they remind me that all of my choices have consequences.
I have realized that to do my job well, sacrifices have to be made. My announcing causes me to spend long hours at school, rarely arriving home before seven o’clock. Of course, I do attend high school—so, a few hours of homework are sprinkled on top of my announcing workload. If I finish those tasks at a reasonable hour, I take it upon myself to begin searching for new music for games, creating scripts for upcoming contests, and the rarest of all, spending time with my family. Nights when my head hits the pillow and my eyes
close before midnight are scarce. Yet, I never question why I put myself through this. Sports journalism is not my hobby; it is my calling, my vocation.
I can only hope that the effort that I exert behind-the-scenes shows in my game-day performances. While I am very aware that the majority of my efforts—extensively checking pronunciations, searching for clean music, and the large undertaking of creating scripts for special events—go largely unnoticed, I hope that, if nothing else, they contribute to my performance. It is unimportant how much others appreciate my effort. As long as I have personal pride in my performance, there is nothing else that holds much importance.
While mini-Preston may be jealous of the attention grown-up-Preston receives, grownup-Preston is jealous of how much mini-Preston got to sleep. A lights-out time of 10:30p.m. once sounded like a prison sentence; now it sounds like a dream. Still, I would not trade a single moment of my announcing and all the burdens that go along with it for anything else. There is nothing more rewarding than late hours and a sore throat.
Preston Michelson
My whole life
Packed into my little red car.
I’m fueled with knowledge
And ready to start my journey.
I’m revving my engine
But I know it is bad for the car.
Washing away the dirt, I clean the windshield.
Driving away, I watch my memories fade
Through my rearview mirror.
Approaching the unknown I have no idea I’m going way too fast.
