Viewpoints 2012

VIEWPOINTS

SPRING 2012 WESTERN RESERVE ACADEMY

Editor in Chief Julia Ferguson, ‘12 Art Director Ji Hoo Woo, ‘13 Staff Alex Fellows, ‘14 Allison Forhan, ‘12 Katherine Winford, ‘12 Moushami Verma, ‘12 Faculty Advisor Richard (Diccon) P. B. Ong, ‘81

The opinions expressed in this journal do not necessarily reflect the views of the editor, the staff, the faculty advisor or Western Reserve Academy. The viewpoints contained herein should be understood to belong exclusively to the individual authors responsible for presenting them.

Front and back cover design, and all illustrations by Ji Hoo Woo. Journal layout and formatting by Diccon Ong

VIEWPOINTS VOLUME EIGHT

SPRING 2012

Table of Contents

From the Faculty Advisor .......................................................................... 8 Diccon Ong, ‘81

From the Editor ............................................................................................ 10 Julia Ferguson, ‘12

Articles:

Dana Didn’t Deserve It .............................................................................. 12 Mehar Bains, ‘13

The Privileges of Boarding ........................................................................ 15 Alex Balli, ‘14

Tham Ting .................................................................................................... 17 Genevieve Bettendorf, ‘12

Breakfast of Champions ............................................................................ 19 Audrey Brown, ‘13

The Truth about Black Friday ................................................................... 22 Audrey Brown, ‘13

Flashback ...................................................................................................... 25 Bianca Chan, ‘15

Why I Wrote This Essay ............................................................................. 26 Sam Clark, 13

Crossing the Line ........................................................................................ 28 Alex Eliopoulos, ‘12

My Journey with Dostoevsky ................................................................... 31 Dale Englehart, ‘12

As the Sweet Wind Blows ......................................................................... 34 Alex Fellows, ‘14

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Death of the Postcard ................................................................................. 36 Julia Ferguson, ‘12

To the Summit ............................................................................................. 38 Allison Forhan, ‘12

Triangles ....................................................................................................... 41 Abby Hermosilla, ‘14

Gosh Darn Robots ....................................................................................... 43 Lauren Kolar, ‘14

The McBrier Parties .................................................................................... 47 Ellie McBrier, ‘12

This is My War Poem ................................................................................. 50 Ai Miller, ‘12

A Keynote Address: 8th Annual Into the Light Walk ............................ 54 Kevin O’Brien, Faculty

On Top of the Tooth ................................................................................... 62 Mitch Pollack, ‘14

Señor .............................................................................................................. 66 Mitch Pollack, ‘14

The Unburied Life ...................................................................................... 69 Scott Schultz, ‘13

Bullying ........................................................................................................ 71 Rachel Silver, ‘12

I’m Belgian—Deal with It! ........................................................................ 73 Pauline Van Dijck, ‘13

Beauty into Madness .................................................................................. 75 Inga Wells, ‘12

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A Relaxed Ride ............................................................................................ 78 Inga Wells, ‘12

Sweet Home Louisiana .............................................................................. 81 Katherine Winford, ‘12

My Lost Youth ≠ My Lost Dream ............................................................. 84 Jing Zhu, ‘13

On Special Assignment: The Tempest Prompts a Thought

“We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.” ............................................................................ 88 Jeong Bahn, ‘12

“When I waked, I cried to dream again.” ................................................. 90 Genevieve Bettendorf, ‘12

“And then I loved thee.” .............................................................................. 92 Julia Ferguson, ‘12

“This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have followʹd it.” ......................................... 94 Emma Leonard, ‘12

“O brave monster! Lead the way.” ............................................................ 96 Eric Rauckhorst, ‘12

“Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air.” ............................................................ 98 Marc Rauckhorst, 12’

“This music crept by me upon the waters.” .............................................. 100 Aylin Sarac, ‘12

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“And then, in dreaming, The clouds methoughts would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked I cried to dream again.” .............................................................................. 102 Mihir Shah, ‘12

“O, but one word.” ....................................................................................... 104 Peter Suwondo, ‘12

“That shall be by and by: I remember the story.” ................................... 105 Tracy Tien, ‘12

“I’ll kiss they foot; I’ll swear myself thy subject.” ................................. 107 Inga Wells, ‘12

History Writing Contest: First Place Winners, 2010‐2011

American History Division: Ladies in the Locker Room: The Underdog Victory of Women Sports Journalists ............................. 110 Emily Clark, ‘11

World History Division: Omar al‐Bashir: The International Criminal Court’s Folly in Pursuing a Genocidaire ................................................................ 127 Jack Hoover, ‘11

9/11 Remembrance and Commemoration:

Opening Remarks ....................................................................................... 142 Walter Klyce

The Event ...................................................................................................... 144 Inga Wells, ‘12

Heroes ........................................................................................................... 145 Monica Metha, ‘12

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On With the Show ...................................................................................... 147 Greta Rothman, Alumni & Development

One Son’s Story ........................................................................................... 150 Eamonn O’Shea, ‘12

A Lost Pioneer .............................................................................................. 152 Daniel Crowder, ‘12

A Call for Greater Understanding ........................................................... 154 Christopher Burner, Head of School

Closing Remarks ......................................................................................... 157 Walter Klyce

Chapel Speeches: “This I Believe”

Rachel Silver, ‘12 .......................................................................................... 160 February 20, 2012

Genevieve Bettendorf, ‘12 ........................................................................... 162 February 28, 2012

Nathan Hulsey, ‘12 ...................................................................................... 167 April 18, 2012

Julia Ferguson, ‘12 ........................................................................................ 170 April 27, 2012

Emily Kalis, ‘12 ............................................................................................. 173 May 9, 2012

Zachary Zockoll, ‘12 .................................................................................... 176 May 11, 2012

WRA Campus Survey ......................................................................... 181

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FROM THE FACULTY ADVISOR

I’m feeling an unusual degree of sympathy for my students just now. Indeed, this feeling has been building in me over the past few weeks. Please understand that this is not meant to suggest that I am typically insensitive to the many trials and tribulations associated with being a WRA student. Having been one myself—albeit quite a few years ago now—I believe I possess some insight into the stress and strain that can be caused by the competing demands of the classroom, athletic arena, and myriad extracurricular commitments. Some of my readers, no doubt, will raise an eyebrow at this assertion. I’m thinking primarily of my past and present students, who I believe tend to regard me as someone who enjoys dishing out a fairly substantial academic workload in a manner seemingly blind to their many other obligations. I’ll not waste any ink in an effort either to confirm or deny said sentiment. I will simply state that these last few weeks have left me feeling every bit as beleaguered as the most over‐taxed teenager this place has to offer.

The source of my discomfort is the journal you currently hold in your hands (assuming you are not reading an electronic version of this text). To be honest, the fact that you are reading it at all is something on the order of a minor miracle. Though it might not be all that much to look at, I can assure you that it takes a concerted effort on the part of many people to bring a volume of Viewpoints into being. Indeed, it is primarily my great fear of letting down many of those same people (some of whom I suspect may be prone to violent retribution) that has driven me to forgo most of my “leisure” time—and not a little sleep— over the past couple of weeks.

Unfortunately, such a state of affairs is not at all new to me.

Come to think of it, my current distress has become something of an annual tradition over the past few years. Its arrival is almost as predictable as the annual return of the swallows to Capistrano. Despite having an entire year to organize and execute the publication of this journal, it seems that most of the heavy lifting is left for the very last moment. Naturally, one starts each year with the very best of intentions.

Meetings are called, timelines are generated, deadlines set. Then, of course, that busy school thing that I alluded to earlier gets up and running at full speed and the best laid plans go very much awry.

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In any event, as I sit before my laptop computer screen at 4:00 a.m. on a Monday morning, just four hours away from my printer’s final deadline, I come back to thinking about my students. I’ve heard many tales over the years of the desperate all‐nighters my pupils say they occasionally spend studying for one of my tests. I have to admit that I’ve often struggled over how best to react to hearing such tales. Part of me is impressed that they have that kind of drive and determination to succeed. Another part of me is inevitably curious as to why they needed such an intense study session in the first place. I’m afraid I tend to look suspiciously at these stories and wonder how much procrastination and poor time management went into creating such a circumstance.

Well, now it’s my turn. At the moment, part of me is pretty damned impressed by my own stamina displayed in sitting at a desk and working for the better part of the past weekend. Another part of me is shaking my head at the immense foolishness shown in letting this thing almost get away from me. Still, while sleep may not be in my immediate future, wrapping up this latest volume of Viewpoints seems a lock.

I am sure the entire staff of Viewpoints joins me in asserting that while many of our efforts may have been last‐minute, they will not have been in vain. We hope you will find rewarding reading in the following pages. As in years past, you will find a number of different sections herein. In addition to our normal offering of nonfiction articles covering a wide range of topics, we are repeating a feature of last year’s issue by including an entire set of essays from a single class. Last year we featured Dr. Dyer’s English III class. This year we are pleased to be showing off the work of Mr. Morris’s AP English class. They have taken a line from The Tempest as inspiration for a personal essay. We have also, once again, reprinted the two first‐place papers from the annual History Writing Contest. We have, likewise, reprinted the speeches delivered this past fall at the 9/11 Commemoration held in the Chapel. We continued the tradition of bringing to you the “This I Believe” speeches given by seniors during Morning Meetings over the course of the year.

Finally, we top things off with the annual Viewpoints Survey, which we hope our readers will find both entertaining and enlightening.

I want to thank the entire Viewpoints staff for all their hard work this year. However, special thanks are owed to Ji Hoo Woo for her outstanding illustrations and Julia Ferguson for her untiring efforts to make sure yet another volume of this journal saw the light of day.

Diccon Ong, ‘81 May 2012

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FROM THE EDITOR

This collection of essays and speeches from the Western Reserve Academy community represents many months of work from the journal’s staff, hours of writing from the various student and faculty authors, and ultimately the time you will spend reading the pages we have presented here. You are all owed a word of thanks for helping complete the task of creating a quality literary journal of relevance that has been our fundamental goal.

With each reflection, memory, and idea recorded within this iteration of Viewpoints you will be offered an insight into the minds of some of the people who currently call the acres of Reserve’s historic campus their home. While we would never be so bold as to claim that we offer here a complete picture of our community, what you will find within these pages is at least partially representative of the people who have been shaped by and are in turn shaping the “Reserve experience.”

To read past issues of Viewpoints, I believe, is to appreciate Reserve in a new light. It transforms each year into a new entity with new people and evolving ideas. Mr. Ong often reminds us that this collection offers, and will continue to offer, a historically relevant picture of our current generation—both on and off campus.

Looking through Hardscrabbles of years long past has been a favored pastime of mine since I began here as a freshman. Each page, with its frozen images and words, stirs a strange feeling of nostalgia for an era I never personally experienced. I have developed a sense for a time and place that I missed but nevertheless feel connected to. These may be romanticized notions, but they are ingrained in me just the same and have made my own time here seem all the more exciting. I hope my own work on Viewpoints these past few years will provide a similar experience for future Reservites.

My special appreciation goes out to Mr. Ong, Ji Hoo Woo, staff members Alex Fellows, Katherine Winford, Moushami Verma, and Allison Forhan, and all those who submitted essays this year for helping to bring another volume of Viewpoints to fruition.

Julia Ferguson, ‘12 Editor in Chief May 2012

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ARTICLES

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DANA DIDN’T DESERVE IT

Mehar Bains Junior Hudson, Ohio

Why? Why would I do that? It is a question one often asks after doing something so unlike oneself that it uncovers a raw sensation of guilt that refuses to go away. It lingers and chews away at your heart and soul. You experience a falling feeling inside your mind, and it doesn’t stop. Fortunately, my experience when it comes to these situations is limited, but like any other person I have had my moments of cruelty. One recent encounter with my cruel side still shocks and horrifies me. The remorse I felt for it afterwards was unfathomable.

We were going to the airport for a vacation to Aruba for my father’s college reunion. My brother and I were fighting, and I was in a terrible mood. I do not even remember what this fight was about, and in retrospect, it seems petty and insignificant. Maybe it was caused by the harsh August heat, but my guess is it was mainly a result of my immaturity at the time. The drive from Hudson to Cleveland Hopkins Airport took about 45 minutes, during which time I shrank into the corner of the car, looked outside, and fumed. It was a bad day, but it was my bad day, and I had no right to bring someone else down. We made it to the airport and checked in. I snapped at my parents a couple of times for being so slow in procuring our tickets. Later, at security, the line was long and seemed tedious. After 3,000 innocent deaths on September 11th, I should have known better. We made our way to gate C22, and we were two hours early. “Typical dad,” I thought, “rushing just to get us here two hours early.” Later the flight was delayed.

Anger, whose source was ultimately unfounded and stupid, swelled up inside me, waiting. The clock started to tick. For seemingly no reason, I was about to explode. Along with this explosion, I was about to bring someone else down with me, a stranger, who I didn’t even know! Her day, or week, or month, was about to be ruined, all because of me. Why? I waited. For two hours I waited, not venting, but swelling.

Finally, the plane was ready for departure and we got up to go. Tick, tick, tick. They were getting louder. As we approached the check‐in desk, I saw the lady who scanned the tickets. She was middle‐aged with

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glasses and short brown hair: in fact, she was almost bald. She gestured for us to step up and be checked in.

She must have seen a happy family, and one angry and confused fourteen‐year‐old boy. We walked up, and she asked for Frustrated by her lack of our boarding passes, which my competence, I said father gave to her. There were something I will always clearly four tickets in the stack. regret. “Do they teach However, the lady asked, “How many, just one, right?” She you people how to spoke with a lisp. Frustrated by count?” I snapped. The her lack of competence, I said lady’s smile vanished and something I will always regret. was replaced by a look of “Do they teach you people how such shock and repulsion to count?” I snapped. The lady’s smile vanished and was replaced that the vision of it still by a look of such shock and haunts me to this day. repulsion that the vision of it still haunts me to this day.

Unfortunately, my fall from grace had just begun. Too ashamed to look her in the eye, I glanced down and caught a glimpse of her nametag. “Dana,” it read. That was her name, and she was a human being. I felt uncivilized and cruel. I saw my parents, whose looks were almost worse than Dana’s. “How could my son do this?” was probably their mutual train of thought. I had just made my parents, for whom I am so grateful, seem like they didn’t matter to me. I had just left a stranger with the clear impression that they had not raised their boy well.

As we walked down the gangway, Dana’s face kept on popping into my mind, and I could not help but recall her bald head. Then it hit me: Dana probably has cancer. She could die at any moment. I was so upset with myself that tears welled up in my eyes. When we reached our seats, I told my parents that I was sorry. They could see the deep feelings of guilt clearly written on my face. They understood and told me to pray for her, her health, and her family. I prayed hard and continuously for about two minutes, and then I repented to my God. My mom put her hand on my back and said, “It is now time to forgive yourself, but always remember your mistakes.” But I couldn’t forgive myself. I looked upon my family that I loved and thought to myself, “If I can hurt a stranger so much, imagine how much I could hurt those whom I love and love me.” I knew very well that my guilt would not

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stop anytime soon, but I got over it temporarily and sat quietly as the plane took off, looking out onto the vast expanse of this world with people just like me.

There was no doubt that my vacation to Aruba was a blast, and as we were walking off the plane in Cleveland airport, little did I realize the significance of gate C22. We had come home to the exact same gate from which we had left. As we came off the gangway and into the terminal a Continental representative greeted us with a smile. It was Dana. She saw me and at once her friendly face fell. Once again disgusted with myself, I immediately went over to her and apologized many times. She accepted my apology, and we shook hands. I have lived on with an enhanced understanding of how my words and mood swings can affect others. I was obviously ashamed of my actions, but I definitely ended up learning from them. The experience allowed me to understand that I can have a deep impact on other people and their lives—even strangers. I now want this impact to be positive rather than negative. This realization has helped me grow greatly. Of course, one does not have to fall all the way off the mountain of morality whilst trying to reach the summit. Once one slips just a little bit, he or she can see the danger and the consequences of falling all the way down and can start truly to change themselves. This is what happened to me. I’ve started to become more considerate of others’ feelings since then.

However, in retrospect, I am so glad that this experience happened in my childhood, because I’ve truly learned so much from it.

I anticipate that in the future when I reflect upon my encounter with Dana I will continue to feel many mixed emotions, but what really matters is how it helped to make me a better person. I realize that if I could hurt a stranger, a cancer patient no less, for no better reason than that I was in a sour mood, I was clearly headed down a dark path. Dana will always be a part of my childhood story and my own coming of age.

I realize that in the future it is my moral obligation to remember this story and never repeat the same mistake again. This is why this experience will stay with me for the rest of my life. Albatrosses are meant to fly, not fall slowly into the ocean due to the ignorance of a little boy. There is no doubt that I will respect and care for the innocent for the rest of my life.

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THE PRIVILEGES OF BOARDING

Alex Balli Sophomore Akron, Ohio

Of the many things that make Western Reserve Academy a great school, I believe that the boarding experience is one of the most important. It seems to me that WRA has two broad missions: academic improvement and social development. It is probably the case that the school regards the former as more important than the latter, but each is, in fact, improved by the boarding environment.

Let’s start with the social aspects. The residential nature of Reserve allows students to have a social life that few other high schools can actually claim to grant their students. This is because boarding students constantly feel like they are surrounded a family‐ Life in the dorm requires like group of friends that serve students to interact with a to bring them closer and closer large number of different together. Since boarding kids on a daily—and students are away from home, these close friendships act as a nightly—basis. One has to sort of substitute family, get use to all the different providing great comfort and personalities, idiosyncratic emotional support. Indeed, behavior, and quirky habits while many public high school of one’s peers. This intense students may find themselves bored and lonely at home social situation serves to because they cannot easily help students who may meet up with their friends after arrive on campus with the school day ends, any slightly underdeveloped boarding student at Reserve social skills. can pretty easily find any one of their friends on campus at almost any time of the day without too much trouble.

Beyond this, boarding students are more likely to regularly interact with kids who may not be their best friends. Life in the dorm requires students to interact with a large number of different kids on a daily—and nightly—basis. One has to get use to all the different

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personalities, idiosyncratic behavior, and quirky habits of one’s peers.

This intense social situation serves to help students who may arrive on campus with slightly underdeveloped social skills. Reserve helps prepare its students for situations in the future in which they will require greater social awareness and sophistication, like having a roommate in college, or working in a professional setting, or dealing with a family of their own someday.

Naturally, the boarding experience at Reserve readies a student for future dorm life in college. It also helps with college (and later life experiences) by weaning a student off direct parental guidance. Many high school students remain too dependent on their parents before making the transition to college. They thus become overwhelmed by the immense freedom presented by collegiate life and can fall victim to their own bad choices. The boarding experience offered by WRA provides an opportunity for teenagers to teach themselves good decision making, self‐discipline, and independence. Reserve students are going to be less likely to become tempted by the freedom to sleep through classes, stay up too late at night, or neglect their academic responsibilities. They are already well‐aware of what it is like to wander around an academic campus with teachers and fellow students who all live in close proximity to one another. They also already know what it is like to be responsible for organizing and maintaining one’s own life: doing laundry, getting up on time each morning, setting up appointments with teachers, going shopping for personal items, and all the other minor chores we have already learned and now just take for granted.

Last, but by no means least, the residential life of Reserve has huge academic advantages. One great thing about living on campus is that boarding students can find one of their teachers for help at almost any time they need. Most teachers live on campus and so are never more than a short walk away. Even if a student is unable to find a specific teacher for help, a student can always turn to their friends for help. This increased access to both teachers and classmates provide a huge academic advantage to boarding students. It is an advantage that translates into improved academic performance and all the benefits that will flow from this.

It is probably true that some students initially fear the idea of having to be a boarding student and live away from home. However, the advantages offered by this part of the Reserve experience make this fear well worth overcoming. It has been one of the most positive aspect of my first two years here.

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THAM TING

Genevieve Bettendorf Junior Mayfield Heights, Ohio

You stand in a dream, surrounded by untold quantities of statuettes, some carved from wood with painted‐on features falling slowly away with Time’s inevitable pull, some educed from blocks of stone, coaxed from rocks as big as your head, some hit repeatedly by the nimble hands of some unnamed and diligent monk. And each statue stares at a spot just past your foreign head, as if they know something you don’t. A sleepy monk robed tightly in saffron linen, and cocooned safely in his own quiet corner of humanity, placed each statue some unknown time ago into dripping corners of the cave‐within‐a‐cliff.

An old woman sits behind a makeshift table. She points at the small purse hanging limply at your waist. It takes you a moment to realize she requires a donation from you in exchange for the small package of incense sticks, the candle, and banana leaves you must have picked up a few thoughts ago (but you don’t remember that now, because the little Buddhas who don’t quite meet your gaze distract your ignorant and self‐centered and unworthy attention). You walk—float, more like—to a blooming altar a few steps to your left.

You remove your shoes and kneel. And as you genuflect, prostrate to the higher being supposedly manifest in the gold‐leafed statue before you, your mind—the, perhaps, more sane part—tells you not to succumb to what your Church may call the Devil; tells You let the beautiful feeling you you’re impious; tells you overwhelm you and take not to commit such a sacrilege. you away and ease your But you do it anyway—bowing pain and love every broken once, twice, thrice, pressing piece of your damaged, so lips to the worn‐flat stone ground each time—and light very damaged soul. your orange candle with the filmy orange remnant of another candle, long gone, left for you by some other stranger, foreign, too, to both the physical and mental land on which you presently reside.

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You light your sticks of incense and slide them into a crack of the stony altar. You let the beautiful feeling overwhelm you and take you away and ease your pain and love every broken piece of your damaged, so very damaged soul. You don’t remember walking up the steps—so many your heart beats up your throat and in your ears—to another temple‐cave, where a group of smirking little girls (giggling at you, the foreigner, feigning their religion) sit poised to place in your hands a flashlight for a small fee rendered in the colorful exotic money handed to you in a thick bundle in exchange for a few boring green dollars by the woman stationed behind the bulletproof glass back in the air‐ conditioned version of Shangri‐la.

You don’t remember moving over the threshold of the cave, but you know that the tears came almost to your eyes, the little salted droplets stopping just before they filled each tear duct as the battalions of your ever‐mourning soul, teasing the enemy (your strong‐hearted appearance that, before today, you thought would always mask yourself) and saying, “How much can you handle before breaking into pieces?”

You wander around aimlessly, unsure of even life itself—for how could something so beautiful exist before your mortal eyes? You can feel the sweat—pouring, almost—from the small of your back that a lover once held, from your temples, from your legs, from everywhere— but you don’t give a damn, because you know the sweat will dry. But you don’t want that feeling of breathlessness and speechlessness to fade, and even though you wish so very much for it to stay with you—those helpless pulses in between each fast beat of your heart for which you so long—to keep you feeling so raw and powerless and insignificant, it will escape from grasp.

And when you exit the temple‐cave it vanishes faster than you expected. Your heart does everything it knows to cling with futile grasps to the last shred of otherworldly godliness you’ve been feeling; like a doctor losing a once‐healthy, formerly vibrant‐with‐life patient on the cold, unfeeling operating table, you revert to what you know, what you’ve been trained to do; and it seems that all you know is life without a heart, swelling and brimming with unadulterated emotion. All you know is how to live life like the mortal that you are, unaccustomed and uncomfortable around divinity, be it in any form. That feeling—being as near to such perfection as any man can ever be—that feeling is the best in the world.

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BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS

Audrey Brown Junior Peninsula, Ohio

Imagine the feeling an art connoisseur feels when walking down the echoing hallway of a museum, admiring the endless stretch of paintings that line the wall, and wondering how a human hand could have ever created something so beautiful. Imagine a car enthusiast at an antique auto show, strolling down rows of curvaceous Rolls‐Royces, or sleek, flat‐hooded muscle cars straight from the Dukes of Hazard, and pondering how such timeless cars could be kept in such lusciously mint condition. That’s how I feel when I walk down the cereal aisle at the grocery store.

There I am, surrounded by three‐tiered shelves jam‐packed with large, cardboard boxes, being greeted by the faces of jovial cartoon characters. I stand there for a while, overwhelmed by just how many options Kellogg’s and General Mills have given me, and I wonder how scientists could have produced something that tastes so good with milk.

So, when did this minor fixation with cereal start? I believe it all began in middle school—and really for no reason that I can put a finger on. For some reason, I found it the most satisfying meal one could ever digest, and I chose to eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner whenever I could. I would bring it to school in a red Solo cup (with accompanying plastic spoon), add a little milk, and watch as my sandwich‐eating companions judged me uncharitably. Unfortunately, my boundless love for this breakfast food was generally carefully monitored and controlled.

I operated under strict cereal guidelines, installed by my father, who was convinced that any cereal with an animal on the front was an abomination sent by the devil to rot the insides my body. So, I was satiated by the “wholesome” cereals, such as Special‐K, Cheerios, and Raisin Bran—basically anything that was whole wheat. Despite such restrictions, my cereal enthusiasm stayed strong.

There was a downside, however, associated with my crunchy companion. I chose to fall in love with cereal at an awkward time in my life. I was around twelve years old and at a most critical juncture in regards to the opportunity for adolescent growth. As you might have guessed by now, especially if you are aware of my rather short stature,

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cereal is not a particularly nutrient rich food that provides a pre‐teen with the essential stuff she needs to grow.

This started worrying my mom, who, upon reading stacks of books about how properly to nourish the human body, discovered that processed cereals mean preservatives, and preservatives mean, apparently, an early death. She always tells me how our bodies are “temples” and that “temples” are no place for preservatives. Thus, thanks to the uninvited intervention of my mother, I ended my attachment to cereal cold turkey my freshman year.

I now realize as I walk down the cereal aisle of my local grocery store that there are so many cereals that I have longed to try but have never been allowed to taste. I always imagined my father having the same reaction to Froot Loops as he might to me buying a carton of cigarettes: he would make me eat the whole box until I was green in the face and couldn’t stand the smell of them any longer. So, in the So, in the tradition of the tradition of the finest food critics finest food critics and and reviewers, I decided to give reviewers, I decided to myself something that I had been give myself something missing for all of these years: that I had been missing for Sunday morning cartoons accompanied by a bowl of every all of these years: Sunday kind of cereal I had never been morning cartoons allowed to eat as a kid. With my accompanied by a bowl of shiny, metal weapon in hand, I every kind of cereal I had commenced. The contestants never been allowed to eat were, alphabetically, Cap’n Crunch, Cookie Crisp, Froot Loops, as a kid. and Lucky Charms. All are notoriously sugary, and sure to satisfy any six year old’s breakfast cravings. I rationed a sampling of each cereal into four multicolored bowls to compare their appearance, and my mouth began salivating from long‐lived deprivation. Finally, I poured the cold milk and plunged my spoon in.

I was most excited for the Cap’n Crunch, given its infamy for the worst cereal, health‐wise, in America. It looked like tiny, golden‐yellow pillows, with a sugary luster, that had an extreme crunch that my mother could hear even though she was standing some five feet away. The taste was like an ear of corn dunked into a warm vat of sweet corn syrup, which was toned down by the neutral milk flavor, giving it a semi‐sweet and semi‐savory corn flavor. Cookie Crisp, which I thought appeared the

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most unappetizing of the group, resembled shriveled up, light brown disks, with one or two tiny black lumps or “chips” on it. My overriding thought: they left the cookies in the oven too long. It had a weak chocolate‐y after taste, and I could sense the tones of vanilla and brown sugar trying to break through the rough, card‐board colored exterior, but ultimately failing. Froot Loops, which were my favorite in terms of appearance, were like neon inner‐tubes with a dull, white sugar coating.

The loops easily dissolved in my mouth into a slimy, grainy sort of paste, but the texture was long forgotten once the sweet coating melted into my taste buds. Unfortunately, it wasn’t fruit I tasted. It was pure confectioner’s sugar—overly sweet and completely dominating all other flavors. I thought of grocery store frosting that you can scarcely eat by itself without nearly passing out from the sugar rush. Our taste buds are ingeniously tricked by the giant word “FROOT” on the box, giving us the false sensation of fruity goodness. You’re not foolin’ me, Toucan Sam! Lucky Charms were lightly tanned cereal pieces in the shapes of x’s, o’s, and clovers, with faded pastel marshmallow bits shaped like rainbows, hearts, balloons, stars, and more clovers. The marshmallows were extremely sugary, and left a chalky sort of coating on my throat that I strangely enjoyed. The bland, mature oat cereal kept the tangy, youthful marshmallows in check and under control, but truthfully, once the marshmallows were gone, it was a pointless bowl of oddly shaped cheerios.

I had had my Sunday morning fun, but as SpongeBob came to a hilariously ridiculous ending, and my spoon clinked one final time on the bottom of the bowl, I realized I hadn’t missed out on too much as a kid. . . . I also wondered what I was going to do with four barely touched boxes of children’s cereal.

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THE TRUTH ABOUT BLACK FRIDAY

Audrey Brown Junior Peninsula, Ohio

Black Friday is a controversial holiday in American society; one either celebrates it or abhors it. It is often hard to believe that completely rational individuals who were It is often hard to believe hugging and kissing their family members, playing catch with that completely rational their nephews or nieces, and individuals who were counting their many blessings hugging and kissing their around a bountiful Thanksgiving family members, playing feast could, in the course of less catch with their nephews or than twenty‐four hours, transform into shopping nieces, and counting their Neanderthals who violently many blessings around a shove aside the old lady reaching bountiful Thanksgiving for the same DVD player just feast could, in the course of because it’s twenty dollars off less than twenty‐four hours, and this is the last one left in the store. In fact, one wonders transform into shopping Neanderthals who violently whether Black Friday can really even be thought of as a shove aside the old lady “holiday” at all given that it reaching for the same DVD brings out the very worst in player just because it’s people. It raises the question as to whether or not this is really twenty dollars off and this is the right day to go hit the stores the last one left in the store. for every kind of shopper?

My answer, in short: No. When people think of Black Friday they probably think of people waiting outside of stores in tents ten hours before the sales day starts, bargain hunters going shopping at obscene hours of the night, 99 cent DVDs, that crazy blonde lady from the Target commercials, and cops standing outside of every store, even Babies “R” Us. For those who are unfamiliar with this infamous night, Black Friday is the shopping extravaganza immediately after the Thanksgiving holiday, where people

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try to get their Christmas shopping done while stores are offering outrageous deals and sales that they make available on just this one day.

The big ticket items that are usually fought over are flat screen televisions, DVD players, iPods, Wii consoles, and laptop computers at large stores such as Walmart, Target, and Best Buy. People line up outside these stores, and when the clock strikes midnight, the doors fly open and people rush in and grab anything they can get their hands on, disregarding anyone else in their path.

After attending the Black Friday event at three major retail stores—Target, Best Buy, and Walmart—I have come to realize that this “shopping experience” is meant for only certain kinds of shoppers for it to be successful. If you are someone that really needs some type of expensive electronic device, such as a laptop, iPad, or flat screen TV, and you are willing to wait a very long time for the best available price, then yes, you should go to Black Friday and get in there and throw your elbows around to get that discount! Also, if you are a mother with a family of four or five, and you have to buy a lot of Christmas toys, get in there and grab as many Bratz dolls and Guitar Heros as you can; because you will save a lot more if you buy all of those toys on Black Friday.

The one catch with Black Friday, however, is that only certain items are on sale. Even though I wasn’t shopping for any big electronics when I shopped last year, I still managed to get some great deals on DVDs, and bought five for around twenty dollars. But this year, most of the good DVDs were completely gone by the time I hit the shelves, and only certain items were on sale that I was interested in. They tend not to discount things like clothes, or shoes, or books, or home goods, or makeup; so unless you are shopping for specific items that you know are going to be on sale, it isn’t much help to you.

The other big problem with Black Friday is the checkout line.

Let’s just say you have managed to find the one or two awesome DVDs that other frenzied shoppers have somehow overlooked in their wild rampage, and you see that you can get them both for just five dollars.

It’s a great deal, right? Well . . . only if you are willing to wait up to two hours in a slow moving line at two o’clock in the morning when your head is pounding from all the commotion, and you’re about to topple over from exhaustion at being up in the middle of the night shopping! If you have an overflowing cart of toys, or you’re about to purchase a flat screen and a printer at an amazing price, then that line is definitely worth your wait.

That being said, Black Friday is also beneficial if you are looking to be entertained. Even if you have no intention of buying anything, as

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long as you are not particularly claustrophobic, Black Friday can be quite amusing for those of you interested in some quality people watching.

You may see two women get in a full‐out brawl over a discounted Barbie Jeep, or you might perhaps enjoy watching a Best Buy employee be verbally assaulted by an angry man complaining about the bad customer service.

So, if you’re looking for a little excitement after a mellow Turkey Day, then this may be your kind of party. But seriously, shop at your own risk!

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FLASHBACK

Bianca Chan Freshman Aurora, Ohio

“Can anyone tell me what a tombé is?”

I struggle to recall the definition of the eerily familiar dance term as Miss Patterson scans the studio searching for a person ready with an answer. Finally, a junior responds as I quietly rebuke myself for not taking dance more seriously before starting it as a winter Unfortunately, during the sport this year. Studying many course of just one year off, styles of dance from I managed to lose much of kindergarten through seventh grade provided me with an my flexibility and interesting learning experience knowledge about dance. and trained me in many ways.

Still, I haven’t forgotten Unfortunately, during the course what it feels like to arch of just one year off, I managed to my back and touch my lose much of my flexibility and knowledge about dance. Still, I feet to my head, and I still haven’t forgotten what it feels faintly remember the like to arch my back and touch ballet exercises I learned my feet to my head, and I still when just entering faintly remember the ballet elementary school. exercises I learned when just entering elementary school.

Tuesdays bring back those fond memories when Miss Patterson reviews ballet positions. Thursdays and Fridays are when I am exposed to a whole new world of dance. Because I’ve never taken a hip hop or modern dance class before, almost every move is new to me. When winter sports began, I dug out my old dance costumes that were mixed in with my leotards and spandex. Noticing that half of the items didn’t even fit on me anymore, I went for my old shoes. I was content when I found my ballet shoes from two years ago. They were surprisingly snug on my feet as I wore them for the first class of the season.

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WHY I WROTE THIS ESSAY

Sam Clark Junior Hudson, Ohio

Still stuffed from a Thanksgiving dinner and a subsequent burrito the following day, I sit down to check my email. As I glance at multiple emails from the omnipresent editors (is that what they are called?) of Viewpoints, I instantly think, “Ugh, I’m already sick of all the morning meeting announcements, do you guys really have to invade my break time as well?” The first message is a thinly veiled threat, sent by the ever‐menacing Katherine Winford, claiming that students should submit essays or else, as she puts it, “Weʹll track you I half remember that Mr. down!” At this point, Iʹm Ong is somehow tied to this legitimately concerned. I magazine‐thingy, so I begin nervously anticipate that to worry that he will fail me Katherine will, during a right out of AP US if I ignore carefree lunch of “chicken balls” smothered in the sauce this vague yet frightening of the day, take out my knees message. while Julia Ferguson simultaneously enacts vicious revenge on my fragile head. In addition, I half remember that Mr. Ong is somehow tied to this magazine‐thingy, so I begin to worry that he will fail me right out of AP US if I ignore this vague yet frightening message.

Therefore, desperately hoping that submitting a half‐assed page or two will get me off their email list, I begin to peruse my computer looking for some random old English paper that I happened to still like by the time I had finished it. After a rather exhausting ten‐minute search, I have nothing. All my previous papers are either about books (quite boring to most people), me (and I’m too mysterious to let those become public), or are simply really, really bad (sadly, the vast majority).

In addition to feeling incredibly sorry for all my past English teachers (Mr. Warner, Mr. Lewis, and KOB: please forgive me), I conclude that I probably shouldn’t force the world to suffer through the emotional distress sure to follow the public release of one of my past academic

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essays. Consequently, I commence in opening a new file and starting anew.

I draw a blank.

The simple parameter of a “nonfiction essay” is at once too broad and too restraining. It would be easy to just write some short story about a deranged super‐cat (Ferocious Feline vs. The Menacing Mega Mouse, for instance), but that would be fiction and therefore is eliminated from serious consideration. I could write a biography about some famous guy or review some popular book, but I’m just too lazy to do any actually research. In desperation, I begin to skim old volumes of Viewpoints to see if I can somehow muster up a feasible idea.

As I glance over the seemingly endless essays on everything from a favorite NFL team to coming to terms with an awkward spelling of one’s name, I realize Viewpoints is truly pretty awesome. It provides an outlet for anyone to express themselves and have a welcoming and captive audience. Sure, some essays are better written than others, but who cares? The joy of Viewpoints is that it acts as a potential portal between the mind of a reader and the thoughts of a writer. It allows the writer to express feelings without encrypting it within the vault of poetry, where only the most skilled can unlock the hidden meaning.

So, instead of just pulling a file from my computer, I actually sit down and carefully type out why I felt I needed to write this essay. It might be short (Thanksgiving break is usually a no‐writing respite in my life) and boring (deal with it people!), but I believe it conveys my discovery of the wonders of Viewpoints and why I think every single recipient of that menacing email should have sent back a wonderfully creative and personal essay.

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CROSSING THE LINE

Alex Eliopoulos Senior Akron, Ohio

When I was six years old the Earhart family moved into the house next door. I remember feeling incredibly excited by the prospect that the universe might have actually cut me a break and sent me someone my own age to play with. It came close. The Earhart family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Earhart, and their “children,” Bo and Ellie. Bo and Ellie Earhart were two adorable schnauzers with personalities that would best be described as loud, rambunctious, territorial, and snappy.

Mr. and Mrs. Earhart quickly took to my sister and me, and even referred to themselves as our grandma and grandpa. They made us cookies after school, came to our softball games, and Mrs. Earhart even taught me how to sew on her Singer. However, as much as I adored Mrs. and Mr. Earhart, it was actually Bo and Ellie who became my new best friends.

Within days of their moving in, I found myself peering through the trees between our yards hoping to catch a glimpse of my would‐be companions. Ellie acted as the mother of the two, she would chatter and bark until she made herself known and then run into their garage like a mouse if you got too close. Bo, on the other hand, was the friendly one.

He was constantly looking for someone to rub his head. Bo soon became my confidant and trusted companion, and I would always make sure to rub the spot between his ears and give him extra treats.

After a summer and fall of leashes and makeshift driveway barriers, Mr. Earhart gave up on his attempts to corral Bo and Ellie and decided to install an invisible fence. I watched as the flags went up, collars went on, and Bo got zapped as he crossed the invisible dividing line between our yards. I could almost feel the pain Bo endured as he twitched violently and yelped trying to make it across. I wondered how this invisible fence really worked. How much did it hurt Bo and Ellie?

Over the course of the next couple days, I discussed these very same questions with Mr. Earhart, but he never had any answers that made any sense to me. Even with the orange flags all over their yard, I would watch Bo run through the barrier to meet me as I got off the bus. These

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moments always upset me, as I watched Bo cross the line and get a bolt of invisible lightening straight to the neck.

Mr. Earhart was an energetic bike rider who was up daily at the crack of dawn to ride his 10‐speed through the valley. Yet he always took time to talk to me as he pedaled his bike back up his driveway. I was interested in his insights as to how the electric jolt affected Bo’s well‐ being. What I did not understand was how such a health‐conscious person could look on as his dogs received such an After a summer and fall of unhealthy dose of electricity. I leashes and makeshift asked Mr. Earhart how it felt to driveway barriers, Mr. Bo. He replied that it could not Earhart gave up on his feel very good but that attempts to corral Bo and eventually Bo would learn not to cross the line. I wanted to Ellie and decided to install know what it felt like myself, an invisible fence. I watched and I asked if I could try out as the flags went up, collars the collar. Jokingly, he agreed went on, and Bo got zapped to let me find out and put Bo’s as he crossed the invisible collar around my neck.

Thinking back now, I’m sure dividing line between our Mr. Earhart never dreamed yards. that I would actually do the unthinkable—and at the time I wasn’t exactly sure I would either. I was afraid, but I closed my eyes and before Mr. Earhart could reach out to grab me back I faced from his driveway toward my own yard. I am not sure just which hurt me more: the expression on Mr. Earhart’s face or the burning shock that coursed through my little body. Mr. Earhart came sprinting over to me, picked me up gently, and asked if I was okay. I merely responded, “Ask Bo.”

* * *

As the universe had actually made good on its promise to provide me with a new best friend, Bo Earhart and I shared more than just friendship that summer. Bo’s curiosity taught me to think imaginatively, even at that young age. It was certainly a risk to jump through the invisible fence, but it helped me to understand how it felt to Bo. Even though he was a schnauzer, Bo and I had a special bond. Bo and Ellie have since passed on, but Mr. Earhart continues to remind me of my strange courage that day. It still fascinates me how he reacted so

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differently to me racing across the line versus Bo. It was clear that Mr. Earhart felt my pain, and yet it was almost as if he challenged Bo to cross that line. I wish more people tried to understand how animals feel. It would be unthinkable to cage children in with electric fences. Yet it seems as though every other home in America has an invisible fence for their dogs. There must be a better way.

I often think about Bo and Ellie and the lessons they taught me during our first summer together. I still believe in the power of the universe to grant our wishes, in the strong bonds of friendship, and in the wisdom to be gained from experiencing the world from another’s point of view. I look forward to the day when I might have my own Bo. As we sit together on the drive, I will rub the special spot between his ears, give him extra treats, and without any pain teach him not to cross the line.

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MY JOURNEY WITH DOSTOEVSKY

Dale Englehart Senior Mantua, Ohio

It was a Saturday in late November, and I sat in my room attempting some leisure reading to pass the time. The musical stylings of Madonna, which my mom was enjoying rather loudly in the next room, proved quite a distraction. I resolved then to go for a walk, perhaps to the park, where I could enjoy my book in relative tranquility.

Throwing on a jacket, and taking my copy of Crime and Punishment in hand, I set out into the cool autumn day. I had just reached the park, which is little over a minute’s walk from my house, when a sudden urge to press forward arose within me. The desire was a bit nonsensical, as not far past the park was a dead‐end, but I obliged it, figuring I would do a bit more walking before settling down. I reached the end of the street where I stumbled upon a large wooden sign, back a little ways into the brush on the side of the road, which read “State Marsh Wetland Nature Reserve.” I was taken aback for a moment, as I was not previously aware that there existed within my one‐and‐a‐half‐square‐ mile hometown of Mantua an actual nature reserve. My fortuitous discovery inspired a change of plans. Instead of reading my book, I would explore the marsh, isolate myself from the modern world, take in the open air, and reflect quietly on the surrounding natural wonder. So, I entered the reserve, headphones planted firmly on my ears with my iPod playing on shuffle, cell phone resting heavily in my left pant pocket, and Dostoevsky wedged between my arm and my ribcage.

Slipping between the sign and a nearby chain‐link fence, I carefully descended the slope which led into the reserve and set off. The wetland yielded me little dry ground over which to travel, so I walked crookedly along the edge of the marsh, cheered onward by some Judy Garland tune. Only occasionally did I take a moment to peer off into the reedy expanse. I trudged intently along the narrow path, my music effortlessly canceling out the subtle whisper of my environment.

Around the time “White Rabbit” began playing on my iPod, I realized that my solitary adventure off the beaten path and into the wild was actually adjacent to a quite trodden path—a well‐traveled trail which lay,

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quite visibly, just across the ridge—as I met the troubled stares of a few passersby, no doubt perplexed by the sight of some kid meandering alone through the woods singing along to Jefferson Airplane. A bit self‐ conscious, I then sought to travel deeper into the reserve and, perhaps, away from other people. Still playing my music and occasionally checking my phone, I traipsed onward without drawing any greater sense of freedom or meditation from my journey. Soon, however, I reached a clearing, and, pondering a moment, I turned off my iPod, placed it in my pocket, and took a seat.

At that moment, I considered starting where I had left off in my book, but quickly decided against it. Perched atop a fallen tree, I gazed upon a tall, grassy outgrowth which stretched off into the distance. The entire marsh danced gently in unison at the guiding of the cool autumn breeze. Overhead, the tangle of tree branches and twigs Around the time “White shattered the soft orange glow of Rabbit” began playing on the evening sun, releasing my iPod, I realized that my radiant shards in my direction. solitary adventure off the The whistle of the air sounded beaten path and into the continuously, and I heard the song of birds and the low wild was actually adjacent moaning of a bullfrog. The to a trodden path—a well‐ distant rumble of an engine met traveled trail which lay, head on with a sudden gust of quite visibly, just across the wind and was swiftly ridge—as I met the troubled suppressed. All of nature’s stares of a few passersby, no sounds seemed to converge, doubt perplexed by the sight rising slowly into a singular, peaceful ringing. And, with a of some kid meandering deliberate exhale, I slipped into a alone through the woods state of silent contemplation. singing along to Jefferson Lost in thought, I felt a deep calm come over me, as the Airplane. unbroken whisper and flow of the wetland drew me further into my reflection. And, in that glorious moment, a terse and muffled vibration at my waist ripped me from my meditation and hurled me into a sudden, unpleasant state of awareness—I had received a text message.

My phone again felt heavy in my pocket, and I remembered the copy of Crime and Punishment, which was nestled beneath my folded arms. Raskolnikov was right where I had left him, in his small cupboard

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of an apartment, which overlooked the sordid streets of St. Petersburg, seeped with guilt and fear. The message informed me that dinner was just about ready. I decided then that my rendezvous with nature had come to an end, and I started off for home, opting not to put my headphones back in for the return trip. As I emerged from the woods, the roofs of a few buildings came into view, and I stepped from the leaf‐ covered grass onto the concrete sidewalk, making my way up the street to home, just as the daylight was entering its death‐throes.

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AS THE SWEET WIND BLOWS

Alex Fellows Sophomore Canton, Ohio

A highly turbulent, horrifying descent over tropical trees marks every journey of mine into the Bahamas. In a plane about a third of the size of typical commercial jets, my family and I land on the unpaved, dirt runway. When the jet’s engines begin to die down, I know one of my favorite experiences waits for me beyond the sealed door. The small plane door opens, and the passengers file out one‐by‐one. As I exit the plane, all the smells and sights of this tropical world hit me. The breeze lightly touching my face and exposed arms and legs, filled with the fragrance of the beach, sand, and a good piña colada all in one. As we depart from the airport to our small villa, the sights on the drive remind me of why this special location means so much in my life.

I have been traveling to Treasure Cay, Bahamas, since I was young—almost too young to remember. A mass of photos collected throughout my years there could create a timeline of my life, from my baby face with curly blond hair to my now adolescent features. I’ve become so familiar with this tropical getaway that I can As we depart from the airport to our small villa, the trust myself in wandering the island alone. I cannot believe I sights on the drive remind will ever tire of waking up and me of why this special seeing the aqua blue ocean location means so much in mirroring the perfect blue skies. From biking along my life. sidewalks in idyllic warm weather cooled by a perfect smelling sea breeze wrapping around my body, or going to bed with the smooth sound of waves arriving upon the shore, the way the Bahamas touches my senses is something I will never forget, but it is not the key attraction in my annual return to my own personal wonderland.

* * *

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I have always been a bit off in my emotions; I become easily stressed from almost any area of my life, but I have learned to control these feelings, making most oblivious. There are few places I have found where I can go and let myself be who I really am. Though I have become a very extroverted individual, I need solitude to find true peacefulness.

This space—the distance from others—always coalesces in the Bahamas.

Anywhere I go there, I know I can find peace, find a place where I can, for once, sit down and reflect about my life. The town to which I travel is always quiet and allows for repose without the disruptions and distractions so commonly found in the United States. Nowhere else have I found a place quite like Treasure Cay. My quiet is found throughout the town, new places discovered on my aimless voyaging—just the open island, craving to be explored, and me.

Once I learned how to ride a bike, I would ask my mom every morning if I could ride down to the baker’s and buy a batch of cinnamon rolls for our family breakfast. There is nothing like a morning bike ride followed by entering a bakery full of recently crafted goods. Eventually this became habitual, and I no longer would ask permission to go pick up the large, gooey, and ever‐so‐delicious smelling fresh cinnamon rolls.

These morning bike rides led to further explorations of the island and my inner thoughts. This daily interaction with those whom I did not know led to a small growth in me throughout the years. Though it may seem a small thing, going to shops and ordering items by myself led me to breaking out of my interpersonal shell of shyness in speaking to those with whom I wasn’t familiar. The benevolence of the locals taught me not to have fear of public interactions, but rather to embrace them with open arms, which turned me into the extroverted person I am today. It took a while to realize it, but these people have changed me forever.

On the day I leave the Bahamas, I say my adieus to the various shop owners I have come to know. I drink one last virgin piña colada, and then we throw our bags into a taxi and head off to the single‐ building airport. As the plane begins to take off into the always‐blue sky, I see through my window an environment permanently engraved into my mind. No matter how much time passes, my memory will perfectly recall the sights and smells that make the island what it is.

Through that window I see more than just luscious green trees, the perfect sky blue sea, and the silky smooth sand; I see a place that has, over the years, changed me into the person I am today.

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KEEP THE POST ALIVE

Julia Ferguson Senior Chicago, Illinois

It is a big day in a person’s life when they first receive a piece of mail. All at once the wide world of bills, junk mail, love letters, wedding invitations, and Christmas cards is opened up to them. Communication with the outside via the written word is realized and readily available.

I was seated in a sun‐stained canvas teepee overlooking the Puget Sound the day I received my first piece of mail. I was in the throes of my childhood camp days (bonfires, capture the flag, sailing) when my counselor approached me with a small white envelope held between her calloused fingers. I was wary to think this little message was addressed to me as my hopes had been brutally dashed before. But this instance was different; I could simply tell.

I flipped this little white letter in between my own small fingers.

It seemed the perfect weight: light enough not to be a burden but heavy enough to suggest it was important.

I was actually a bit afraid to open Although I did not (and the little contraption. How was I to still do not) possess the unfold such an intricate mess of poetic power to shake paper folds? What if I destroyed the the earth, nor could I inner contents, the lifeblood of the craft prose to move men letter, and ruined my first and perhaps only chance at the mature to acts of glory, I do world of personally addressed mail? have a way with kind The time had come to suck it up, rip words. an edge, and peek inside.

By the time I finally reached the vital inside of said letter, its envelope was in tatters. But any worries about that seemed insignificant.

The words, scrawled by my grandmother Nonnie’s quick‐paced hand, felt so wonderfully personal. She had written them especially for me: an update on the hawk she and GranDan had saved from one of the trees behind the house in Lake Geneva. A small printed picture was included along with a loving sign off.

I read it many times over, analyzing its structure and fluency. I felt I needed to reciprocate this transaction of sending mail. Now that

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this world had been revealed to me I felt flung into its grandiose web. I believed I could send mail to anyone: a large and daunting undertaking I was more than willing to take on. So I took my first opportunity to buy an ambitious stack of postcards, ones depicting the rustic island on which I was currently secluded, and set off to write to everyone I knew.

Although I did not (and still do not) possess the poetic power to shake the earth, nor could I craft prose to move men to acts of glory, I do have a way with kind words. My first piece of precious mail, therefore, was filled with small tidbits of love. I remember that it was a joy to write and the experience served as a small sampling of what I immediately recognized was a huge opportunity to do something positive in the world. Now, with my many books of postcards and impressive collection of stationary, I try to take advantage of the opportunity to correspond via the handwritten word whenever I can. So please don’t allow the electronic web of communication to eclipse the once adored “snail‐mail.” I, for one, will always prefer to send you an old‐fashioned letter . . . and receive one in return!

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TO THE SUMMIT

Allison Forhan Senior Hudson, Ohio

It was early, too early. The sun had yet to shine its light upon the horizon, the birds had yet to stretch their wings in the morning air, and my eyes had yet to open from their night’s sleep. But there I was, walking to the car at 4:30 in the morning. I had my day pack with me, my hiking boots, and the other necessities I needed to make this trip possible. We piled into the van and began the drive to the High Peaks region. As we drove through the winding roads in the morning fog, I saw the sun begin to show its yellow glow, and I knew we would be arriving at the trailhead shortly.

There are forty‐six high peaks in the Adirondacks, in upstate New York. They are all above four thousand feet, and my goal is to climb all forty‐six in order to become a “Forty‐Sixer.” In my family, becoming a Forty‐Sixer is very important, and each summer we try to climb as many high peaks as we can to get closer to accomplishing our goal. My Uncle Andy has climbed all of the peaks twice, making him a Double Forty‐Sixer! He helps us complete our trips and keeps us focused on our personal conquest of the mountains.

We finally reached the parking lot at the base of the mountain and began the slow process of stretching our legs, lacing our hiking boots, and strapping on our backpacks. Our plan was to climb Allen— one of the toughest of the forty‐six high peaks. Allen is 4,340 feet high.

It contains steep rock faces and is partially trail‐less near the summit. It was 6:15 a.m. and although the sun was rising, it was still very dark as we began, through a valley full of tall grass and mud, our five mile hike‐ in to the base of the mountain. We had to invent creative ways to get around all the mud, such as getting a running start and hoping for the best in attempting to jump over them, or shimmying along the very thin edges of the trail spanning the puddles, hoping we would not slip or fall in. Finally we made it to the base of Allen and began our initial ascent.

Every climb starts out easily and gradually gets steeper, and it was no different on Allen. After going strong for a few hours we reached the rock faces and the steepness of the peak took on a new level of difficulty. We only had a few miles left, but these were the longest

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few miles of my life. I was with my brother, and it started to drizzle making the rocks slippery and hard to find safe footing. Through strategy and communication we were able to help each other complete one rock face at a time without falling once.

After a long morning of hard work and perseverance we finally made it to the top . . . but only There are forty‐six high to be hit with disappointment.

We had climbed to the summit peaks in the Adirondacks, in of a viewless peak; we were upstate New York. They are surrounded by trees and all above four thousand feet, clouds, unable to see any of the and my goal is to climb all nearby mountains. It was dis‐ forty‐six in order to become heartening, but we did not stay for long because of a storm we a “Forty‐Sixer.” In my had seen in the forecast the family, becoming a Forty‐ previous night. My brother Sixer is very important, and and I led the way back down each summer we try to the mountain and, soon after, climb as many high peaks as the forecast came true. It start‐ ed to pour, and although there we can to get closer to was no thunder or lightning accomplishing our goal. there was a lot of rain.

We decided it was too dangerous to climb down the rocks so we sat on the back of our boots and began sliding down the rocks stopping ourselves every few feet on a root or a patch of mud. By the time the rocks were behind us we were exhausted, but we knew we still had a lot of mountain to cover. We moved quickly on the slick ground supporting ourselves on trees, branches, and whatever else we could find to keep us from falling on the muddy trail. As we reached the base of the mountain and stepped out into the open valley, the rain had subsided and we were down to the last five miles. My sister, Annie, was now leading the way, trudging straight through the muddy valley without a care. Eventually we all began to do the same. My legs were aching and my feet were sore and tender, but I knew there was no use in stopping. We were close to the end, and as I noticed a familiar curve in the trail, I began to pick up the pace knowing the parking lot was just ahead. The trees began to thin and our van was in sight. As I stepped onto the gravel of the parking lot, I threw my arms up in victory. I did it! One by one all eight of us came out of the woods, and you could see the look of satisfaction on their faces. It was six at night—twelve hours and eighteen miles after we had

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commenced our hike. We were all exhausted, and we slept the entire way home, happy to have completed such a challenging climb.

After a long hike I am always happy; I am tested physically by the climb, I am motivated the entire way, and in the end I know I have completed an important goal. Not many people I know have climbed an Adirondack high peak, or know what it is. But for me, each climb is a personal challenge which I look forward to with great anticipation and excitement. Thirty down . . . sixteen to go!

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TRIANGLES

Abby Hermosilla Sophomore Kent, Ohio

Maybe it’s the dusty scent of gravel beneath me that cradles my sleepy body, causing my subconsciousness to seep past my fingers and into the earth. Or perhaps it is my brain tugging at my motors reminding me I have to head back home, which makes me even more driven to stay put. Either way, I am quite familiar with this place. It is one of the largest parts of my childhood.

The metal dome was the biggest attraction during recess. All of us second graders would rule it like our palace, a kingdom of tiny naive dwarfs shouting childish commands at each other. We’d point out the scrawny first graders further down the lot, attempting the monkey‐bars or a game of hopscotch. We were bigger and better than them; we knew it. No longer were we the guinea pigs of academia; our seven‐year‐old minds were well molded into the fast‐paced life of counting numbers and practicing cursive. It was really a thrill to be on top of the world; not too loud and squeamish like the young ones or too bored of school and lazy with work like our elders.

As our thriving monarchy continued through‐ I would not be able to count out the school year, it came to a how many times I was first point where we were expected to touch those bars. to sprint to the dome as soon However, when I did, I as we felt the faintest breeze touch our faces as we made would clasp my tiny hands our way outside. Whoever onto the metal that bended made it to the dome the fastest and fastened to make the would be treated like royalty dome’s majestic shape and for the remainder of recess. give out a cheer.

Prospective kings and queens screamed in each other’s faces and shoved past the mob of children piling out of the building. I would not be able to count how many times I was first to touch those bars.

However, when I did, I would clasp my tiny hands onto the metal that bended and fastened to make the dome’s majestic shape and give out a

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cheer. Although it may seem immature, the satisfaction of being first still dwells in my body somewhere. I would like to think that this became my competitive side: the one that thirsts for the bliss of winning and gaining attention. The ruler would climb to the very top, sticking his or her feet into the open triangles which made up the surface of the dome, balancing over mere subjects. Then, once we were all settled into our palace, we’d slip our tiny frames through the triangles and plop inside.

It now takes me a bit longer to scramble up the metal structure and squirm past the openings than it did when I was seven. But once I do, the exhilaration of the fall onto the gravel sea inside is nearly the same. The weak wisp of wind that flies through my hair and past my skin refreshes my senses and sharpens all those memories of second grade. I find my teenage body being rejuvenated by the fall, almost as if I were an old woman, laced with wrinkles, reminiscing over the taste of youth. And in an instant, once my feet feel the small stones pile against the soles of my shoes, the feeling disappears. I return to my adolescence.

Seeing the playground where I spent hours of my life growing up—through the eyes of a now very sleep‐deprived teen—almost twists away the innocence and happiness I once possessed into a resentful nostalgia. I start to long for the days where I could rule my classmates from the comfort of the dome and seemingly control most aspects of my tiny life. If I felt like playing with my animal crackers instead of eating them, I could. If I felt like wearing my t‐shirt inside‐out and backwards, I could. That seems all far behind me now, due to layers upon layers of reserve and indifference that accompanies the process of growing older.

Now, all I’m left with is this metal dome.

I’m running short on time; it’s almost midnight and I haven’t returned home. But before I can depart from the playground, I must make my adieu to the ancient palace. I can find no appropriate way of doing so without lying down in the sea of gravel and simply staring out onto the starry sky through the triangles. I smile a bit. I was ruling the world from the top of this dome at age seven. Eight years later, I’m looking out of it from the inside. And even though I know my voice will probably be heard by no one, especially at this hour, the memories of my childhood continue to play aloud on repeat. I no longer can contain the outbursts of my past life; so I might as well lay upon the ground, smile, and embrace it.

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GOSH DARN ROBOTS

Lauren Kolar Sophomore Hudson, Ohio

The scene is set: a crisp beachscape layered with grainy sand that tickles the toes; a bright, cerulean sky dappled with fleecy, bloated clouds; and gently crashing, blue‐green waves gilded with sea foam.

According to the majority of the population, it is the prime summer vacation. Nothing could be better than lying spread eagle on a cotton beach towel as you try to lap up a vanilla soft serve before the sun can melt it and beat you to the punch. This, however, is not what I call a perfect summer activity. My ideal summer vacation consists of walking around a sweltering sardine can of a convention center, tagging along with my brothers, one of whom Back in the old days, when happens to be wearing a plastic trash can. There is only one the convention was first place where this is even starting out, it was a remotely socially acceptable: San modest event that Diego. It’s late July, and that can practiced exactly what it only mean one thing for preached: comic books. If Southern California: Comic Con. For those who don’t you’re picturing a bunch of know, Comic Con is pretty much sweaty nerds with broken the single geekiest event on thick‐rimmed glasses stuck earth. At the same time, it still is back together with tape, able to make a reasonable claim that’s probably pretty for being one of the coolest. Yes, that seems like a paradox, which accurate. Over the years, it is, to an extent, but it all comes though, as its popularity down to the difference between began to grow, the old Comic Con and new Comic entertainment industry Con. Back in the old days, when realized its immense the convention was first starting out, it was a modest event that potential, and nowadays it practiced exactly what it is the industry’s preached: comic books. If you’re advertising Mecca. picturing a bunch of sweaty

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nerds with broken thick‐rimmed glasses stuck back together with tape, that’s probably pretty accurate. Over the years, though, as its popularity began to grow, the entertainment industry realized its immense potential, and nowadays it is the industry’s advertising Mecca. At this point, it really should be called “Media Con,” rather than Comic Con, since the biggest attractions are no longer comics.

The convention is truly a sight to behold: there is a main concourse that hosts aisle upon aisle upon aisle of booths and exhibitors.

This main room is somewhat split into two areas. There are the independent retailers and artists trying to make it big on one side, and the conglomeration of big‐ass companies and corporations, such as Lionsgate and Cartoon Network, on the other side. A never‐ending expanse of banners and flags brandishing company names protrude from the endless plain of stands and displays. Not only does the Con have hundreds of thousands of square feet of exhibitor space, but it also has another feature that helps it attract its more than one hundred thousand visitors per year: panel discussions.

One of the largest draws for the geeks in attendance is the chance to witness some of their heroes from their favorite TV show or movie talking in person. There are multiple halls that hold such panel discussions, spanning from smaller ballrooms; to Ballroom 20, which seems to stretch on forever; to the infamous seating madhouse that is Hall H, which holds over six thousand people. Attendees will wait for hours, and some even camp out overnight in order to get the closest seat for a certain panel. Even I waited basically a whole day in the jacked‐up air conditioning of Hall H just to watch a few select panels. But it sure as hell paid off, seeing as I got to witness Steven F‐‐‐ing Spielberg and Peter F‐‐‐ing Jackson.

One of the most exciting parts of Comic Con is all of the free crap that people give out. As I mentioned before, this is the event for entertainment corporations. This is when huge Hollywood production companies will release long‐awaited clips and trailers for the next year’s biggest movies, and where you can play new video games months before they are officially released. Because of this advertising frenzy, every company is trying to outdo the other with their freebies. Some will give out official, full‐size movie posters for upcoming releases, and others will have a full station of little brand knickknacks. It has gotten to the point where, upon picking up your convention passes, you are given an official Comic Con bag the size of a midget. It skims the ground as you add more, more, more. It’s ridiculous.

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Perhaps the most iconic part of Comic Con, however, is all of the costuming and cosplay. It is not uncommon to walk down an aisle and see a girl with neon pink pigtails that drape down to her miniskirt‐clad butt. And don’t get me started on how many Links from The Legend of Zelda there were strutting around. At one point, there was even a gathering of about twenty‐five people dressed as various characters from Doctor Who, all taking a group picture.

Which brings me back to my brother. I did not dress up for the event, but Chris, my older brother, at the insistence of his girlfriend, did.

He chose to dress himself as a member of one of the main villain races of Doctor Who, a group of evil robots called the Daleks. The One of the most exciting thing is, Daleks look more or parts of Comic Con is all of less like a bumpy trash can the free crap that people with a whisk for one arm, and give out. . . . It has gotten to a plunger for the other. Oh, and a flashlight for an eyestalk the point where, upon . . . thingy. So, considering that picking up your convention the show was created back in passes, you are given an the sixties as an extremely official Comic Con bag the cheesy and almost painfully size of a midget. low budget sci‐fi production, he decided to add some snark to his costume. He took a plastic trash can, cut some holes for a whisk and plunger, wore a bucket on his head with a flashlight glued onto it, and taped to the body of the can a sign in sloppy red paint that read “1st ever Dalek.” It was utterly and shamelessly nerdy. Oh, but it was glorious.

As my two brothers and I trooped around the already congested convention center various people would pass by, read the little sign, and chuckle. If someone attends Comic Con, chances are they are a fan of Doctor Who. It’s just that kind of show. So as I schlepped around my Trash Can Brother, fans of the British TV show would throw out comments like “Oh my God, that’s hilarious” or “Awesome, dude!”

There were even a few instances where little kids would walk by and squeal “Dalek!” gleefully. (And, by the way, to whoever was raising those children, I only have one thing to say about your parenting: you’re doing it right!) A lot of people also asked to have their picture taken with Chris. When it comes to Comic Con costumes, it is pretty much one big communal photo shoot. My favorite reaction to the costume, though, hands down, was one particular uttering from an older gentleman. He

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looked to be just about the age where phrases like “back in my day . . . ” have become fairly common. He must have been a young man when Forbidden Planet first came out—when the world had a fascination with space and robots. As he passed us from behind, I heard him grumble “Gosh darn robots.” His “robots” sounded more like “ro‐butts.” It was absolutely priceless.

After about an hour or two, the muggy atmosphere in that grey plastic trash can became unbearable for poor Chris, and we arranged for it to be picked up by our parents. We proceeded with our geeking out and fangirling/fanboying sans costume for the remainder of the weekend. At one point, I found myself in the chilly expanse of Hall H once again, this time with Chris to attend a Doctor Who panel. This was the most brilliant manifestation of geekiness I have ever borne witness to. As we sat waiting for the stars to present their faces, the crowd began clapping in sync to a four beat rhythm that is more or less a recurring thing on the show. Dum‐dum dum‐dum. Dum‐dum dum‐dum. The whole time, all I could think of was, “These are my people.”

So yes, while other people were sitting on the beach that summer, getting a lovely little tan and sipping ice‐cold lemonade, I was huddling for warmth in the chilly confines of a darkened ballroom, munching on my packed granola bar and Ziploc bag of pretzels. It was perfect summer weather out in the real world, out in California, but I was about as inside as you could get, slinking around, trying to find another crappy metal chair with a better view of the discussion table than the one prior. It may not have been the picture perfect, sun‐and‐fun vacation that everyone else dreams about, but I sure as hell would prefer it over beach bumming any day.

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THE MCBRIER PARTIES

Ellie McBrier Senior Fairview, Pennsylvania

Throughout my childhood I was constantly bringing chairs up from the basement, cleaning my bathroom for the guests, and helping with all of the dishes the morning after the many renowned McBrier parties. We own our own foldout tables, hundreds of tablecloths and napkins, and a collection of drinking glasses that is simply astonishing.

The McBriers are partiers. My mom’s history of parties began when she lived out on Lloyd Neck, Long Island. The numerous beach parties and gatherings that were held throughout my mom’s childhood began the tradition of celebrating for the sake of celebrating, a tradition that has carried on into my childhood. It’s summer . . . let’s have a party! We like seafood . . . let’s hold a lobster party! Lots of family members are in town . . . let’s have a party! The reasons for the McBrier parties could go on forever.

I have learned to answer the same questions that I get asked from a hundred different people with a smile on my face and pleased look in my eye. I have grown accustomed to the fact that everyone is “amazed at how grown up I am,” and people started asking during my freshman year of high school which college I wanted to go to. I am a McBrier, and I have had to get used to these things. Although each year is similar, involving many parties, talking with countless adults, and being placed in awkward situations with other kids whom I don’t really know much about, I have played many different roles at our parties throughout my life.

As a toddler, I was the troublemaker. Baths in the sink, falling asleep at the dinner table and ruining the dresses that my mom would force me into—I was the little child running around whom my parents always had to worry about. When the adults stopped me and tried to hold a conversation, I would look at them and say, “Talk to the hand cause the face don’t want to hear it.” I had more than a little attitude and felt as if I had much more important things to do than have meaningless, repetitive conversations with adults. I was the little cousin whom people played with in the yard and danced with on the dance floor. I have many fond memories of parties when I was this age. I never ran out of energy and was glad to be the center of attention. As my dad twirled me

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around the dance floor, I wished the moment would never end and loved that everyone watched and talked about how cute a couple we were. I felt as if everyone else was there for my amusement. And if I could stay awake until 9:00pm without crashing, then I could eat a good dinner too! However, I usually did not make it to dinnertime, and I always felt as if I missed out on the late night activities after passing out on the couch or at the dinner table. Unfortunately, my sleep was uncontrollable. Even when awake, my brothers were too cool for me; they had their friends and actually liked talking with the boring adults while my older cousins were sneaking them drinks. I never understood why they wanted to drink that nasty smelling stuff, and I was curious but far too busy to ask. I made my own fun, being the only little girl, with no one else in my generation; I caused as much trouble and got as much attention as possible. I held the Little Girl role, and no one could steal it from me.

However, I could not stay the Little Girl forever, and as I entered my teenage years, the parties took on a new form. I was now forced to hold those meaningless conversations with the adults, as I ducked in and out of the crowd looking for a way out. I no longer had the Rather than avoid the imagination to occupy myself for adults and cause mayhem hours upon hours, so I became for my parents, I learned to bored and looked for new integrate and become a entertainment. My mom still new and interesting guest forced me into dresses that I did not like, and people no longer at my own party. The considered my stubbornness adults’ conversations are cute. My brothers weren’t now fun and insightful, around much—they were off and although I get asked doing big kid things that they the same questions over refused to let me in on—and my parents became occupied as the and over, I have learned to first guests began to arrive. appreciate the Although my dad would beg, relationships that my dancing with him had die— parents have as I establish along with my “blankey” that I ones of my own. no longer slept with; I was The Teenager, with a lot of attitude and no cuteness. As the parties passed by, I became smarter and decided to take my negative attitude and turn it into something more lucrative.

My good friend Julia and I became entrepreneurial. We discovered that

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if we helped set up before and clean up after a party, with no complaining, we could convince my dad that we deserved a paycheck.

Suddenly, the parties weren’t so boring anymore. My piggy bank became very full, and we were entertained.

However, I eventually did not wish to be The Teenager any longer either. It was time to grow up and take on yet another new role. I became a Young Woman and turned into a real hostess of the party.

Rather than avoid the adults and cause mayhem for my parents, I learned to integrate and become a new and interesting guest at my own party. The adults’ conversations are now fun and insightful, and although I get asked the same questions over and over, I have learned to appreciate the relationships that my parents have as I establish ones of my own. My mom and I now agree on the dresses that I wear, and I feel proud and grateful when I slip into a dress preparing for a McBrier party. I am appreciative of special things that occur at our parties. For instance, now when my dad and I are on the dance floor together, and he twirls me around, I am reminded of my childhood. I once again wish the nostalgic moment would never end.

Throughout my life, the roles that I have taken on at our family parties have come to define who I was at that stage in my development.

Morphing from an overly energetic and crazy Little Girl, to the role of a Young Woman that I take on today, my attitudes and personalities have changed. The McBrier parties are a representation of the different people I have been. As I look out into the sea of guests today, I see my little cousin Parker stand out among them, dancing and amusing herself out on the dance floor, just as I once did. She is at the beginning of her path through adolescence and will one day assume the role of a Young Woman too. As I fondly watch this transformation, I can see myself in her eyes, and I am reminded that my own transformation is yet to be complete.

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THIS IS MY WAR POEM

Ai Miller Senior Toledo, Ohio

I can’t quite explain to you what it’s like to carry the dead inside of you.

Not in a Sixth Sense manner, mind you—I don’t see dead people, walking around like they’re still alive, gory head injuries and violent moments of struggle as they try to convince me to help them. It’s nothing like that—there’s no helping the dead. They’re dead, long dead, and all I can do is carry them inside of me.

I couldn’t tell you how many of them there are, how many stories wrapped around my esophagus—at least 600,000, though the number is probably much greater. Incomprehensible numbers, an army that defies space and time, marching through my pounding head as I struggle to stay focused on my work, wooden pencil sliding through slack fingers.

Most don’t say a word to I don’t see dead people, me. We don’t talk, no snide walking around like commentary as I buy food that is they’re still alive, gory primarily preservatives, head injuries and violent shivering in the freezer aisle at the grocery store. No excited moments of struggle as exclamations or declarations of they try to convince me to beauty as I look at myself in the help them. It’s nothing mirror, as I glance through the like that—there’s no window at the round, pale helping the dead. They’re moon. I don’t even know their names, except the famous ones dead, long dead, and all I of course. And even if I called can do is carry them inside them, they wouldn’t answer me. of me.

I’m not crazy.

And yet.

And yet sometimes, when I’m standing on an ancient battlefield, or at Niagara Falls, or in the self‐checkout as I pass frozen peas over the scanner, my chest tightens. Fluorescent light on tile flashes in my eyes, and I ache for home. There are no snatches of vision, but my hands are

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shaking, rustling plastic bags as I hurry, head down, cold November air sweeping through the open collar of my coat. Tremors shake me from my stupor as I climb into my beaten‐up sedan, wind my way past chubby families and shadows of stick‐bug old ladies in the parking lot.

I’m heading home, but it’s all wrong, slippery asphalt sliding under the wheels.

When you carry the dead, clinging to the past comes naturally.

Every bit of junk has history; it matters to someone. Home‐which‐isn’t is an antique in and of itself—peeling paint and crumbling tiles, reeking of must and mildew, old books pressed into warped shelving and knickknacks covering every surface. I put the groceries away gingerly, testing the house out even though I’ve lived in it for years. It’s not home, not for any of the 600,000 marching long lines through my mind, over the patterned crevices of my cerebellum, but I caress the cabinets anyway, holding my breath as I listen to the wind slip between the cracks under the door.

The dead want to go home, but I never know where that is. I wander the house; pour over copies of antebellum‐era maps, my finger crinkling over rivers and towns where battles with two names were fought. Nothing calls out to me, but the battlefield wasn’t home for most of the men, even if it’s where they’ve been for nearly 150 years, bodies piled in large pits, some resting in graves dug lovingly by friends, by details already exhausted from fighting. Home is miles from the house, from the rolling hills long racked by explosive shells, minies tearing through jacket, chest, lung, explosions shaking ribcages, rattling mountains like children’s toys.

I climb back into my car, drive drive drive until I’ve outpaced a day’s march, booted feet tapping in time with a little boy’s drum.

Ripped from the cradle and stored in my back seat, pulses long quiet, just the whisp‐whisp of the air conditioning and the ka‐thunk of passing mile markers blowing over segments of road. You never notice the dead until it hurts, foreign feelings flickering through your chest, wriggling through your fingers.

Sometimes I drive to the museums, sticky‐fingered glass heating with my breath as I lean in too close, squinting over artifacts that were once possessions, buttons and rotting leather, rusting daguerreotypes, soldiers frowning at a Frenchman, pressed into paper to be sent home. I wade into the gift shop, squirrelly children underfoot, trying on kepi hats and demanding a gumball from the machine. War’s an industry and it doesn’t end for years after the first shot is fired. Tourism took over the fields mere weeks after blood was shed there, before bodies

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were placed to rest below loaming ground and freshly turned dirt. Their coffins were dusty with the ashes of charred trees, lying in stacks beside the smoke from roaring trains come far too late.

Sometimes I ride over rolling hills, broken fences letting roaming cows slowly bleed out onto the road. The sky is a cathedral, Behind my closed lids, the flying buttresses of height, Carolina shoreline shakes pillars of dead trees, and of salt, with cannon roar, the as I glance in my rearview dying whine of the single mirror. Man once marched these casualty ringing in the air. hills, trod this sod, tripped over stray rocks and the roots of Vicksburg riverfront runs burning crops. This is my war with blood, Sherman’s poem, my Battle‐Story, Melville March to the Sea, Atlanta whispers in my ear, while is burning, burning. Merry Whitman carts the dead back to Christmas, Mr. President, Washington. His eyes are wide, beard stretching its fingers down happy belated birthday in to his lap, where Thoreau’s April at Appomattox, and ragged head rests, looking the ocean wails as I turn through the sky—it is 1864 and away, back stiff and tall as Walden Pond is silent with the a muzzle‐loading rifle. rat‐ta‐tat‐tat of the drummer boy’s hands.

Sometimes, though, Emily Dickinson writes all alone in her father’s house, spine stretching like a cat’s over the Death stacked on her desk, under her papers, curled around her ankles, and I pull up in the car to an abandoned bit of coast. The sky is gray and heavy, clouds trembling, rain like arterial spray, and I climb out of the car, eyes fixed on the horizon, looking for the ghosts of the ironclads. The Monitor, the Merrimack, gray beasts swirling in mist as I squint, the shoreline shifting under my feet, ice water lapping over my canvass and rubber shoes. The wind sweeps over the back of my neck, raising hairs and running chills, while white‐capped waves form the mountainous faces of the men in my head, rising and falling. Sunken eyes peer back at me from the sandy shore, shrunken ribs and limpid hair covering skeletons, missing limbs, and I squeeze my eyes tightly as the wind sprays into my face, salty droplets whisked across my temples like sweat. Behind my closed lids, the Carolina shoreline shakes with cannon roar, the dying whine of the single casualty ringing in the air. Vicksburg riverfront runs with blood, Sherman’s March to the Sea, Atlanta is burning, burning. Merry

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Christmas, Mr. President, happy belated birthday in April at Appomattox, and the ocean wails as I turn away, back stiff and tall as a muzzle‐loading rifle. His face is lost amidst the lilacs, rigid brow of bluebells, fallen to the deck. The last wave crashes mightily over my head, and for a moment I’m plunged under water, the tide dragging 600,000 corpses out to sea. Orion shimmers in the clear sky above me, belt and drum of stars, and I think of my brother Orion, two fathoms or twelve feet to Nevada; Orion Howe, gunned down but drumming along, and the captain, resting on the bottom of the sea, too‐large hands crossed over his zinc‐chloride‐filled chest, while water seeps into the blown‐out space of his skull. Seaweed washes across my ankles, and my thoughts are all in code, wrapped up in cigars and laying in a field of grass. We hit the rough sand, all 600,000 of us, and the wave rushes back, but I raise my head, salt stinging my lips, and clamber to dry land. I gulp bitter air and lay to rest with sand sticking to my jacket, coughing.

Rolling onto my back, I lay stiffly, still breathing.

I’m a prisoner of war as the wind dries my face. I sit up, shivering, listening to waves crash against Confederate shores, and then I climb back, dripping, into the car. Home is still an ache in my stomach until I switch on talk radio and listen to a pundit I don’t agree with, rambling like a televangelist: “We are Americans, we are Americans.”

“I carry the dead,” I say out loud, saltwater shrinking my skin against my face so I feel stretched and small.

I am America, Hughes echoes across a century as Emerson looks on, smiling. And Abraham Lincoln settles his elbow on his large knee, a grin twisting through my chest as I look into his deep‐set eyes, bruised by the bullet from a .44 blown through the hearts of millions.

“This reminds me of a story,” he whispers. Our foreheads brush as his voice cradles me back to where we belong.

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KEYNOTE ADDRESS: 8TH ANNUAL INTO THE LIGHT WALK

Kevin J. OʹBrien Faculty English Department

I was living in New York City, in an old six‐story walk‐up apartment building on 2nd Avenue and 12th street. It was a Sunday morning, and sometime after 7 a.m. the phone rang . . . and rang . . . and then stopped.

Then, it began ringing again. Through the paper‐thin walls, I could hear my roommate’s voice creak “Hello.”

And in that space of silence—I might have held my breath—I had this sickening feeling something was wrong.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. O’Brien,” my roommate whispered.

Something, indeed, was terribly wrong. I jumped out of bed, swung open the door, and looked at my roommate’s shocked face as he handed me the phone.

“Kev,” my mom sobbed. “Conor . . . Conor’s gone.”

Looking back, I don’t remember her exact words, but she told me what had happened. I lost it, throwing the receiver across the room.

I went into a full rage, shattering a couple wooden chairs and a coffee table into splinters and wailed so loud I woke the entire apartment building. I wanted to wake the world, or at least wake myself up from this nightmare.

But this was no nightmare.

This was a reality I could have never Had Conor received imagined—even after Conor’s first early treatment . . . and failed suicide attempt a month before had there been the kind his death. After eight years of of information that is struggling with bipolar and its dramatic manic highs and paralyzing available today . . . and depressive lows, Conor died at had there been less twenty‐two years old. This was a stigma . . . who knows? reality I couldn’t accept and still can’t believe.

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Now, eleven years later, I still wish to wake the world—not with my anger and rage, but with a message of compassion and education.

Had Conor received early treatment . . . and had there been the kind of information that is available today . . . and had there been less stigma . . . who knows? I may not be here today. Yet here we are. And if you’re here, it is likely suicide and mental illness has impacted you, your family, or your friends.

Know that it affects all of us; thus, we are never alone.

So, we are here today—to bring light and hope!

* * *

My brother Conor could light up a room with his smile. At 6’2,” two hundred plus pounds, he was an incredible athlete in soccer, basketball, baseball, and lacrosse. Yet he was at his best, perhaps, off the field, working with children as a beloved camp counselor—a gentle giant with a sweet sense of humor and tremendous sensitivity. I believe Conor’s empathy would have made him an incredible teacher and coach were he alive today.

For eight years, Conor fought mental illness; however, he was not diagnosed bipolar until eighteen. No one knew what to do, especially those first four years. My family didn’t understand what Conor was dealing with—Conor didn’t know what it was either and suffered in silence and fear. Although Conor was not a teenager when he died, he was first hospitalized at the end of his freshman year in high school, at age fifteen. He couldn’t sleep, and high anxiety made him manic and paranoid. It was 1992, and doctors didn’t believe children could be bipolar; the medical professionals didn’t understand mental illness as we do today.

Keep in mind the time—nearly twenty years ago.

This was seven years before the first edition of the The Bipolar Child was published. It’s now in its third edition.

Today, we as a society are fortunately more open to discussing mental health issues.

Through science and technology, we know more.

Now, it’s about spreading the word.

My brother struggled through three high schools in five years.

He started at Mayfield High School, then Phillips Academy Andover, back to Mayfield, and then, finally, Western Reserve Academy, where I now teach. Back then, there was no World Wide Web—no Internet, no “You’ve got mail.” For students here today, it may be hard to imagine—

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no Twitter, no blogs, no Facebook. No status updates or posts that might cheer you up if you were down. No easy Google searches for depression or bipolar—or online support groups. No cell phones.

For my mom and other parents that were desperate for answers, the information was scarce—library books, just a few years old, already seemed outdated. People were reticent or afraid to talk about it.

Now, thankfully, times have changed.

We have brain scans, advanced medication and therapies, and national and local hotlines for suicide prevention.

Now we have the Suicide Prevention Education Alliance.

In high school especially, Conor often felt isolated and alone.

After Conor’s manic highs, he would crash into despair and depression—compounded by embarrassment for his previous manic episode. Embarrassment can be deadly. In Conor’s case, it was.

While attending Ohio Wesleyan University, a manic In high school especially, episode resulted in serious Conor often felt isolated and trouble with the law when he alone. After Conor’s manic vandalized the student center. highs, he would crash into He was threatened with a felony because of the damages. despair and depression— Despite assurances that he compounded by would receive probation if he embarrassment for his followed his treatment plan, he previous manic episode. feared prison; after his arrest, Embarrassment can be he had spent five long manic days in county jail. Fear of deadly. In Conor’s case, it returning, literally, scared him was. to death.

With a potential felony on his record, he believed his life would be over. In his eyes, the embarrassment and shame was bringing bad luck to our family. In his delusional state, he felt we would be better off without him. Eleven years of pain and loss, in no way are we better off without Conor. All problems are temporary.

As I reflect on my own life, I remember struggling with depression in high school especially during the winters. In college, I knew more about mental illness because of Conor’s battles. When I grew suicidal and depressed during the winter of my sophomore year, I sought help immediately after my former teammate and lacrosse captain at Penn, Ryan Taylor, tragically took his own life. Since college, I am not ashamed to say that I have suffered personally from depression and

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have met regularly with counselors and therapists. The winters are still tough for me, so I have learned to take special care during that time of year: proper sleep, diet, and exercise—lots of yoga.

This summer, I finally joined a support group for suicide survivors. For years, I didn’t want to talk about it. When I first went this summer, I felt I finally could talk about Conor. But really my job was to listen and simply to be there as support.

We all have our stories of loss.

I realize that the only way to lessen my pain is to help others with theirs, especially those that have had a recent loss.

I am reminded again and again that we are never alone.

* * *

It’s a humbling experience to be here this evening as the keynote speaker—one that I never imagined. Last year, my family walked in memory of Conor, but I will be candid, I really didn’t want to do it at first. I was busy with school, teaching and coaching. Frankly, I rather enjoy Sunday football and relaxing. We are Browns fans, win or lose.

However, my mom was, as most moms are, persistent.

“We are doing this walk. It’s a mile and a half, and it’s at the zoo.”

So I grudgingly agreed to make mom happy. Then in the last week before the walk, it hit me—if I have to do this walk, I am going to make a difference. So I reached out to friends and raised awareness and funds for our walk team, “Conor’s Light.”

Although I had talked about Conor on a couple occasions over the years at all‐school meetings, last year I wrote a speech about my own struggles with depression. Although nervous about opening up, I felt a tremendous relief in letting others know—and was overwhelmed by all the positive feedback. Many people came forward and talked to me of their own struggles or of others they knew that suffered in silence. That speech at WRA ended up in the hands of Pat Lyden and Marti Neveu of S.P.E.A. How it got there was no accident—my mom emailed it to them.

Did she ask me? No. And now, here I am. I used to have a tremendous fear of public speaking, until I realized it wasn’t about me—it’s the message that is important—and more importantly, the audience that receives it.

As I wrote this speech, I imagined looking into the eyes of my parents, who had lost a son, and my brother, Sean, who had lost his one

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of his older brothers. (Conor was the middle child, and I am the oldest.)

In my family, each of us has experienced Conor’s loss in our Since Conor’s death, my own way, grieving in our own dad, with little comment, way. It’s been a slow and never‐ simply stopped drinking— ending process, but I feel blessed and has been my mom’s that we have grown closer as a family and more patient and “rock” of support. My loving with one another. Yet it mom admitted recently has taken time. that she was in a fog for Since Conor’s death, my about eight years after dad, with little comment, simply Conor’s death; it was my stopped drinking—and has been my mom’s “rock” of support. mom that found him. As My mom admitted recently that she comes out of the fog, she was in a fog for about eight she may be the strongest years after Conor’s death; it was person I know. Now she is my mom that found him. As she determined to make a comes out of the fog, she may be difference—by fighting the the strongest person I know.

Now she is determined to make stigma around mental a difference—by fighting the illness. stigma around mental illness.

Obviously, I wouldn’t be speaking here today without her encouragement. Sometime down the road when she is ready, I hope you will return to this walk, and my mom will share her story, as a mother, with all of you.

As I wrote this speech, I couldn’t stop imagining all the families like mine, the survivors, looking into their eyes. Families that have lost sons and daughters, or mothers and fathers. Brothers and sisters.

Cousins and nephews. Uncles and aunts. Grandchildren and grandparents. Friends and classmates.

Losing a loved one to suicide is hard to fathom. Suicide is sudden, like a heart‐attack or stroke, yet the death is self‐inflicted, so those who are left behind live in pain and can only wonder “Why?” And wonder what they could have done . . . if they had only known. . . .

To hear that “suicide is preventable” used to make me more than angry. Many survivors wish we could go back in time and do things differently. I regret not being more compassionate with Conor. I regret failing to listening more. I regret not knowing what I know now. We

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didn’t know how high the odds were that he would try to kill himself again—even though he promised otherwise.

Years later, my regret, along with anger and guilt, comes in terrible waves. I confess it still haunts me in my sleep. Sometimes I have nightmares of losing Conor or trying to save him. A few times, I have had lovely visitation dreams where he’s alive and smiling: once I hugged him, and it felt so real I swear I could smell him. Then I wake up to think for a moment that Conor never died—and these years have all been just a bad dream, and I hold onto that notion for as long as I can . . . in that quasi‐sleepy state between dream and waking reality. I want no family to have to live this nightmare.

I like to think Conor is at peace—and I will see him again.

Until then, my only solace is focusing on others. It helps me let go of the anger, the guilt, and the regret. In helping others, I find peace, tremendous hope, and yes, even joy. After losing Conor, I imagined never being happy again; only recently have I fully accepted the truth: that in the past we did the best we could in that situation at that time.

With acceptance, there is the possibility for healing and happiness. We can’t change the past.

* * *

In writing this, I imagined seeing my family and other survivors, but when looking out at my students from Western Reserve Academy and countless other students, tonight, I am overwhelmed with hope.

I love that S.P.E.A.’s message is one of hope. Yet it goes beyond hope by taking action. Their mission is to empower young people. Their unique program, in over 100 high schools across Northeast Ohio, helps educate 15,000 students annually. Those students, and the students here tonight, represent our future.

As I look out at these young people, I am more than hopeful, because they are future doctors, biochemists, and researchers. Some will be compassionate counselors, teachers, police officers, lawyers, and judges. And of course, the promising artists: the singers, actors, filmmakers, painters, photographers, and writers that will bring light to the darkness through their craft—giving voice and expression to those in silence. The students here tonight are already powerful activists, philanthropists, and fundraisers—all are educators that can save lives.

* * *

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So to the students, I share a simple and true message: “Suicide is preventable through education and early treatment.”

My plea: Never keep a As I look out at these secret when a friend’s life is in danger. You’re our best defense young people, I am more in this battle with mental illness than hopeful, because they and suicide. are future doctors, My warning: Alcohol biochemists, and and illicit drug use severely researchers. Some will be impacts brain chemistry and impairs brain development compassionate counselors, which can lead to mental illness. teachers, police officers, My reminder: Don’t be lawyers, and judges. And afraid to ask for help—you’re of course, the promising never alone. If your friends are artists: the singers, actors, going through treatment, reach out to them with unconditional filmmakers, painters, support. Stay connected with photographers, and them—let them know they have writers that will bring light your support and have nothing to the darkness through to be embarrassed about—we all their craft—giving voice have storms to endure.

As an English teacher and expression to those in with such a great audience, I’d silence. be remiss if I was not a little didactic and remind all of you how our words have tremendous power.

Once spoken, once written, once texted, once posted online— they cannot be taken back; therefore, be impeccable with your words.

Understand their denotations and connotations.

Be kind with your words.

And please, stand up against bullies.

Listen to the words of others.

Listen carefully; you might help someone that is hiding their pain behind the facade of a smile. Hear their sarcasm. Understand their subtext. When someone jokes, “I could kill myself,” please call them out on those expressions, and ask, “What do you mean by that? What’s going on? Talk to me.”

Educate yourself through reading.

Learn as much as you can about mental illness so you can be compassionate with everyone you meet.

You never know what someone is thinking or feeling.

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You just never know.

Thank you for listening.

Thank you S.P.E.A. for this opportunity; it’s been a truly healing journey for me serving as your keynote speaker.

My final wish is that tonight we will remember our loved ones while we, the living, cherish the moments that we have together with greater love, understanding, and compassion.

Tonight, we have saved lives. Despite the darkness and the rain, tonight we have brought hope and light! The future is bright because of you. Now with hope and education, take action!

For more information about the Suicide Prevention Education Alliance visit: helppreventsuicide.org

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ON TOP OF THE TOOTH

Mitch Pollock Sophomore Aurora, Ohio

When the last of us were off the bus, it began to rumble up the hill, squirting gravel as it went. We tightened the straps of our packs in silence, the fiber weaving itself into our shirts. The hot desert air was already making me sweat. Once the pack was on snug, I had a chance to look around. Mountains taller than any skyscraper loomed menacingly, forming an impenetrable ring around us. Between us and the mountains were rough patches of grass and some forest, as well as more dust than I had ever seen before. It had taken months of preparation, but we were here: New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment. I didn’t feel enchanted at the moment. I felt hungry and sweaty and just a bit queasy. Our crew leader, Nick, got us lined up in a row and shouted, “Anybody not ready?” Against my best instincts, I kept my mouth shut. We were off.

I am not sure exactly when the journey started. It may have been a year previously, when my Scoutmaster approached me at a Scout meeting and first told me about Philmont. “It’s this big ranch out in New Mexico, in the desert.”

“Well, what do you do?” I inquired.

“You hike mostly. Up and down mountains, about sixty miles.

And you’re carrying a 40‐lbs. pack, too.” It didn’t sound too intriguing, but I love camping and my friends had all signed up so, of course, I did too. I suppose you could also say that the journey started when I stepped foot in Base Camp in Cimarron, NM. It wasn’t an imposing place my any means. A few red‐roofed buildings scattered amidst the sprawling desert, and wooden tents were in perfect rows at the far end of the camp, with dusty green tarps thrown over them. Directly north of the encampment, a large, pearly white rock face jutted out from the mountain, clearly the most distinguishing part of the camp. I asked one of the red‐shirted employees what it was.

“That there’s the Tooth, man. The Tooth of Time.”

I didn’t ask, just accepted. That day we were trained on how to use every piece of equipment, how to set up and tear down camp, and most importantly, how to not get eaten by a 500‐pound black bear with a

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hankering for human. We stayed there for one night to get acclimated and were then hauled away like shipping crates and loaded on to a bus to be dropped off at an assigned site. This was where the journey began for me; the first step on a 9‐day, 62‐mile trek from who‐knows‐where to reach the heavenly gates of Base Camp once again.

The desert really wasn’t much of a desert, to be honest. There were plenty of trees and wooded areas, and a lot of deer and other animals I was familiar with. It wasn’t as if we were trekking across the Great Sand Dunes with our gear loaded onto a camel. Each day was a new challenge. We would wake up, 9 boys, 3 adults, and immediately begin to work. We would be completely packed up and on the trail within the hour. The trail itself was monstrous, a devious, The desert changes you. sinister, twisting snake that You are forced to see that seemed to always know when I hard work really does pay was least expecting a hill, or off. In the end, you look at when I most wanted a break in the coming storm and the shade, only to upset my boldest dreams. On day 2, we chuckle fearlessly. climbed up the great Urraca Mesa. The surface of the steep plateau was covered with nothing but sand, and we staggered up the side under the malevolent eye of the sun.

Just as we thought we had completed it, the sun faded from our eyes and we saw, as if a cardboard cut‐out, the second half of the mountain looming against the sky. But we would have been glad to suffer in the heat if we had only known what was to come.

On days 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8, after a hurricane hit the East coast, a few of the clouds from that mighty storm decided to kindly take a vacation in a dryer climate like, say, New Mexico. The rain poured down in knots; as soon as one of us got excited because he thought the rain had stopped, it would come back with fiery scorn and make our ponchos sag in depression in front of our eyes. The sand turned to mud that slid past our boots with not so much as a giggle. We had been told that this desert was in a drought. If so, this must have been like a Christmas present for the earth. For me, it was like opening up a brightly wrapped gift only to find a single used sock whose odor rushed gleefully into my face. It was absolute Hell. Each morning I hoped to awake to bright skies and chirping birds but instead received the incessant patter of rain.

Every cell of my body, every fiber in my pack, was completely waterlogged. As I crawled into my sleeping bag on the eighth night it hit

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me: if this rain didn’t stop tomorrow we wouldn’t be able to see the view from the Tooth.

The lore surrounding the Tooth had grown like a rash on the hide of our crew. Each person had a different idea of what it would look like to be at the summit, to see all of Philmont before completing the journey down the mountain to Base Camp. I mostly kept silent during these talks. I was resigned to the thought that the cloud cover would completely ruin the climax of the trip. I drifted to sleep that night clutching my pillow with talons of anxiety.

That morning was the only one in which I didn’t get up hesitantly. Instead, I leapt up at the sound of many people yelling, “The sun! SUN! Blue sky! Bl‐bl‐blue SKY!” I shoved my feet into my boots and hurried outside. We gazed in wonder at the cotton‐swab clouds, the blue sky straight out of a Crayola coloring book, and the blinding sun that seemed close enough to singe my hair. Now this was the New Mexico I had come to see.

The hike up to the Tooth was just a tiny two‐hour venture.

When we got close to the top, it was so steep that we had to crawl on our hands and knees, clambering over the rocks like gorillas. Finally, we reached the summit—a small space formed with pure white rock. I leapt onto a boulder and looked out. I could see . . . everything. Roaring rivers were pale blue ribbons, mountains were sandy anthills, and lakes were puddles in the palm of the earth. I could see Base Camp, with its beautiful red roofs and its city of tents. I saw Mount Baldy, a forested mountain capped with a yellow spot on its crown. I breathed the thin air around me, somehow filling my lungs in a way the ants below have never felt. I felt closer to the puffs of white in the sky than the twisting paths that lay below me. This was the top rung, the point where I can look at the rain and mud and sand below and think, “What the hell. I did it, didn’t I?” I took a step off of the boulder and turned, seeing my crew mates having similar epiphanies. I then ran over to the front face of the Tooth and rested my chin on its surface. “I didn’t know the desert has so much green,” I remember thinking. “Or so much rain.” There was a lot I learned about the desert. It is as unforgiving as an army commander and as brutally demeaning as a blow to the groin. But once you take that blow, you can tilt your head up and truly see your opponent, and respect it. The desert changes you. You are forced to see that hard work really does pay off. In the end, you look at the coming storm and chuckle fearlessly.

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They had to drag me away from the summit. I wanted to stay there for hours, to blend into the stone and forever see Philmont through the conquerorʹs eyes. I felt like Alexander the Great or Napoleon, metaphorically sticking my flag in the pale rock, claiming Philmont as my personal treasure. But eventually I was on a train back to Ohio, just another Scout who passed through Philmont that summer. Only on the train ride back, my eyes kept drifting from my friends next to me to the passing landscape outside, a blur of sandy plains, forever cursed to be seen briefly by many, but thoroughly by few.

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SEÑOR

Mitch Pollack Sophomore Aurora, Ohio

Through the course of my education, many teachers have impacted me in different ways. However, none have left a more lasting impression than Señor Fraser. Almost everyone at Reserve has their fair share of Señor stories, and I cannot say I am any different. My mere two years at this school have been littered with dozens of great tales to tell about him, with settings ranging from inside the classroom, to out on the cross‐country course, to the towering hills of Virginia Kendall. After two years of cross‐country and one year having him as a teacher, I cannot yet say that I understand him—I’m not sure anyone can say that—but I can say that I grow to appreciate more and more what he does the longer I have known him.

The story for me begins in August of 2010, when I, as a puny incoming freshmen (don’t get me wrong, anyone who knows me knows I’m still puny) arrived at Señor definitively knows Señor’s cross‐country pre‐ camp with two years of what he is doing. He makes middle‐school cross‐country all of his runners want to under my belt and an compete to the best of their eagerness to prove myself. ability. He pushes us to be Needless to say, that self‐ our best, and makes our best confidence all but vanished after I ran over 40 miles that better than we thought was week.

I was introduced to possible—as demonstrated Señor’s unique forms of by the fact that we finished in motivation: making fun of the top three of several meets your hometown; calling you this past season, despite a softy (or in my case, a rascal); making pointed having such a young team. comments about your weight; and yelling such catch phrases as, “Catch up to him, he’s not that much better than you!” or “What are you doing? The race is up there!”

Each new cross‐country term was like another nail in the coffin: long

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loop, short loop, The Dips, straights, starts, quarters, halves. And don’t even get me started on Kendall. In any event, due to my low level of motivation during that year, I ran mostly on C‐squad. But that didn’t mean I missed out on all of the “fun” of Varsity and JV. I still got to do pool workouts, which consist, among other things, of bobbing up and down in the water and walking with our hands on our heads. I also was able to enjoy some of Señor ’s infamous milkshakes. Each practice ended with six push‐ups and a trip to the pull‐up bar.

However, a lot changed during my sophomore season in cross‐ country. I ran JV in every race but one, so I was consistently exposed to “Señor cross‐country.” This meant Kendall! After running a 6‐mile workout there, on some of the hilliest terrain I have ever seen, every other run seemed like a cake walk. I also experienced the funniest running moment of my young life while there. During one Kendall practice, we were running a warm‐up in the pouring rain when Señor pulls a paper towel out of his pocket. He says, “I guess it’s as good a time as any to eat this,” and unwraps his bundle to reveal a muffin.

Then he proceeds to eat it by tearing off small bites and swallowing them in front of us while we ran. I said it once and I will say it again: I will never fully understand him.

But more to the point, my opinion of Señor changed drastically that season. I saw that there was at least some method to his madness.

For some reason, no matter how much I hated those hard workouts, I was still somehow motivated to do my best and run hard every day. It may have been because of the team—the “we’re‐all‐in‐this‐together” mentality we shared. But it was also, I believe, because his workouts were designed to make us better. And not just better, but much, much better. There was also something about those milkshakes that made them desirable even if they made me sick. Anyway, the point remains that Señor definitively knows what he is doing. He makes all of his runners want to compete to the best of their ability. He pushes us to be our best, and makes our best better than we thought was possible—as demonstrated by the fact that we finished in the top three of several meets this past season, despite having such a young team.

This stands in the classroom as well. At first, I thought his style to be very strange—and I still do, I guess. From his insistence on our having two pens every day in class to his daily amusement at the expense of Eric Jacobson and the entire state of Kentucky, his methods are indeed unorthodox. His seemingly random vocabulary is, on the surface, incomprehensible; and he constantly calls each of our reading levels into question when we can’t find what we’re looking for in the

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textbook. But despite all of this, I am convinced that I have learned more Spanish in his class this year than I would have from anyone else at any other school (not to diminish anyone else’s teaching style or ability).

There is much more to tell about Señor Fraser than I can possibly fit into a short essay such as this, and there is much, much more about him that I do not yet know. I did not even mention what it is like to sit in a van that he is driving while he is using the median as a turning lane, or what it feels like to get a literal kick in the pants from him (for more information on that, see Alex Wheaton). But I do know one thing: though Señor may seem a bit “off” on the surface, he is a great teacher and coach, and we are all lucky to have him at Reserve.

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THE UNBURIED LIFE

Scott Schultz Junior Hudson, Ohio

“Today is the youngest you’ll ever be.” ‐Anonymous

In January 2010, a television shows titled, The Buried Life premiered on MTV. If anyone would have told me two years ago that I would still be talking or even thinking about it, I would have called them crazy. This show follows the lives of four college guys who were sick of the media‐filled, mainstream, messed‐up world and wanted to find independence and purpose in life. I was immediately intrigued and inspired that these guys could really do anything they wanted, and they proved to the entire world that our dreams are not nearly as unreachable as we sometimes make them out to be. For everything they crossed off on their list, they promised to help someone cross something off on theirs. These four guys showed me how the power of helping someone else can be contagious. For instance, you might not even realize that the little compliment you gave someone last week might have saved their life because they were contemplating suicide. The little things really do matter. These four humble role models embody what our generation needs to stand for: benevolence and I’ve come to realize that responsibility. We cannot wait life is precious—and far around for things to change. We must take baby steps towards a too short to take society where people know their anything or anyone for neighbors again and help someone granted. for no better reason than because they can. After watching their show, and reading their book, I’ve come to realize that life is precious—and far too short to take anything or anyone for granted. I’ve learned to treat people as if I’ll never see them again and to help people as if their life depended on it. The realization that helping people and simply being nice to everyone is truly the easiest way to make a difference in someone’s life has drastically broadened my perspective on life in a way that I never thought I could receive from a television show on MTV of all networks.

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Since coming to know The Buried Life, I have thought differently about the way I carry myself and the way I judge others. I encourage anyone reading this essay to do the same. These men pursued their dreams in an unpretentious and inspiring way: through charity. So go jump out of a plane, or ask out Taylor Swift, or call someone back just to say, “I love you” because tomorrow could be too late. Do not let the chains of social complacency hold you down. What will it take for you to break your chains and to actually start living?

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BULLYING

Rachel Silver Senior Akron, Ohio

For the past several years, I have been interested in the problem of bullying within schools. This is a major issue for many children.

Bullying can lead to psychological issues and difficulties advancing in education. I interned for the School Bus Safety Company (SBSC) in Macedonia, Ohio, which devel‐ I have learned that the oped multimedia programs to teach school bus drivers how to problem of bullying is recognize the signs of bullying closely mingled with the and how to intervene appro‐ issues of personal priately. My job responsibilities popularity and social included identifying prospective acceptance. My experiences clients, including school bus companies and school systems. I as a prefect have included also researched the current addressing female students methods for identifying bullying who were manipulating and interceding in bullying others who wanted to be situations. I was also responsible accepted as part of a clique. for reviewing video content to teach safe driving habits. (By These bullies would encourage other students to now, I believe I could almost drive a bus safely in an engage in bullying behavior emergency!) My research yield‐ themselves in order to be ed pages upon pages of better accepted. This, information that will help SBSC naturally, only perpetuates bring additional understanding, and new methods of combating the problem. this widespread problem, to many school districts. SBSC was a great opportunity for me to combine my career interest in marketing with an important problem such as school bullying.

During my junior year, I was a prefect in a freshman dormitory.

The problem of school bullying became especially apparent to me. I cannot fathom how someone can derive pleasure from hurting another

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person. I have learned that the problem of bullying is closely mingled with the issues of personal popularity and social acceptance. My experiences as a prefect have included addressing female students who were manipulating others who wanted to be accepted as part of a clique.

These bullies would encourage other students to engage in bullying behavior themselves in order to be better accepted. This, naturally, only perpetuates the problem. As a prefect, I dealt with both the bullies and their victims, especially in situations where alcohol was encouraged as another method of social acceptance. It was these experiences that eventually led to my perusing an internship at SBSC.

Being the only intern at a company where I was everyone’s junior by at least ten years was initially intimidating. However, my coworkers were very supportive. I realized that the people around me did not want me to fail; instead, they wanted my help to make their work more successful.

My findings showed that bullies try to push their victims to the edge of a group by using exclusion, physical and emotional intimidation, and occasionally violence. Even cyber‐bullying has become a growing problem. Since I understand this thought process, I try to go out of my way to talk to people who seem excluded from the group. In the dining hall, I have invited people who were alone to sit with me and my friends.

At the start of the school year, I even invited a new young coach to join us during preseason.

Bullying is a widespread problem that has attracted my interest.

I hope that the work I have already done will help children lead happier and more successful lives, and I would like to continue working on this problem in the future.

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IʹM BELGIAN—DEAL WITH IT!

Pauline Van Dijck Junior Hudson, Ohio

Growing older, my pride for Belgium has grown and grown. Coming to Reserve, a school known for its diversity of students, I thought Iʹd fit right in and be able to proudly continue to say Iʹm from Belgium. That, sadly, hasn’t always been the case. The number of years I have lived in America have kept increasing: first it was five, then it exceeded ten, and before I even realized it I had been living here for thirteen years—and Iʹm only sixteen years old!

Because of the large numbers of years I have lived in the U.S., at Reserve I have had to endure several snide remarks whenever I have said something such as “Iʹm from Belgium” or “English is my Living here for most of my second language.” I really donʹt life does not make me understand why. People American, and it never scoffing at me and sarcastically will. The blood coursing asking, “Youʹve been here for through my veins is 100% how many years?!” basically are trying to tell me to shut up and Belgian. I am not a US accept the fact that I have citizen. I have a purple basically become an American. passport from Belgium, This really hurts me. Iʹm not and my Green Card is my American, and I never will be! pass into this country.

Still, this past year Iʹve almost become embarrassed to say Besides, I shouldnʹt have where Iʹm really from. It pains to prove to anyone what me that this has happened. No my nationality is. It is a one should ever have to be powerful feeling from ashamed or embarrassed about within. his or her nationality or culture.

I can honestly say that getting made fun of in grade school for my Belgian “Nutella” sandwiches or packed lunches with weird brown cookies with foreign words on them was better than this feeling now.

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Every time someone laughs in my face or tells me Iʹm basically American now, an awful feeling comes over me. So now I am taking this opportunity to say how I really feel.

Living here for most of my life does not make me American, and it never will. The blood coursing through my veins is 100% Belgian. I am not a US citizen. I have a purple passport from Belgium, and my Green Card is my pass into this country. Besides, I shouldnʹt have to prove to anyone what my nationality is. It is a powerful feeling from within. Some Americans try to compare themselves to me, claiming to be 10% German, 30% Polish, 50% Irish and the rest unknown . . . but this really isnʹt the same thing at all. I was born in Belgium. My whole extended family lives there. I speak the language fluently. Being Belgian is a cultural identity that lives on in my American home headed by parents who have funny accents. It is a pride that will stay in my heart until I go back to Belgium. Being away from “home” makes me feel like Iʹm always missing a part of my life.

Donʹt get me wrong; I love America and all it has given me: friends, the amazing opportunity to attend WRA, the chance to play girls’ basketball and soccer and be respected for it. America has given me the chance to play lacrosse which is a sport no one in Belgium even knows about. It has given me a driver’s license at age sixteen. It has let me grow up feeling secure, safe, and unbelievably happy. America has given me splendid fat burgers, greasy nachos, Coldstone ice cream, big cars, huge highways, and enormous stores like Walmart. Day after day, America has continued to surprise me, make me thankful for the adventure of a lifetime, and remind me that I am not from here.

So please, do not laugh in my face again when I say Iʹm from Belgium or correct me by telling me Iʹm “basically American.” It not only pains me, it is an insult to my family, my culture, and my country.

Belgium is in my DNA; nothing can ever change that.

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BEAUTY INTO MADNESS

Inga Wells Senior Dublin, Ohio

“Plié!” “Battement!” “Tendu!” My first words of Shakespeare were not experienced in elegant iambic pentameter, but rather were a series of French words haughtily hurled at me by a crazed Russian. It was when I was a participant in the 2007 BalletMet Summer Intensive.

Having already danced for over four hours that day, I was not particularly pleased that Shakespeare had chosen to place a long party scene in his famous play Romeo and Juliet. Yet, despite the sore feet that came as a result of our long rehearsals, by the time the performance came around I was so enamored with the beautiful movements and musicality that, by association, I ranked Shakespeare as the world’s best playwright.

This mentality, however, quickly evanesced. Just five months later and I was well into my eighth grade year at Columbus School for Girls. The time had finally come that we were going to start reading Romeo and Juliet. Looking at the glossy cover of our new paperback book, my mind drifted back to that summer and the exciting ballet. Then I opened up to the first page and . . . everything changed. In a fury, I checked my schedule to make sure I was actually in English class because the words on the page seemed more like gibberish. Indeed, it said Room 201, Ms. James, English VIII. As the rest of the class read the story, I “analyzed” it. By this I mean that I frantically looked at the annotations on the pages opposite the main text and scrambled to write down all the various translations of otherwise unrecognizable words.

Until then hither and thither were not a part of my normal vocabulary. I left the class that day completely disheartened. No longer was Shakespeare just a part of a wonderful personal memory. Now his association had morphed into the tragic realization that I was not only about to fail eighth grade but also ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth.

This then, naturally, would prohibit me from going to college and, of course, ever getting a job. Oh my. I thought that if I could not come to understand Shakespeare, then there would be no hope for me.

As Juliet’s nurse says, “Lord, how my head aches! what a head have I! It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. My back oʹ tʹ other

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side—O, my back, my back!” (2.5). How my head did ache. English class became a foreign language class gone terribly wrong. I clung to the translations provided to us, expecting never to truly know what Shakespeare was saying if it were not dumbed down for me. Feeling quite unaccomplished and unknowledgeable, I finished Romeo and Juliet and that, I hoped, was that.

Or so I thought. As the Chapel clock struck twelve on a Wednesday the next year, Mr. Warner announced that we should go to the bookstore to pick up our latest book, Twelfth Night. I calmly walked over before lunch, completely ignorant of what was to come. When I picked up my copy of the play from Eva, it almost seemed to taunt me.

There he was again: good old William. “I’m baaaaaackk!” the book jeered. Here we go again. Needless to say, despite Mr. Warner’s teaching, if we had not watched the film version after we read every scene those first few days, I would have been utterly lost.

When he came again, I was quicker than the porter to answer the door. Like clockwork, another Shakespeare play appeared a year later.

This time it was the tragic story of Macbeth. Not only had I developed a keen sense that could almost smell Shakespeare’s arrival, As the rest of the class read but the extra spring in Mr. the story, I “analyzed” it. By Lewis’s step was also an this I mean that I frantically indication that a new book was on the way. Still unsure looked at the annotations on about the playwright, I the pages opposite the main listened as Mr. Lewis, text and scrambled to write describing the complex plot, down all the various could barely contain his translations of otherwise excitement. I decided I would give this another go. As unrecognizable words. customary, the play was tolerable but not my favorite. Wait, what? Tolerable? As in I had a vague sense of what was going on? Indeed, after two years of struggle my foreign language study was suddenly starting to make sense. I had moved past the initial jaw‐dropping burden of decoding and could now discuss the purpose, motives, and character roles. I gained a new respect for Mr. William. Everything he wrote was so interconnected, with subtle humor even in his darkest works. Disregarding the subject matter itself, I found myself in awe of this playwright. His wit and intellect were so profound. Yet, being a true skeptic, I was still cautious not to let myself sway to one mindset.

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At the start of my junior year, I did not even have to go to the first day of classes before receiving the latest play; the school store had already set aside copies of Hamlet for all of the juniors. My radical feelings on Shakespeare had neutralized over the years, and I was now merely ambivalent towards the man. I did not expect Hamlet to influence me to adhere to one side or the other. In the words of Hamlet himself, “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so” (2.2).

Nevertheless, during this latest journey, I gained several new outlooks.

First off, my skill at recognizing all of the jokes—appropriate and not— that are interwoven into the plot had greatly increased. Second, and more profoundly, I had finally become comfortable with the story, gaining a deeper understanding of that subject matter which I falsely thought I had already mastered.

Simply stated, Shakespeare has, up until this moment, been a struggle for me. Whether associated with positive or negative emotions, my experiences with Shakespeare have always been laborious. Ever since those first difficult ballet rehearsals transforming into hard readings I have had many a trouble. So why persist? Why, time after time, would we need to analyze the works of just one playwright?

Despite all of this knowledge I have gained, I can honestly say I do not understand the emphasis on Shakespeare. Year after year each new teacher gives me a Shakespeare play to read—and to what end?

Perhaps that will be the next learning experience in my journey with Shakespeare. For now, I’ll stay impartial on the matter and stick to my tendus . . .

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A RELAXED RIDE

Inga Wells Senior Dublin, Ohio

The ends of my messy brown hair were being tossed around by the whipping wind as I sped down the hill. The winding “Dead Man’s Turn”—as the neighborhood children so often called it—was no match for me. I turned and laughed as my father got off his bike and carefully walked down the rest of way. Once at the bottom, we then continued on our ride.

Such fleeting, carefree moments of summer are often the ones that fill me with the most joy as my mind wanders back, escaping the dreary, harsh “Reserve terrain.” This one was from the summer when I was given a bike for my birthday. While most teenagers would beg for a car, I was convinced that a bike would be much more practical, enjoyable, and environmentally friendly. This, no doubt, made my parents happy in that they would not have to help finance such a large purchase. Always the prudent shopper, I spent hours at numerous bike shops trying to find the perfect vehicle. Of course, in the end, it was not one of the large stores but rather a small Schwinn Bicycle store that was inside of Strader’s Garden Center where I found my ideal bike. On the surface, I thought I liked that the bike was from a garden center because this gave it character; but I would later find this sense of environment was only a foreshadowing. Perhaps it was a physical representation of a hidden desire for a connection to the natural world. The bike’s simple style was intriguing to me, as I sensed in it a way to release more materialistic values and bring in those that should be prized. The bike I chose was an old‐style cruiser, which was not given a fancy number or letter name such as the “AZ‐500.” Instead, people at the store called it “Jenny.” Much to the annoyance of my family, this gave me ample room to personify and obsess over Jenny’s well‐being.

It was with Jenny and my dad that I spent countless breezy evenings riding out of our housing development to Old Dublin, our historic downtown. These moments are so poignant to me because of their shear simplicity. As cars zoomed past us, just like these fleeting precious moments, I could clear my head. Even once at our destination, we did not hurry into the nearest Starbucks, but rather escaped the

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commotion of the day by simply sitting on a bench on the side of a brick walkway. Here, words were not necessary. In that moment it did not matter what my grades were. In this natural environment, I came to realize the importance of family.

Unlike many of my peers, I call my parents at least once a day, often more. This contact is so critical for me, for they are the basis for all of my core values and virtues. My parents have shown me the importance of happiness in life, and not just achieving what our society views to be “success.” Nonetheless, these phone calls are no replacement for those times when I can just spend time Unlike many of my peers, I with my family, for their actual call my parents at least once physical presence is so much a day, often more. This greater and more real. It is in contact is so critical for me, these critical moments that the for they are the basis for all importance I place on various matters changes. of my core values and Although I often come virtues. My parents have upon this memory by chance, I shown me the importance of must also force myself to happiness in life, and not remember it. While caught up just achieving what our in the school mindset of just making the grade as a means society views to be of living, I forget the purpose “success.” for it all. It is not until I remember those bike rides that I am brought back to a more fulfilling knowledge of the assessment of character. The awards and book prizes are insubstantial compared to a strong sense of integrity and honor.

While having always been a part of me, these morals are easy to forget when I am not surrounded by those who instill them. It is not until this simple recollection appears that I am able to remember my father’s insight into the vast world, hidden in the words, or lack thereof, during our rides on the wooded paths. Unfortunately, it is only a few times that my mind graces me with this beautiful remembrance.

Still, I wonder why this moment is so crucial, for my parents offer words of wisdom all of the time. With this question I trail back to my earlier thought: the presence of nature. The whistling trees and running animals open up to me a feeling of simplicity. It unclutters my mind to bring in new ideas. Nevertheless, realizing these moments ourselves is the true struggle. There may not always be that lighthearted venture through the bike trails to bring us into a state of enlightenment:

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we must somehow bring it upon ourselves, reminding ourselves of who we truly are. In many cases, this might take no more than a memory.

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SWEET HOME LOUISIANA

Katherine Winford Senior Houston, Texas

Years and years of the same quaint school system in Lake Charles, Louisiana had come to bore me a little. Not my friends nor my teachers you understand, but simply the monotony created by repeating the same routine in the same setting. The atmosphere was restricting, and I yearned for something different. After my older brother uprooted to a Tennessee boarding school, I was left behind, jealous and motivated.

The adventure, freedom, and buoyancy he would acquire in his new setting stirred my own interest in obtaining an independent and mature academic setting as well. Soon, my turn came along as I was handed my thin “8th Grade Graduation” certificate.

Traveling to Hudson, Ohio to attend high school never seemed to be in the cards for me.

When I first started Slowly, as I continued to floating the idea out there catalogue all the minor some people balked, while differences between the North others simply strived to and South, a realization started conceal their confusion.

“Ohio?” people would ask to form in my mind that this with a raised eyebrow as I personal fixation was would wistfully grin and becoming an exercise in nod affirmatively in extreme silliness. While still response. However, the half‐heartedly participating in question remained in my own mind: what was in my own mental Civil War, I Ohio? Upon my arrival in started to ask myself why I was the Midwest, I expected driving this wedge between the little more than farmland two worlds I inhabited. and dairy producers.

Quickly, though, these expectations were proved wrong as I stepped onto an intimidating campus defined by distinctive brick buildings and rich verdant fields that stretched beyond the eye’s gaze.

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As enamored as I was with aesthetic beauty of my new surroundings, I soon became aware of certain regional cultural differences between my old and new homes, and my desire to preserve my “southern” values eventually became omnipresent. A slight accent on my “a’s” and certain key slang expressions, such as “ya’ll,” became the personal treasures I longed to hold tight.

Throughout my time at Western Reserve Academy, my strong desire to maintain my regional distinctiveness found its way into every facet of school life: classes, afternoon athletic practices, and even ballet rehearsals. Ohio presented a positive and charming environment in which to live, but it offered up completely different things from what I was used to: Just what was a “Hoagie,” after all?! With a longing for the world of Mardi Gras and Southern hospitality ever present, I let my mind become crowded with regional comparisons.

Slowly, as I continued to catalogue all the minor differences between the North and South, a realization started to form in my mind that this personal fixation was becoming an exercise in extreme silliness.

While still half‐heartedly participating in my own mental Civil War, I started to ask myself why I was driving this wedge between the two worlds I inhabited. There were times, of course, when I would chuckle at myself—such as when I would compare the different feeling of the water in the shower here versus back home; or when I caught myself seriously asking why tennis shoes would be called “sneakers” by anyone. Deep down inside, I knew I was taking all this too far. Innately, I think I knew I was subconsciously trying to work out in my own mind whether it was possible to be content in two completely different settings, two different worlds.

A more conscious awareness of this question came not at any one specific moment but rather arrived piece‐by‐piece over time. My two worlds had to come together, that I knew. Ultimately, it is not possible to keep things entirely separate that need to be able to co‐exist.

Starting to appreciate the many positive aspect of life in Ohio, things started looking up for me. With this discovery I was propelled into a whole new happier space. I had begun to see things as they actually were, by taking it all in. Holding myself back from enthusiastically embracing my new home had only stunted my experience of living. Now I knew that the South would always be there for me even if I embraced certain aspects of Northern living. My once seemingly ridiculous decision to travel to Ohio to seek an education, I now realized, was one of my most profitable decisions to date. The thick

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humid air of Louisiana would make its way to Hudson, Ohio somehow, permeating its cold winters and everything in between.

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MY LOST YOUTH ≠ MY LOST DREAM

Jing Zhu Junior Foshan, Guangdong, China

Often I dream about the grass lawn Which is right beside the fountain; I lay on the grass waiting for dawn Where the summer breeze brings a fawn, And the sun rises above the lawn.

And the shore of light that shone on my face Is lighting up my dream still: A girl’s will is a wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

After I wrote the above stanza for my English class, simulating Longfellow’s poem, “My Lost Youth,” suddenly all those images of my childhood replayed in my head, again and again, and never ended.

Time passes by so quickly that it seems like my age has doubled in the blink of an eye; but I have lost my passion and my dream along the way.

I know I have to get them back and bring them with me from now on.

As people get older, their dreams fade; they believe their dreams are childish. Besides, real life does not seem to provide all of the necessary conditions required to make them come true. It is true that dreams seem too simple to fit into a complex world, but we need our dreams to guide and push us forward.

When I was little, I couldn’t wait until school was over each day.

The grass lawn beside my house was my favorite playground. I practiced Kungfu there every day after school. You would have made fun of me if you knew that I had always dreamed about growing up to be a Kungfu master who could save the world; but that was truly what my dream. After I got tired of practicing the movements of martial arts, I would lie down on the grass lawn, listen to the nearby fountain, look up into the sky, and dream about how I could save all the poor people who were being beaten up by evildoers. I wished the time would go by more quickly so that I could become the hero to help those who needed help and make the world a better place in which to live.

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It sounds so childish, right? But it motivated me to practice Kungfu hard every day, even though it was often a pain. I always told myself that I could do anything if I persisted in Kungfu, because it was such a challenging thing for me to do. If I could do well, there would be no difficulties that could knock me down—ever.

As I was moving up from first grade to eighth, the amount of homework increased. There were more and more books waiting for me to read and exercises waiting for me to finish. Starting in fourth Starting in fourth grade I grade I felt I no longer had the felt I no longer had the time to practice martial arts on time to practice martial my favorite grass lawn. I would arts on my favorite grass occasionally look at it from my lawn. I would occasionally window and say to myself, “Jing, look at it from my window your dream is just impossible.

Anyway, the world doesn’t even and say to myself, “Jing, need a Kungfu hero when people your dream is just use guns. There is no point for impossible. Anyway, the you to keep practicing Kungfu world doesn’t even need a anymore. What’s more, there is not enough time for you to Kungfu hero when people practice or to recover from an use guns. injury if you should get hurt, which is pretty likely to happen.”

During this time, I saw many of my father’s old friends from his hometown, and they would ask me if I was still doing Kungfu (I suppose my mini‐Kungfu demonstrations performed as a child many years before still impressed them).

“No,” I would say; and they were always so disappointed.

“Kungfu is so cool, Jing,” they would say. “You should keep up!”

“Yeah I should.”

I replied with a silent, sarcastic laugh in my heart—only stupid people would keep spending time on doing something that makes no difference for them. However, stopping Kungfu practicing didn’t help me in my academic studies. From fourth grade to eighth my grades dropped from the top five to the middle of my class. I lost my confidence, and I abandoned myself. “Accept the fact that you are not smart enough! School is too difficult for you, and you will probably just be a normal worker in a cotton factory in the future,” I said to myself.

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Again, I wished the time would pass by more quickly so that I could get away from this world. I had lost my dream and passion and direction for my life. I became very irritable.

Two years ago, I met Master Shifu who helped me find my lost dream. He told me I have beautiful movements but that I didn’t understand the philosophy of Kungfu. I got curious, so I decided to learn from him. He began to teach me Tai Chi (or Tʹai chi chʹuan) instead of Kungfu. At first, I almost ran away from the slow, dance‐like movements; he finally began to show me the philosophy behind those movements. “Imagine you are the only one in the world: grow from the soil, push up the sky, and play with the Qi (energy) around you like a ball.” He said this so quietly, that I thought I saw the Qi ball in his hands. Soon after, I tried this, and my heart became so peaceful and my mind became so clear. I loved this form of martial art more and more because it pushed away all my worries and unhappiness when I practiced it. It was relaxing practicing Tʹai chi chʹuan, and afterwards, my brain functioned much better. I began to be calm and thought more carefully before any decision. Magic soon happened: my grades improved . . . a lot! I found my confidence and my passion growing again. Suddenly I understood that only smart people will do something that seems nonsense but actually is very useful.

Even though I am no longer trying to be a Kungfu master, I still want to do my best to improve the world, to help those people who need it, and to make my family and friends happy. My new dream is a direction, not a final destination. It does not have to be achieved but rather is both a guidepost and engine which leads me forward.

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ON SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT: THE TEMPEST PROMPTS AN ESSAY

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“We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.”

The Tempest (IV: i)

Jeong Bahn Senior Seoul, South Korea

The college application process was like a dream. It was as though it was someone else, and not me, writing the essays and pressing the F5 button on the keyboard every five Is this what I had worked so minutes to see if I had hard for over the past four gotten an email with an years? Surely some may think admissions letter attached. that my expectations had been It was a hopeful dream too high given my capabilities. where I felt like every school wanted me . . . that But after all the money my is, until March 29th. Then it parents had spent; after all the was no one else but me time I spent flying fourteen checking the email and hours back and forth every reading the line, “I am sorry we are unable to offer vacation break and each you a place in our summer; after staying up freshman class.” It was countless nights studying for just me facing a reality in tests and SAT prep; after the which there was a large painful separation from my pool of people with higher GPAs, better SAT scores, family for four long years . . . it more intriguing personal seemed as though all of this essays, and superior and more had earned me extracurricular activities. nothing but these rejection Is this what I had letters. worked so hard for over the past four years? Surely some may think that my expectations had been too high given my capabilities. But after all the money my parents had spent; after all the

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time I spent flying fourteen hours back and forth every vacation break and each summer; after staying up countless nights studying for tests and SAT prep; after the painful separation from my family for four long years . . . it seemed as though all of this and more had earned me nothing but these rejection letters.

I might sound immature and ungrateful, especially considering that many other students have worked just as hard—and it had been my own decision to come to the States for high school—but I cannot help but feel bitterness for what seems like a cruel trick to which I have been subjected. I am aware that I was blessed to be born to such caring and supportive parents who unselfishly provided me with the chance to study abroad. And that is why I guess I so desperately wanted to get accepted to a renowned school which I felt would repay them for their all their love and sacrifice.

Although I should not be bitter, it is still upsetting to hear that a majority of my friends back home are attending one of the top three universities in Korea. Some of them are even going to Cornell and Dartmouth with full scholarships. I was a better student in middle school than some of these students, and yet I chose to come here only to fail in the game of college admissions. I wonder now whether I would have gotten into one of those schools as well if I had stayed in Korea like everyone else? Was my experience at Reserve worth the $230,000 it cost?

It surely is not sending me to any of those prestigious schools. Perhaps I should have argued harder with my parents and insisted on going back to Korea after my freshman and sophomore years here. It was never too late to leave, but I was too cowardly to do so.

But what is the use of arguing now whether or not I should have gone back? Who is to blame? I am still a student of WRA and will have to decide on which university to attend in another two months. My friends have tried to console me by telling me that there is no such thing as a “good school” and that whatever school I go to will be the best school for me. But I know in my heart that I came to Reserve dreaming of greater success; now that dream is almost over and I have to wake up.

But there is always hope: I can always dream again. After all, how would we survive without hopeful dreams? Although I have told myself in the past to wake up and make rational decisions, maybe now I should consider becoming more optimistic rather than pessimistic, because we cannot relive the past and can only dream of the future.

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“When I waked, I cried to dream again.”

The Tempest, (III: iii)

Genevieve Bettendorf Senior Mayfield Heights, Ohio

This is the part I have come to hate, the part of the book when the pages are turned more slowly and the words begin to take on more meaning. The page is blank before me, and nothing comes to mind. I am crying as I sit here in this chair writing these helpless words. I don’t want to go; I don’t want to leave the world I know so well, so very, very well, the house in which I have spent many happy days.

Years will pass and my love might fade and be diverted, but there will be some things that will let me remember the vestiges of the old flame, as Vergil and the ancients did, but it will never be the same. I fear I will forget this place—this life—and that is terrifying. I am not afraid of many things, but the thought of losing all that I have here makes my heart beat faster.

My hatred of this end rings faintly of my “ultimate anthropocentrism,” as Spinoza puts it, and is only another reminder of my hatred of change. But, as in all art, change means life, means living.

Without change and I am terrified of the day movement, there is nothing but an abyss. Time is beautiful to when this bubble will pop me because it keeps going. and I will no longer be the When we will it to slow, Time swaddled child of this ticks on into the deep night, institution; in a single day— and when we wish it to the passing of a mere quicken and pass sooner, the sticky summer days linger for afternoon—I will be without long hours in the late all I have come to know. afternoon.

I have been sheltered here. I have often referred affectionately to boarding school as a “bubble.” I am terrified of the day when this bubble will pop and I will no longer be the swaddled child of this institution; in a single day—the passing of a mere afternoon—I will be without all I have come to know. The ties that kept me fixed to this

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mooring‐post will be severed by the metal hand of steadfast Time, and I will know not what to do.

The French writer, Paul Valéry, said, “A poem is never finished, only abandoned.” The word “abando[n]” suggests to me the idea of a return: there is always the potential to return and finish what was started. Life and poetry are very similar, with their variations and shared iambic heartbeats. And like poetry, in life there are “no ceremonies, only private dirges, and no conclusions, only violent sensations, each separate,” as Woolf writes. There are not “conclusions,” nor are there ends, which means there can be more—there can always be more. Even after Jaspers’ “ultimate,” there will be more, because we live on.

After song in stone cathedrals, there is a half‐moment when every inch of the space is saturated with sound, and it is one of the most beautiful things I have ever felt. But just after that half‐moment, the song echoes and reverberates within the space, like life after a certain kind of death. Time facilitates this ultra‐life, this life beyond the natural limitations. My “poem” here will never end; I can return to savor the ancient ruins and vestiges of my life here. The line will have been cut, but the mooring‐post will remain deep in the ocean floor for me to return and tie another, different line to the same Time‐worn and mossy wood of this pier I have grown to know so well.

I am afraid of change. The agony of separation may be too much at times. This poem will cry to be completed. The forced abandon will stay with me for the rest of my days. I will look to the safe embrace of this harbor as long as blood flows in my veins. Remanebo. Volabit.

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“And I loved thee.”

The Tempest (I: iii)

Julia Ferguson Senior Chicago, Illinois

You know those clock rotations which you pray will move more quickly during a dull class period? Or the seconds left till the end of your team’s game that will decide the victor? Perhaps you are more acquainted with the anxiety that accompanies the last few moments before you give a speech, the minutes waited until a friend comes to meet you for lunch, or the years spent trying to squeeze your way into the college of your choice. As I frequently forget, these dutifully counted seconds, minutes, days inevitably become decades and whole lifetimes.

Those decades seem so far away now, but I am living them with each word I type. So how may I best savor this time? My current conclusion instructs me to admire the questions (as Rainer Rilke kindly reminds us).

Inevitably, a familiar nostalgic song comes along via radio waves, as Alex’s trusted Wrangler conquers the concrete back hills of Akron. As Alex sings her harmonious notes, I listen and occasionally add my cracked and mistuned As I frequently forget, voice. It is this repetitious scene that, above any other, reminds these dutifully counted me of my current state of youth. seconds, minutes, days Although we live the past and inevitably become decades future in every present, there is and whole lifetimes. Those something immortal and decades seem so far away timeless about this effortless pleasure. But the questions now, but I am living them creep, stealthily and cloaked, in with each word I type. So a robe of black uncertainly. The how may I best savor this feeling of true helplessness time? threatens its unyielding pain as finality imbeds itself deep in the recesses of thought. This is all so fleeting, isn’t it? Perhaps, but it is also of the utmost importance. It is the long accumulation of seconds that determines us.

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So the question of finality is begged. If nothing is ever ended, how may it be remembered? If you don’t leave, how can you return?

These questions, thankfully more conclusive than some others, are the closest forms of reassurance I have found. Loving these questions has been the best medicine for life’s permanent truths. They have reaffirmed my place as a gratified passer‐by thanks to their challenge.

There are many, or maybe few, things that tie us together; time is perhaps the most universal of all. When given the opportunity to live life, we decide for ourselves how we spend it. As we must, we depart from our dearest places and people with varying degrees of apprehension. I choose to love the questions that uncertainty poses.

They will be fixed in my subconscious and make occasional guest appearances in my colloquial ramblings. Time will continue as it always has and I, one of many captives, will take full advantage—questions and all.

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“This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have followʹd it.”

The Tempest (I: ii)

Emma Leonard Senior Hudson, Ohio

As I wait for Mr. Wiles, my accompanist, to begin playing, I take a deep breath. I’m standing in front of over a hundred people waiting to hear me perform in a Spanish cathedral where the sounds resonate for what seems like minutes. The piano’s music begins to fill the space but then stops as I sing my first phrase. “Pietà, Signore.” For that moment, it’s only my voice filling the air.

It’s only my being, my sound, Throughout my whole life my emotion that exists. I hold I’ve kept myself under on to the last note, letting it control. Whether it was dangle in the atmosphere, and dealing with my then move on to the next phrase, this time taking the piano with academics, my friends, my me. As the notes climb higher family, or my emotions, and higher, the tension grows I’ve always strapped tighter and tighter; the emotion myself to a leash. Instead grow greater and greater. As I of living life, I worried sing, I pour my whole being into the text. “Pietà, Signore.” about my performance. I Peace, God. All the desperation, worried about what people sadness, loneliness, fatigue I would think. I doubted my strive to emit into the audience. ability and didn’t trust I let the music absorb my being myself. and overpower my mind. I lose myself to the aria and its message.

Finally, the piece ends. The last few notes hang in the air as they reverberate throughout the building. And then . . . applause. It lasts for what seems like forever, and I allow myself to come back to reality. I look out into the sea of faces, and I think I catch sight of a few tears. I

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glance down at my director, Ms. Karam, and she gives me one, slow, distinct nod.

That is when I know I have succeeded. After hours of working and countless performances, I have come into my own. I’ve finally been able to disconnect from myself, stop worrying, stop critiquing, stop focusing, and just let go. Throughout my whole life I’ve kept myself under control. Whether it was dealing with my academics, my friends, my family, or my emotions, I’ve always strapped myself to a leash.

Instead of living life, I worried about my performance. I worried about what people would think. I doubted my ability and didn’t trust myself.

Music, however, was (and still is) the key to my letting go.

When I first started, I critiqued every single note. I worried whether or not it was the correct note or whether I was singing it in the proper manner. Even when I had strengthened my basics, I was always caught up in the details, concerned about my sound. Countless times Ms. Karam told me, “Relax. Don’t think too much. Just sing.” I understood what she was saying, but it took so much effort to rid myself of that doubt, that desire to be perfect. With more and more practice, though, I began to relax. I started to let go and simply sing.

And with letting go came happiness. Relaxing brought the joy of doing something that I loved, and it all culminated in that Spanish cathedral. I had finally succeeded. I was able to connect and become one with the song and transmit that same feeling to the audience. Even after that experience, I still have to remind myself to relax, to not think too much, to just sing. But when I do, it’s the most rewarding feeling in the world.

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“O brave monster! Lead the way.”

Tempest (II: ii)

Eric Rauckhorst Senior Silver Lake, Ohio

Bravery is a convoluted characteristic found in some individuals.

I say “some” because it truly is a special gift. For seventeen years I have had the chance to watch bravery develop from a mere seed into a voluptuous flower. A monster to me, my brother, Marc, has been an essential and thought‐provoking presence in my life. In a casual manner, oblivious to the thoughts and reactions of all others, Marc does what is most logical when faced with a problem: he thinks. As his greater twin of, first, ten minutes and, now, twenty‐five pounds, it isn’t always easy to admit that I look up to him. In times of confusion and difficulty, it has been Marc’s ability to think and readily take a stance in a situation that reveals his bold intuition.

Four years ago, I found myself sporting khakis and a shirt‐tie combination chosen exclusively for the occasion. Before me was the impressive campus of Western Reserve Academy; next to me was my brother, full to the brim with Before me was the untold confidence, and inside of me was an irrepressible fear of impressive campus of Western Reserve Academy; the unknown. Attending class next to me was my brother, and interviewing with an admissions officer were the full to the brim with untold highlights of the day, yet confidence, and inside of something bigger was disturbing me. I was scared that me was an irrepressible I wouldn’t make the cut, that I fear of the unknown. wouldn’t be able to succeed. My intimidation would have been the end of me, yet due to one person’s determination and surety I did not step down from the challenge. Marc viewed Reserve as a chance to totally redirect our lives, although this mainly pertained to our educational futures. He didn’t know a thing about the work it would involve, the hours of sleep that would be lost, or the difficult decisions that would arise further down the road. What

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Marc did know was simple: it would be foolish not to take advantage of our opportunity. Through his confidence, I found my own and accepted my spot at Reserve.

To be brave is to be different. Marc, similar to Caliban, is a sight to behold at times. In his anger or his passion, Marc can transform into an entirely different person. He is mistaken as a cruel soul, or an aggressive monster at times, yet refuses to be bothered by such titles. It is Marc’s certainty of what matters and what doesn’t that allows him to blaze whatever trail he finds necessary. Nearing the end of my high school career, I am now faced with the task of creating my own trail. I must find the monster within me, indifferent to the many unknowns I will face, and reveal the bravery I have been nurturing for all of these years.

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“Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air.”

The Tempest (IV: i)

Marc Rauckhorst Senior Silver Lake, Ohio

I stared at the dim light bulb high on the ceiling as a knife was thrust deep in my chest. I muttered “Joe . . . Joe . . . no!” as I began to stumble to the ground, dying. I gave a wink to the Indian who’d just murdered me and began to settle down into the still state where I’d be stuck for the next ten minutes. I could already feel the fake blood beginning to make its way below my shirt. I’d have to tell my stage manager to run it through the wash again.

I had just three things to worry about while lying here. First, my moustache was just now beginning to itch, and I knew I’d go insane if I didn’t start concentrating on the second thing—the The third thing on my mind, reactions of the children. I which tended to dominate knew from experience that my thoughts during these their nervous titters and soft little gasps would continue periods while Tom Sawyer for the next several minutes and Huck Finn poked and until their parents and prodded my corpse while grandparents had reassured discussing what to do with the little ones that “No, me, was the most depressing.

Jimmy, he’s not dead—look at his chest!” which in turn This life, this wonderful life made my job twice as hard, as of being stabbed on stage by two hundred sets of eyes my friends, night after night, glued themselves to my would soon end. lungs. I began to focus on the slow breathing technique that I’d been taught, gulping in air from the bottom of my stomach and forcing it through my barely open mouth while trying my hardest to

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ignore the tiny follicles rubbing against the clump of hair glued to my lip. I almost sneezed.

The third thing on my mind, which tended to dominate my thoughts during these periods while Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn poked and prodded my corpse while discussing what to do with me, was the most depressing. This life, this wonderful life of being stabbed on stage by my friends, night after night, would soon end. I’d return to my placid existence in Northeast Ohio, where the only connections to Cape Cod would be the gaudy Vineyard Vines outfits worn by my peers. Life was going to shift again, forcing me back to my other reality as quickly as I’d entered this one.

It was seven months before I stood on that stage again, just ten minutes after the conclusion of a school matinee that I’d seen from the relative shelter of the sound room upstairs. The set was completely different now, the markings for various blockings had changed, and perhaps most glaringly obvious to me, someone (I assumed Mark, the tech director) had changed the light bulb right above where I’d lain dead for those many nights. I took a few minutes to relish the feel of the place again, to get a new sense of the dimensions of my second home. To be honest, it felt small. It felt very small.

The stage manager turned out the lights and I stood there awhile in the dark. Coming back to the theater had forced me to realize that I’d moved on. I was content with my mere memories. As I pondered this, I stumbled upon a deeper thought. So, too, will I be content with my memories of Reserve. We the students, the actors, are in the final act of our play and it is almost over. It’s a time for celebration and for tears, but we will move on. I strode down the center aisle with renewed energy as I prepared to leave my beloved theater for the last time.

Halfway home, I turned around. I’d forgotten my program. I firmly believe that Reserve will fade in my mind, my friends and experiences will blend together, and I’ll be content with only the images and echoes of my time here.

I lie.

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“This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.”

The Tempest (I: ii)

Aylin Sarac Senior Canfield, Ohio

“Again!” My teacher’s familiar voice echoed from the other room; I was being forced to rely on my sense of touch to place the correct keys beneath my hands. The darkness, from the scarf she carefully wrapped around my eyes, consumed me. I quickly scrambled to find the right notes, hoping this time I could get through at least ten of the twenty‐four pages without making a mistake as amateurish as playing a wrong note. Then, as rapidly as the darkness from the scarf consumed me, the music drowned me. My most common “error” in playing music is that I spend too much time thinking about the notes. The notes do matter; however, they should be learned so well that they are second nature. The images and I do not believe we will emotions transmitted to the ever quite understand how audience through the music are some black and white notes most important. Beethoven once said that “music should strike marked down on a piece of fire from the heart of man, and paper can transform bring tears from the eyes of themselves into woman,” and it is his influence on human emotions through instruments of pleasure or music that composers still try to suffering. achieve.

I yearn for my music to creep silently up from the shadows and pounce upon my listeners, ferociously assaulting their most inner sentiments at my command—revealing such weaknesses as love, indifference, sorrow, and animosity. My music should unveil the emotions so naturally hidden by humans and conclude with each person reflecting on a memory, a person, a place. As Beethoven once said, “music is the one incorporeal entrance into the higher world of knowledge which comprehends mankind but which mankind cannot

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comprehend.” Music feeds the soul and leaves it wanting more in a desperate attempt to understand. I am still searching, and so is mankind.

I do not believe we will ever quite understand how some black and white notes marked down on a piece of paper can transform themselves into instruments of pleasure or suffering. Each stroke of a piano’s keys can result in a melody that reaches deep into the human consciousness and manipulates one’s most sensitive emotions. While listening to Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” it is impossible to claim one does not feel the raw form of agony. There is a feeling of unrequited love, a broken heart. Even if one has not experienced love before, they will experience it through the melody in Beethoven’s sonata. Music’s ability to share experiences with others makes it “the mediator between the spiritual and sensual life,” as Beethoven stated. The audience is hypnotized by the music, which they have no choice but to listen to; they are forced to relive the composer’s memories with him as he shares with them the deepest of his emotions.

I strive to achieve the same effect on my audience. Relying on my sense of touch alone while playing forces me to analyze the sound of each note. I aim to place my audience in a trance and subject them to emotions that are both familiar and unfamiliar to them. Only then is the true potential of music reached.

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“And then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked I cried to dream again.”

The Tempest (III: iii)

Mihir Shah Senior Hudson, Ohio

Art is escape—from school, work, stress, strife, war, boredom, love, hate, snow, rain, heat. It is escape from reality. Why must we escape? Why must we settle for this reality, made bearable only by figments of fiction? Why must we attend school and then more school and then more school and then work and then use the fiat currency derived from work to play—play being the opposite of work and the escape from the reality we have spent the majority of our lives creating?

Of course, all of this has its If this one chance at living logical beginning. I would be content to travel and view the is not to be taken with risk natural and human wonders of and lofty aims, why the world. It could easily continue at all? occupy a lifetime. Yet, in order to travel, I need money; for money, I must work; for decent pay, I should attain a degree . . . and so forth, ad infinitum, until I have lost sight of what drives me in the first place: curiosity.

The childlike curiosity that compels me also possesses a strong distaste for structure, planning, and doing things that are neither pleasurable nor the edification I seek at the moment. The ephemeral teenage spirit is torn between childhood and adulthood. And, in most cases, we extinguish the child for the adult. But what a wonder the passing teen years are: the time when a human being is on the precipice of having both the desire and ability to accomplish dreams. I am still so reluctant to give in because I can see the triple‐platinum artist Mihir, or the NBA MVP Mihir, or the Oscar‐winning director Mihir, or the Nobel Peace Prize laureate Mihir, or mob boss Mihir Soprano. The incredible fire within a teenager becomes jaded by cynicism, a defense mechanism

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in response to the insecurities bred by contrasting imagination with a bitter reality. At eighteen, though, I am on my dying embers.

The question inherent in all this contemplation is clear, “Is it all worth it?” Is it worth it to settle for a mediocre reality within a comfortable niche in the workforce of America? Even the wealthiest lawyers hit the links on the weekends. That is because law is not often their passion; it is their job. I would suggest that, with just one life to live, there is no time for jobs, no room for work, unless work is passion.

If this one chance at living is not to be taken with risk and lofty aims, why continue at all? In the case of a reincarnate condition, infinite lives leave room for infinite error. Regardless of belief, a cursory attempt at happiness is unjustifiable.

Finally, we are hindered by the past. The past is nothing to worry about, nor is the future. We strive, in vain, to learn about our mistakes, such as the Holocaust, so that we do not repeat them, as we did in Cambodia, Srebrenica, Rwanda, and Darfur. We should learn about history because it is interesting, not because we fear it. For each person must accept the deepest infringements upon humanity, not because we are guilty, but because we are just as capable. Nevertheless, circumstance has eternally been that Hitler would rise and fall, that Gandhi would liberate India peacefully and die a violent death, and that I would spend the first eighteen years of my life pursuing nothing more than pleasure. Free will is an illusion of the mind limited by perspective, though accepting determinism is neither important nor helpful. It is a fact, however, that our world is based on the logic of causes and effects.

A life is determined by the choices of man and by his surroundings. A man’s predisposition to choices is genetic, a condition over which he has no control. A man’s surroundings are the effects of causes in the past, the past also being out of his control. Thus, free will being the illusion of perspective, and happiness being the utmost goal, the resignation of the majority of humanity into undesired roles is not a stain upon their ability to choose. It is symptomatic of the fact that they never were, and never will be, great.

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“O, but one word.”

The Tempest (II: i)

Peter Suwondo Senior Hudson, Ohio

The mercury that day plunged two steps deeper into winter.

Wavering around the 30° F notch, the temperature playfully danced below freezing. Tiny droplets of moisture suspended in the air froze, unfroze, and refroze into fluttering drifts of snow. Pedestrians walking past icy shop windows and storefronts paused every now and then to readjust their mittens and scarves and watch their breath whorl up mistily before them. 5:15 PM came and went, rung out dutifully by the town square clock tower. There wasn’t a hint to be found of the calamity about to strike. Within the school library, a struggle of cosmic proportions was taking place. Forehead knotted in consternation, I stared fixedly at the computer monitor before me, willing my deaden limbs to move. You can do this, Peter, I said to myself. It’s just the login screen. Reluctantly, I forced my fingers onto the home row of the plasticky black keyboard before me. The small nubs on the “F” and “J” keys felt unusually sweaty beneath the tips of my index fingers.

Meanwhile, on the computer monitor, the little gray cursor was still blinking expectantly in the empty “Name” field. I closed my eyes and typed a letter “P.” Suddenly, my study carrel felt alarmingly exposed.

It’s funny how you can spend your entire life waiting for just a single word—a single decision, reply, interjection, or exclamation. It might be a “yes” or “no,” “congratulations” or “I’m sorry,” “maybe,” “sometime,” “hello,” or “goodbye.” We spend our lives building ourselves up for these simple combinations of letters, these representatives of decision and finality. Like the closing rhyme to a poem or the capstone note of a melody’s crescendo, they complete our stories and struggles.

Staring at the college admissions login page, I wondered what verdict lay waiting for me within. Would a “yes” vindicate the years of work and worry I’d put into this small dream of mine? Would a “no” underscore my numerous slip‐ups and faults? And what about a “maybe,” that academic purgatory known familiarly as the waitlist?

O, but one word.

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“That shall be by and by: I remember the story.”

The Tempest (III: ii)

Tracy Tien Senior Hsinchu, Taiwan

“You would not go to bed, until I went out and brought Mr. Tomato back, and then you fell asleep in a snap.”

My aunt recalled this anecdote while chitchatting after a big family gathering. Mr. Tomato was a stuffed toy of—not surprisingly—a tomato, but with appendages, and the stem as its hair. All my family members (and certainly my parents) know that I have this uncontrollable obsession for stuffed animals (and even, it would seem, stuffed fruit).

The first conscious choice I believe I ever made was Mom and Dad believe in deciding which stuffed animal the notion of shaping their was to be my constant two daughters’ companion—the competition perspectives with what the was rigorous; the decision world has to offer. Ever tough. Between the tomato and the grape, between the penguin since I can remember, we traveled. My giraffe friend, and the wolf, my five‐year old self had a difficult task before of course, tagged along on her. Seventeen years later that all of these trips—around choice remains invaluably a part the fire with Santa Claus in of who am I. My childhood friend is a stuffed giraffe that is Rovaniemi, Lapland; in curiously disproportionate (he close proximity to a lacks the long neck all giraffes stingray in Paulu; possess), but incredibly enveloped in the blankets adorable: he has a large head in a boathouse at Kashmir; with stubby legs, creamy caramel‐colored spots, and two and beneath the northern knotted antlers—on one of lights in Norway. which I placed a gold ring disassembled from a hotel pen that came into my possession during a family trip in Taiwan.

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That ring, chronologically speaking, would be approximately the mid‐point milestone of my traveling life.

Mom and Dad believe in the notion of shaping their two daughters’ perspectives with what the world has to offer. Ever since I can remember, we traveled. My giraffe friend, of course, tagged along on all of these trips—around the fire with Santa Claus in Rovaniemi, Lapland; in close proximity to a stingray in Paulu; enveloped in the blankets in a boathouse at Kashmir; and beneath the northern lights in Norway. Each time I pick up my giraffe (who now resides in my dorm room), I see not my own reflection in those plastic black beads, but eternal snapshots of my memories, and the rushing feeling when I was “there.”

While I was gazing into my giraffe’s eyes, holding him for comfort, I was transported back to the child‐me, the young girl who often stared intently into the stuffed giraffe’s eyes hoping they would reveal what the world meant to him, or some secrets only giraffes know.

He is no ordinary giraffe: he is a friend who has been willingly read to at night, who has always tried his best to give good advice, who has accompanied me to twenty‐two countries.

My adventures with my giraffe have helped me realize that this is who I am—a girl of the world, raised on rich Taiwanese cuisine, tested by extreme weather—a girl who has seen the world through the eyes of an intelligent stuffed animal, who wanted to “be all over the place” and achieved just that, and furnished with a heart to keep on adventuring.

Though, no matter where I am, I am home at heart. My giraffe provides immense comfort to me when I feel the fabric with my fingers. I still cannot fall asleep without touching the soft, velvety part that lines the inside of his ears.

“Your stuffed animals have infested our house! I’m going to take all of them and put them on your bed!” my mom exclaimed, half‐ jokingly and half‐seriously. This was after I strongly disagreed with her plan to throw them away.

“But Maaaahm! . . . they are what my childhood is made of! Are you going to just throw my childhood away?” It was the infallible truth, and it worked. (Moms know the truth when they hear it.)

As for my obsession with stuffed animals? Besides the fact that they are bundles of fluffy joy, and I still have an uncontrollable desire to catch them all, they remain my anchor to home . . . wherever I may be.

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“I’ll kiss thy foot; I’ll swear myself thy subject.”

The Tempest (II: ii)

Inga Wells Senior Dublin, Ohio

The old door let out a loud creak, opening just enough to expose an open hand and the sound of a muffled young voice. “Fifty cents please, Inga.” I ignorantly passed over two quarters, the last of my means shaken from my piggy bank. In return, I was given a plastic dinosaur, about the size of a coin, a fair trade for sure. “Nice doing business with you, as always.”

At the time, I completely He was a banker trusted the early financial from the start. coaching from my older Unfortunately, I am not able brother. In fact, I went to go back in time and convince my four‐year‐old beyond the point of trust and self that a pile of disregarded attempted to mold myself in and disheveled toys was not his form. Materialistically, worth the money I eagerly this meant taking part in all of passed over. At the time, I the latest fads of the fifth completely trusted the early financial coaching from my graders when I was in older brother. In fact, I went kindergarten. Yo‐yos, Beanie beyond the point of trust and Babies, and Pokemon cards attempted to mold myself in were amongst my most his form. Materialistically, prized possessions. Chris this meant taking part in all of the latest fads of the fifth was my gauge for graders when I was in appropriate interests, actions, kindergarten. Yo‐yos, Beanie and other critical lifestyle Babies, and Pokemon cards choices. were amongst my most prized possessions. Chris was my gauge for appropriate interests, actions, and other critical lifestyle choices.

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I never questioned this blind adoration. In fact, until recently I was never one to question much at all. In questions one finds confusion, a territory that I—perhaps even subconsciously—was much too fearful to step into. I have always found comfort in playing the role of another instead of creating my own. Yet, fitting into a mold means taking with it both the good qualities and the faults. This has come with its consequences, as I am often held back by a role I am trying to fulfill. For instance, when I was in preschool I had a friend that was very shy and introverted for the most part. In turn, I did the same, and it took me many years to shake myself of this flaw.

Can anyone ever truly escape these roles though? My college counselor always discusses, at length, what “type” of person I am and where someone like me would thrive as we delve into college publications and websites. I find it so strange that, as I try to step out of molds and create my own person, I am asked to submit myself back to one of those boxes. Who am I to judge what my character will be in four years’ time? Being conscious of this, I am also wary of placing myself in a constraint. Thus, instead of embodying one role, I am led by my indecisive nature to encompass several.

I now find myself in that dreaded state of questioning that I had worked so long to avoid. This leaves me always wondering if my life will be benefited by my avoidance of restrictions, or if I should ever find security in that blind childhood ignorance.

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HISTORY WRITING CONTEST: FIRST PLACE WINNERS, 2010-2011

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2011 AMERICAN HISTORY CONTEST – FIRST PLACE

Emily Clark Class of 2012 Hudson, Ohio

Ladies in the Locker Room: The Underdog Victory of Women Sports Journalists

Boys play with balls; girls play with dolls. This age‐old adage dictated the athletic world for years. Until the last few decades, girls were prohibited from playing sports and were instead encouraged to learn the tools that would help them succeed as homemakers. When they finally were allowed to play sports, their opportunities were significantly fewer than those offered to boys. With the passage of Title IX in 1972, a law leveling the playing field in college sports, this changed, though the prejudice remained. Even to this day, female sports teams are perceived much differently than their male counterparts. Earlier this fall, the University of Connecticut women’s basketball team surpassed the lofty winning streak set by the UCLA men’s team in the 1970s when they won their 88th game in a row. However, instead of praising this accomplishment, many sports fans refused to acknowledge the women vs. women milestone, because it was not nearly as impressive as men vs. men (Presca). With this sort of prejudice concerning women on the field, it is no surprise that there is great narrow‐mindedness about the women who work around the field, reporting on such games. Female sports reporters have dealt with just as many, if not more, setbacks as female athletes. And like their counterparts on the field, they continue to struggle today. Women sports journalists have experienced some of the most extreme gender discrimination present in a professional field and continue to receive harassment in current times. Yet, these setbacks have not deterred these determined women, but rather given them the tools to succeed and thrive.

News has always been an integral part of all human communication, a constant part of life. The first known daily newspaper, the Acta Diurna, was published in Ancient Rome in 59 BCE. However, what is referred to as the modern newspaper did not begin until the 17th century, when industrial advancement allowed for literacy rates to spread and mass production of a printed publication to become more

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affordable (Journalism). The first newspaper in the United States was published by Benjamin Harris in 1690. Called the Publick Occurrences Both Forreign and Domestick, it was shut down by the government on its first day of publication because of controversial information criticizing the King of France (Ferguson). Even after that minor setback in American journalism, the passage of the First Amendment of the Constitution allowed news to transform into the unstoppable display of freedom of speech known today. The early 20th century brought the age of radio, and the American public became mesmerized with the smooth voices traveling through the wire screen. While women were featured in dramas and variety shows, it was exclusively men that read the daily news. The trend was short‐lived though, because by 1950, the television craze was sweeping the nation with inescapable force (Ferguson). The men who anchored the news station became the quickest, most trusted source of information. With these new technologies, news became universally accessible and almost unavoidable.

At first, the sports section of the newspaper was used only to add weight; it served as filler information. While some state officials saw it as a way to promote patriotism, the editors of the newspapers regarded the section with little respect, and displayed this opinion by placing it in the back of the newspaper (Sports). In the 1900s, the New Yorker published a story that regarded sports as a whole as “‘a trivial enterprise’ involving ‘second‐rate people and their second‐rate dreams and emotions,” (Poole). The entire section was bare boned, reporting only the score and brief details about the course of the game.

Yet, in England, one writer decided to make a difference. The boxing reports of sports journalist Pierce Egan in the 1920s were like nothing sports fans had ever experienced before. He wove a tale instead of simply reproducing the facts, and readers loved it. Soon, more and more journalists began emulating his style. Editors began to notice the trend, as readers often turned to read the back page before catching up on the seemingly more pertinent news in the first few sections. To capitalize on this observation, editors began staffing their sports departments with skilled, enthusiastic journalists. They were, of course, all men. By the time the 20th century rolled around, the sports page had morphed into something completely different than those of the earliest newspapers. The cut‐and‐dry sports story was gone, because “No longer were they simply reporting outcomes and scores, but rather telling a story. The articles…became dramatic pieces of literature, describing not only the game, but the atmosphere, exciting moments and back story in great detail,” (Sports). Without television, it was up to these writers to

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paint the action of the game. They became commentators, critics, and coaches. These journalists provided sports‐lovers across the country with regular reading material, and young boys with descriptions of their heroes on the hometown team.

Surely, these writers loved sports. But they were by no means the stereotypical “stupid jocks.” Gary Poole, who read a plethora of early sports journalism from the 1920s and 30s in a study of football player Red Grange, affirmed the writing acumen of sports journalists. He said, “As I read through yellowed newspapers, I encountered descriptive writing, clever word play, references to Shakespeare, the Bible, heroic couplets and a wise eye towards human nature. I could see, smell and hear these games” (Poole). With such excellent, elevated prose, there was no chance of reverting back to primitive reporting. Sports writing became a form of entertainment, much like the sport itself. At the turn of the 20th century, sports media had reached the level most recognize when they consider the business today, as “mass media and elite sports formed a marriage of convenience, becoming in this last stage so economically interdependent as to be virtually inseparable” (Sports). In modern times, the sports section is the most widely read section of any daily newspaper in a major metropolitan area (Creedon 96).

Since the beginning, this field has been male dominated, both in content and authorship. The formation of sports journalism simply did not included women. By the 1970s, according to an estimation by the Associated Press, only 30 women worked in the entire field of sports journalism—twenty‐five in print and five in broadcasting—while men employed in the field was growing by the hundreds (Shain). However, along the way, there have been myriad trailblazers.

The first recorded woman reporter was Maria Morgan, who reported on horse races in 1869. There is a widely‐believed rumor that she was so well known for her livestock expertise that General Ulysses S. Grant solicited her opinion before buying a horse (Creedon 70). Several other women stood out in the field over the following 30 years, sprinkled amidst the overwhelming male majority. In 1887, Nellie Verrill Mighels Davis covered the Corbett‐Fitzsimmons championship fight. Annie Laurie covered fights as well in the late 1890s. During this time, she was accompanied by women sports journalists Pauline Jacobson and Inez Haynes Irwin, who reported on baseball and wrestling, respectively (Creedon 71). Despite these powerful women trailblazers, the field remained almost exclusively androcentric until the early 1900s. At that point, many men who worked the news desks went off to fight in WWI. These open chairs provided women with a rare and exciting opportunity

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to move beyond their secretarial roles into more prominent positions in the newspaper. At this time, at least five women were regular sports reporters for major publications, the most famous being Margaret Goss.

Beginning in 1924, Goss wrote a weekly column, “Women in Sports” for the New York Herald Tribune (Creedon 76). As the only woman in the sports department of the Tribune, she was greatly influenced by some of the great sports journalists of the time who sat weaving tales of athletic escapades just a few desks away, such as the famous Grantland Rice. As her column matured, she did manage to develop her own style, proving “that a woman could stand toe‐to‐toe with male writers in producing the kind of highly stylized writing demanded during the so‐called “golden age” of sports journalism,” (Kaszuba). Her success paved the way for women journalists in New York and beyond.

When the men returned home from the war, they simply expected to regain their previous positions, and they did. Women were forced back into their mundane secretarial positions. Within the span of a few months, they went from serving as pivotal contributors in the dynamic, engaging field of news reporting to being relegated back to menial office tasks. In the 1930s, during the midst of the Great Depression, women sports reporters essentially disappeared. The break was short‐lived, however, with WWII on the horizon. As the men left once again to fight overseas, women enthusiastically regained their previous positions. This re‐immersion of women in the field presented a new set of problems, all revolving around gender discrimination. As newspapers had grown in influence, prestige and circulation, the prejudice against women sports reporters had grown as well. The switch during WWI to women reporters had seemed so temporary that limited controversy had arisen. However, this second transition was longer, and conflicts had time to develop. For the first time, women reporters were being denied the same rights as their male counterparts. When women showed up to report on games, they were simply refused access to most press boxes, with authorities eliding their credentials. The opposition was rooted in two sources: the representatives of the athletic team, who served as a protective barrier over the questionable reputations of the athletes, and the male sports reporters, who had already claimed their domain. These writers were threatened by the sudden influx of competition, especially since this competition had proved themselves as more than competent during the two World Wars. The Denver Post’s editor Jack Carberry once said during this period: The press box is exclusively for male sports writers. It’s the tradition of the newspaper game – and war is no

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excuse to change it. . . . When I’m covering a game, I don’t want to hear a lot of feminine chit‐chat about fashions, new cooking recipes and boyfriends. And that’s what the press box would be filled with, if girls were admitted. If we admitted women reporters, we’d be in plenty of trouble, so much trouble that it would interfere with our work. (Creedon 81) As mentioned before, this stereotyping and call for restricted access did not come exclusively from the press. The coaches, managers, and other staff members of the athletic teams were equally as intolerant of women in the sports reporting field, and reacted by making it as difficult as possible for women reporters to do their jobs. Mary Garber, known as the “Dean of Women Sportswriters” was the first to challenge this press box rule. She was turned away by the sports information director at a Duke University football game in 1946 when she tried to enter the press box with the other reporters. Presenting her credentials did not sway his decision; it was her gender, and only her gender, preventing her from gaining equal access. Garber did not submit quietly.

She immediately relayed the information of her mistreatment to her editor, and with her help he wrote to the four North Carolina universities frequently covered by the regional newspaper and said “that they were turning away the paper, not just a woman reporter,” (Creedon 80). Eventually, the four universities consented and allowed women in the press box so they would not lose their news coverage. This success seemed miniscule, but it was movement in the right direction. As is common with many great shifts in societal paradigms, it is these small steps that lay the foundation for bigger, more radical changes to come.

While the 1950s were nearly as stagnant as the 1930s for female sports journalists as men once again reclaimed their jobs after returning from war, the liberal 60s and 70s brought big changes to the sports world. “Equality” was the buzz word of the era, and in 1972, equality was extended out to the athletic world with the passage of Title IX. Signed on June 23rd, Title IX read that “no person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded in participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to the discrimination under any education program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance,” (Title IX).

This law applied to many activities, though its impact on athletics spurred the most radical changes and resistance, and lives on today.

For most women sports journalists, these changes looked positive. According to Stacie Shain and Marie Hardin in their study Strength in Numbers? The Experiences and Attitudes of Women in Sports

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Media Careers, “the low percentage of women working in sports media seems to mirror the low percentage of women in mediated sports coverage.” The hope was that with the increase of women playing sports, these sports would slowly gain more media attention. This increased media attention focused on women would increase the demand for women reporting on such events (Shain). According to gender sociology expert Michael Messner, “the proliferation of images of women athletes is (increasingly, I think) making sports media a contested ideological terrain, where meanings of sexuality, gender, and race are being contested and reconstructed,” (Taking the Field, 93). The sports field is the natural arena to challenge social change. With more women on the field slowly being accepted, it seemed as if the perfect opportunity arose to reshape the perception of women sports journalists.

Even with the dramatic shifts in female opportunities on the field, around the field there was still much progress to be made before equal rights would be obtained. Collegiate sports journalism programs slowly began accepting women, yet, instead of being supportive, many in the sports world continued to show misogynistic tendencies. In some cases, these tendencies were actually magnified, as the threat of a new generation of women sports journalists became plausible. Ohio State Football Coach Woody Hayes was quoted in 1973 saying: I hear theyʹre [Oberlin College] even letting w‐o‐m‐e‐n in their sports program now. Thatʹs your Womenʹs Liberation, boy ‐ a bunch of goddamn lesbians...You can bet your ass that if you have women around ‐ and Iʹve talked to psychiatrists about this ‐ you arenʹt going to be worth a damn. No sir! Man has to dominate. Thereʹs just no other way. (Creedon 67) It seems impossible that an icon such as Woody Hayes would say such an appalling thing, but such ideas were deeply‐rooted. The sports world was simply not ready to accept women, and was going to try to prevent gender integration by any means necessary.

This intolerance was prevalent on both the collegiate and professional level. With the shift towards broadcast media, press box segregation seemed to fade away and locker room controversy took its place. Radio and television demanded immediacy in reporting far beyond that of newspapers. No longer could journalists interview players the evening after the game. They needed to have the story started before the players left the building. To accomplish this, pre and post‐game interviews were becoming imperative, creating a whole new problem for women reporters. Coaches and athletic institutions were

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more than hesitant to let women have access to the crass, sweat‐filled, rude and often nude world of male sports teams’ locker rooms, saying it was an invasion of privacy (though male reporters had no problem gaining access). In 1977, Sports Illustrated Reporter Melissa Ludtke was denied access to the New York Yankees locker room. Instead of admitting defeat, she filed a federal sex discrimination suit against the team, claiming post‐game interviews were essential to her job and by being denied access to the locker room, her rights of equal protection under the 14th Amendment were violated. In court, she went up against Baseball Commissioner Bowie Kuhn, who was convinced that women reporters would “undermine the basic dignity of the game” (Creedon 87). Eventually, Federal Court Judge Constance Baker Motley ruled that “all reporters, regardless of sex, should have equal access to the athletes, including the locker room if necessary” (Creedon 88). This ruling was incredibly groundbreaking, and it seemed like a promising step for women sports reporters nationwide. In actuality, though, it backfired.

Even this ruling by a federal judge could not shake the deep seeded gender bias. The opposition tore apart the case, hiring extra lawyers to exploit every loophole until eventually the ruling was interpreted to have an effect in only the Yankee’s locker room, not on any other teams’ locker rooms in the league, because that is where the initial conflict had taken place. Furthermore, male colleagues in the journalism field questioned Ludtke’s professionalism, and Yankees fans attacked her appearance, personal life and work for the rest of her career.

Unfortunately, the impudence of the 1970s did not end there. BJ Phillips was covering the 1978 World Series when she experienced this audacity firsthand. As the associate editor of Time and its chief writer on sports, she was by no means unqualified to cover such a major event.

Yet, after the first game in Los Angeles, two men working in public relations for the Dodgers attempted to take her press credentials before she even had the chance to try to enter the locker room. When she resisted, the two forced her out onto the field in an attempt to humiliate her. It worked. Phillips was spotted in tears by multiple television reporters, and suddenly she, not the game, became the story. She said: I’ve picked up a severed leg outside a blown‐out pub in Northern Ireland, I’ve interviewed women terrorists, I’ve heard the President of the United States lie at a press conference. But the first time in twelve years I’ve been forced to tears was in the Dodgers Stadium. To think it was the World Series that did it—it’s ludicrous…I’ve been treated worse in sports than anywhere else. I’ve

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never felt that resentment anywhere else. (Creedon 87‐ 88) This disturbing situation was all too common, and proved to be a trend that would haunt the lives of women sports reporters well into modern times.

As distressing as the experience was for women reporters on the field, the office offered no refuge. Even 60 years after Margaret Goss had taken the desk in a newsroom next to Grantland Rice, women were still not readily accepted into the sports department by their peers. While government mandates meant more women were being hired, they were not afforded nearly the amount of respect their male counterparts enjoyed. Sports journalists in general “do not have a standing in their profession that corresponds to the size of their readerships or of their pay packets, with the old saying (now reaching the status of cliché) that sport is the ‘toy department of the news media’,” (Rowe). Because of this criticism, the male sports writers had become incredibly defensive about their trade. The last thing they wanted was more competition, especially competition from a woman. A certain male “hegemony within the institution of sport is reflected and magnified by media,” (Shain).

Women reporters were looked down on by their peers, and in a survey from the time, admitted to feeling an “invisible” status, discrimination, and the feeling that they had been passed over for promotions (Shain).

Katie Crouse, a writer for the Palm Beach Post, said ʺThatʹs the thing about being a woman in this business. Itʹs never just about yourself. For better or for worse, youʹre representing the entire gender” (Ricchiardi 316). And the female gender was not yet accepted into this testosterone‐ fueled world.

Despite these hardships, there were a few advancements during the 1970s and 80s that actually helped women journalists. According to sports columnist Dave Zirin, sport “can and has been used to create social justice” (King). More women were hired by newspapers, though these new reporters were not ignorant of the cause for their sudden success. In 1980, fresh out of journalism school, Christine Brennan got a job at the Miami Herald. She said, “It would be naïve to believe I got a job simply because I was a fabulous writer. I’m aware that had I been a white male coming out of Northwestern University with the same degrees‐ everything else being equal‐ I wouldn’t have landed one of the plum assignments at the Miami Herald at age 23” (Creedon 85).

Nonetheless, slowly more and more bylines read female names in newspapers across America, both in the sports section and others. These new articles provided a fresh perspective to sports editors across the

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nation. “Welcoming women into the mix should have been a no brainer.

The more people in the department to reflect that, the better. I canʹt imagine that a sports editor at any paper of any size with a brain of any size would say anything different,” said Jerry Micco, president of the Associated Press Sports Editor (Ricchiardi 313).

The Cleveland Plain Dealer is known as one of the first major newspapers to make a significant effort to hire women in the sports department and then treat them as professionals once they were there.

When Joe Paterno prohibited Plain Dealer reporter Tracy Dodds from entering the locker room of the Penn State Football team, sports editor Ron Hewitt took charge. He personally called Paterno offering to buy the whole football team robes, since the coach seemed so concerned about the players’ privacy during interviews. Dodds has since credited Hewitt with “going beyond the token hire, to continue to recruit, promote, and, most importantly, support women in sports,” (Ricchiardi 312). Off the newsprint, ESPN was the first company to hire a woman sports anchor in 1983, prompting others to follow suit (Ricchiardi 317). As more women sports journalists began to enter the field, slowly the sports associations began to comply. By the mid‐1980s, the NHL, NFL, NBA and MLB finally recognized the “equal access” ruling from the Ludtke case in 1977 (Ricchiardi 312). At this time, AWSM, the Association of Women in Sports Media was founded and had established a base of about 200 members, creating a support system for these pioneering women, and a way to connect to others experiencing the same situations.

Because of this, in a survey of female sports reporters in the late 90s, eighty‐three percent of respondents agreed or strongly agreed with the statement, ʺI feel a responsibility to help other females succeed in this field,” (Shain).

This support system would prove to be invaluable in the next few years. Just when things were beginning to look promising, another issue presented itself: sexual harassment. Without gender discrimination, women had more access to the players than ever before. This resulted in an alarming trend that caught the attention of the nation.

“As greater numbers of women invaded the temples of male supremacy‐ the press box, the sideline and, most sacrosanct of all, the locker room – a testosterone frenzy erupted in sports venues across the country, igniting the worst rash of sexism ever witnessed against a group of reporters. Being called a bitch was the least of the indignities, according to pioneers who began forging a

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new frontier in American journalism in the mid 1970s.”

(Ricchiardi 309) These “indignities” would prevail for decades. Lesley Visser was the first female sports reporter to follow a team when she was assigned to the New England Patriots in 1986. She joined CBS in 1988, where she covered basketball, baseball and football on both the collegiate and professional level (“Lesley Visser” 291). In 1990, when working for the Detroit Free Press, she requested an interview with Detroit Tigers pitcher Jack Morris. He responded by saying, “I donʹt talk to women when I am naked unless they are on top of me or I am on top of themʺ (Whitaker).

Tiger’s president Bo Schembechler sided with his player, saying that sending a woman into the locker room showed a “lack of common sense” (Whitaker). The question of Visser’s qualifications did not come up. His criticism was only her gender.

In 1995, 25 year‐old Joan Ryan, writing for the Orlando Sentinel, was the first reporter in the locker room after a game of the (now defunct) United States Football League. As she walked in, she found herself caught in a stream of naked players, walking back from the showers. According to her report, “They stopped in their tracks, then shouted and laughed, barking obscenities and closing in on me like bullies in an alley.” After she had backed away and began to conduct an interview with one of the already showered athletes, one of the players who had been cutting off a tape job began to rub the handle of the razor up and down her leg. This all occurred while the owner of the team stood in the doorway, watching. He later shrugged off her complaints, saying it was her fault for being a woman in a room of naked men (Ricchiardi). While it seems like there could be no worse and no more intimidating situation for a woman sports reporter, one remains even more atrocious. The situation in 1990 between Lisa Olson and the New England Patriot is called the “watershed moment in women sports journalism,” and for good reason. Olson, a 26 years old and working for the Boston Herald at the time, endured what she called “mind rape” from several members of the New England Patriots team after a September 17th practice. When conducting an interview, the players shouted offensive comments and made lewd gestures, gyrating their hips and fondling themselves an arm’s length away. According to Olson, they ʺpositioned themselves inches away from my face and dared me to touch their private partsʺ (Ricchiardi 311). However, somehow the situation got worse. The next day, Sports Illustrated published her story, and it was soon picked up by both the Boston Globe and Herald. The owner of the Patriots, Victor Kiam, was overheard calling Olson a

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“classic bitch,” and she became the brunt of jokes in the media, from radio disc jockeys to skits on Saturday Night Live. The fans of the New England Patriots were more than upset. Olson received over 100 obscene phone calls, 250 pieces of hate mail, had her tires slashed and was victim to more than one death threat, simply because her complaints placed the New England Patriots in a bad light. She filed for a four‐suit sexual harassment case on April 25th, but the damage was done. She could no longer work anywhere in the United States and moved to Australia. The sports world, “In essence, [sic] turned the tables, accusing Olson of sheer voyeurism rather than professionalism” (Fuller). She was not considered a victim, but rather just a woman who could not complete her job, and damaged the reputation of one team in the process.

Cases like these are not rare, and to place an actual number on how many have occurred would be impossible. There is a stigma attached with reporting abuse, as “Many female reporters are not willing to complain, fearing that they may be reassigned to a less prestigious beat or thought of as cry babies who need special treatment, or that ‘they might become the story rather than the team or game,’” which had happened to so many of their predecessors, like Olson (Creedon 80). An anonymous survey in 1998 that gathered data from 89 women sports journalists revealed disturbing information. Almost 50% reported being sexually harassed at one point in their career, in ways varying from catcalls, having jock straps thrown at them, receiving sexually suggestive comments, or having players masturbate in front of them while they were conducting interviews (Hardin). Such egregious behavior would simply not be acceptable in any other profession, even in other traditionally male‐dominated fields, such as medicine, law, engineering or law enforcement. Some say that the abuse is the direct influence of the naturally aggressive world of sports. Athletics establish a propensity to be competitive, and when it comes to a locker room brimming with testosterone, endorphins, and the overpowering emotion from the previous win or loss, the entrance of a woman reporter becomes an opponent for the team, a way to release after hours of complete physical exertion (Messner Out of Play 109). ʺThere are political, religious, sexual, perhaps racial aspects to these incidents, but they are best seen in the perspective of traditional jock entitlement, packs of boys in high school, college and the pros, making objects of the non‐jocks around them,ʺ said Robert Lipstye, a former sports journalist (Fuller 13).

While these instances seem like a thing of the past, they are more recent than many would like to think. Just this past year, Inez Sainz of TV Azteca was harassed by players and coaches in the New York Jets

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locker room (Bishop). Charges were dropped, yet the message remains.

Harassment is still occurring, in subtle and not‐so‐subtle ways. The struggles continue, yet women reporters persevere. Despite abuse, harassment, prejudice and so much more, they have actually been able to thrive. In 1990, there were about 10,000 sports journalists, and only about 200 of them were women. By 2005, the number had more than doubled, to 450 (Stofer 225). The population has only grown since then. Currently, the Association for Women in Sports Media has over 700 members (The Association for Women in Sports Media).Vince Doria of ESPN is known for being one of the first representatives from a major sports company to openly promote women as sports journalists. He says, “Today, female sportswriters are all over the place. No one gives it a second thought,ʺ (Ricchiardi). Others in high ranking positions in major sports publications share similar ideas.

Not only are women more prevalent than ever in the previously male dominated environment, but they are also becoming more and more successful as sports journalists. Doria is quoted as saying that women often take a less clichéd and conventional approach to sports stories than men (Ricchiardi). Women seem to be able to form a relationship with the players, assuming harassment is not present. In his recent article Sports, Culture and Media: The Unruly Trinity, David Rowe said: “I read a piece that Sue Knott wrote in The Sunday Times a few weeks ago, an interview with Ray Kennedy, the footballer with MS [multiple sclerosis]. Now that was something very few men could have written, if any, I suspect, because it had a special sympathetic perspective, human perspective and did illuminate the situation very well indeed. He talked to her in a way he might not have talked to a man, thereʹs a kind of macho culture in which they hold back some of these really personal things. Iʹd like to see a lot more of that.” (Rowe 49) It is the interesting views and perspectives such as these that set women sports journalists apart and above their male counterparts. Jane Leavy of the Washington Post wrote a best‐selling fiction book based on her experiences as a sports journalist. The sassy narrative gained nationwide attention with its opening line: “You see a lot of penises in my line of work,” (Creedon 91). This book did more than provide amusing commentary; it illuminated the struggles of women sports journalists, giving the American public a look into their lives. With this exposure,

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the issues became a public concern, and forced sports associations to reassess their regulations concerning conduct with women reporters.

Now, colleges across the country support associations like Athlete for Sexual Responsibility and Mentors in Violence to provide their students and potential future professional athletes with the skills needed to conduct themselves around women in a professional manner (Messner Out of Play, 108).

Today, women reporters have truly made an impact on the sports journalism scene. Sally Jenkins, sports journalist for the Washington Post, was recently praised for her groundbreaking work in the 2008 Olympics. Her stories illuminated the behind‐the‐scenes suffering that occurred to produce such a spectacular event, and are considered “on a higher plane, about a nation of people, taking on injustices at the highest levels. Her pursuit of truth, cutting deeply through the surface gloss, is stunningly powerful and admirable” (Winner). USA Today sports columnist Christine Brennan was praised for her column two years ago on the Augusta National Golf Club. This article displayed the discrimination present in the tournament and has ignited world‐wide debate that lives today (Adelman). These names are just a few of the hundreds of women who have emerged as powerful journalists writing in the sports field. In broadcast journalism, Linda Cohn, Hannah Storm, Chris McKendry and Sage Steele made history earlier this September when they became the first set of back‐to‐back paired female anchors to work on ESPN’s famed SportsCenter. Cohn and Storm work the 9am to 12pm time‐slot, and immediately turn it over to McKendry and Steele for the next three hours (Quinnd). Women reporters are dominating a large block of time at an incredibly popular sports network, and this feat is truly admirable.

Women sports journalists have suffered through many trials and tribulations. In the beginning, they were not even allowed to write.

When they finally gained a voice, it was stifled, as men received better assignments and greater recognition. When they forced the issue of equality, they were harassed, simply because of their gender. Yet, it is these setbacks that have strengthened the field. Women were forced to fight for justice and equality. They pushed themselves into the press boxes, and fearlessly marched into the locker rooms. They demanded equal opportunities, and then proved they deserved them. These tribulations forced women journalists to refine their craft, master their style, and use every bit of their professionalism. It is these things that have transformed women sports journalists into an unstoppable force.

While much work remains before absolute equality is achieved, at least

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now, women are providing unique, thought provoking insight into the historically male dominated world of sports. Their stories are no longer being pushed from public view; they are changing public views. Their perspectives are fresh, and push the boundaries of classic sports journalism. Furthermore, they are making the world of sports universally accessible. Without the “boys only!” stigma within the sports field in general, the amount of televised female athletic events has expanded, and the number of female sports fans has grown. Now, nearly one third of all women regularly read the sports page of the newspaper, and even more tune in to watch their favorite teams on T.V. (Hau). As women present fresh outlooks on the field, they expand the horizons of athletics and promote a wider appreciation of sports with new fans.

While initially suppressed, women sports journalists have finally seized the opportunity to thrive, and are enhancing the field in innumerable ways: the ultimate underdog victory.

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2011 WORLD HISTORY CONTEST – FIRST PLACE

Jack Hoover Class of 2012 Hudson, Ohio

Omar al‐Bashir: The International Criminal Court’s Folly in Pursuing a Genocidaire

On July 14, 2008, the Chief Prosecutor of the International Criminal Court filed an application with the tribunal’s Pre‐Trial Chamber I for a warrant for the arrest of incumbent Sudanese President Omar Hassan Ahmad al‐Bashir. The move came after years of struggle on the part of Prosecutor Luis Moreno Ocampo in his attempts to bring the perpetrators of crimes against humanity in Darfur to international justice. Yet even after securing an international indictment for myriad crimes against humanity and finally genocide in mid‐2010, the prosecutor has had no success in bringing Sudanese nationals to trial before the international tribunal. The warrant itself, though intended to prosecute the most serious of human rights violations, was received amid extreme controversy by the international community. Given the currently volatile state of Sudan, many political analysts and leaders doubt the true viability of arresting the sitting Head of State. Though President Omar al‐Bashir of the Republic of Sudan is indisputably guilty of the numerous crimes against humanity for which the International Criminal Court has indicted him, the impotence of the warrant and al‐ Bashir’s political position as the leader of a nation constantly on the edge of devastating civil war create a unique case for delaying his detention until the nation’s overall security can be achieved.

The current set of conflicts in Sudan arises from a lengthy history of division among the country’s numerous regions and ethnic groups.

Beginning in the 17th century, northern Sudan converted increasingly to Islam and was subject to ceaseless inter‐tribal warfare (Childress 18).

Muslim tribes from the north would incessantly raid southern settlements for slaves, which would then be sold into the Ottoman Empire (Collins 76). Sudan was conquered by the Turks in 1820 and unified for the first time by the Ottoman armies (Childress 19). In the late 19th century, Sudan was transferred to British control, where imperialist doctrines sewed the seeds for future division (Childress 24). The British

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treated northern and southern Sudan as essentially separate nations; after 1922 movement between the north and south required a permit.

Southern children were educated as Christians as well, clashing with the entirely Muslim education offered to students in the North (Childress 27). In 1953, southerners won only 9 out of 99 seats on the transitional parliament, despite the fact that a quarter of the population resided there (Childress 32). On January 1, 1956, the British government, under pressure from the newly freed Egyptian regime, finally declared independence for the Sudanese people, allowing them to build their own representative government (Childress 29). Even in this supposed democracy, however, the southern sections of the country continued to be grossly underrepresented. Following a series of military coups d’état that imposed harsh Muslim Sharia law even in the south, guerilla groups such as the Anya‐Nya began to resist the northern regime (Collins 180).

In 1983, under the rule of Gafaar Nimeiri, the Southern People’s Liberation Movement/Army (SPLM/A) arose as an organized force against the northern military and soon began to gain territory and support (Collins 185). Nimeiri’s successor, Sadiq al‐Mahdi, only escalated the violence, arming large groups of herdsmen against a specific tribe, the Dinkas. In order to pay these militias, Sadiq allowed wide‐spread looting and pillage, a tactic that al‐Bashir would employ two decades later (Childress 8).

By the late 1980s, Sudan was on the brink of chaos. Nimeiri’s economy had all but collapsed and unrest could be felt throughout the country (Childress 8). On the night of June 31, 1989, Omar al‐Bashir, then a brigadier general, took control of the capital with his military forces, effectively staging his own coup d’état with the pretext of saving the country from Sadiq and “rotten political parties” (Childress 52). Al‐ Bashir immediately arrested his political opposition and dissolved the sitting parliament and political parties (Childress 53). Dissent was rampant, and the war with southern Sudan raged on for over a decade.

By late 1999, both sides were growing weary of conflict. The military chewed up over 40% of the country’s budget, most of which came from oil being contested in the south. The SPLM/A was losing, and the southern people, many of them now refugees, were ready for peace (Collins 191). Finally in 2000, both sides were brought to peace talks in Nairobi by the Intergovernmental Authority for Development (IGAD). In 2002, procedures for ensuring peace were established, and in July both aggressors ratified the Machakos Protocol, calling for a lasting ceasefire (Thomas 2). In January 2005, the Government of Sudan signed the Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA) with the SPLM/A, providing

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for joint rule under the transitional Government of National Unity, secular law in the south, and the option for southern Sudan to vote for its own independence in January 2011 (Thomas 3).

While the situation in the southern regions of the country was improving under al‐Bashir’s leadership, new fighting was erupting in the western states, an area known as Darfur. Since his rise to power, al‐ Bashir had always favored western tribes such as the Missiriyya and Beni Halba over the Fur, Zaghawa, and Masalit as a result of historically‐ ingrained inter‐tribal tensions (Childress 71). He intentionally degraded their suffrage by cutting his new state borders through the Fur homelands, creating two minorities instead of a majority. The tribes also strongly opposed the strict Shaira law imposed by al‐Bashir’s government (Childress 71). In 2002, members of these tribes, among others, formed the Sudanese Liberation Movement/Army (SLM/A), a group notably separate in goals and organization from the SPLM/A (Childress 71). Another group with a different political agenda created the Justice and Equality Movement (JEM) to fight the Sudanese government. Both of these militias began raiding army garrisons and together in 2003 assaulted the Sudanese air force base at al‐Fasher (Childress 72). Al‐Bashir’s military was already weakened and tired from direct war within the south, so he opted for a different strategy. Instead of targeting the rebels, he attacked the civilians. He recruited groups of young Arab herdsmen into a newly‐created Popular Defense Force; most of the men joined not out of loyalty to the government, but rather from the promise of gaining property from those they defeated (Buzzard 907).

These militias came to be known as the janjaweed, or “devil riders.” They used a scorched earth policy, burning through villages as they came upon them (Collins 276). By 2006, the Sudanese government came under intense pressure from the African Union (AU) to end aggressive action in Darfur, and in May of that year the Darfur Peace Agreement was signed.

The AU deployed a peacekeeping force, yet it found that it was too small to quell the violence. It soon requested assistance from the United Nations, and in 2008 the joint AU/UN Hybrid Operation in Darfur (UNAMID) was created to bring a more stable peace to the area (Childress 76).

Despite the apparent pull towards peace, the United Nations was not finished with Darfur. In 2004 the UN Security Council had created a Commission of Inquiry on Darfur (Buzzard 908). The Commission reported that large human rights violations had occurred in the region, but it had failed to find enough evidence to suggest that genocide had taken place. Nevertheless, the Commission recommended

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referral of the case to the International Criminal Court (ICC) under Chapter VII of the UN Charter (Elagab 1). On March 31, 2005, the United Nations Security Council referred the “situation in Darfur” to the Prosecutor of the International Criminal Court (United Nations, Resolution 1). In early 2007, Luis Moreno Ocampo had arrest warrants issued for both Ahmad Harun, a Sudanese minister, and Ali Kushayb, a leader of the government‐supported janjaweed militias. Both were indicted in connection with acts of genocide in Darfur (Peskin 666). The Sudanese government outright refused to surrender the two men, with one high‐ranking official promising to “slit the throats” of anyone who attempts to extradite his fellow citizens to the ICC, prohibiting any possibility of apprehending the accused. Following this and other acts of defiance, Ocampo opened an investigation on Omar al‐Bashir, the sitting President of Sudan (Elagab 654).

In 2008 Ocampo argued his case before a chamber of the ICC and an arrest warrant was issued. The tribunal stated quite confidently that “there are reasonable grounds to believe that Omar Al Bashir is criminally responsible under article 25(3)(a) of the Statute as an indirect perpetrator, or as an indirect co‐perpetrator, for war crimes and crimes against humanity and that his arrest appears to be necessary under article 58(l)(b) of the Rome Statute” (Prosecutor, 2009 3). It was demonstrated that the Sudanese government had issued a “general call for the mobilisation of the Janjaweed Militia” and had continued to direct this group throughout its military campaign (Prosecutor, 2009 4).

The court continued to describe the ways in which these groups engaged in acts of pillaging, “widespread” and “systematic” violence against civilians as described under article 8(2)(e) of the Rome Statute, “murder, extermination, forcible transfer, torture and rape, within the meaning of articles 7(1)(a), (b), (d), (f) and (g) respectively of the Statute, throughout the Darfur region” (Prosecutor, 2009 6). Finally, noting that he was the de jure and de facto leader of Sudan and was in “full control of all branches…of the State of Sudan,” the Chamber placed responsibility for the illegal counter‐insurgency plan on Omar al‐Bashir (Prosecutor, 2009 7). However, the Chamber concluded that the Prosecutor had provided an insufficient and “erroneous standard of proof” for genocide and advised him to return with more solid evidence, though public documents do not state exactly what was missing from the application (Prosecutor, 2009 4). On February 3, 2010, after collecting more depositions, Mr. Ocampo returned to Pre‐Trial Chamber I with a new application for a warrant with the charge of genocide. Ocampo presented enough proof to satisfy the judges that forces under al‐Bashir’s

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control had “committed the crimes of genocide by killing, genocide by causing serious bodily or mental harm and genocide by deliberately inflicting conditions of life calculated to bring about physical destruction” (Prosecutor, 2010 7). These acts fall under the definition of genocide as stipulated by the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide and the Rome Statute, two documents widely ratified and accepted as international law. The Prosecution again followed the argument that, as acting head of the Sudanese armed forces, Omar al‐Bashir was responsible for the acts of genocide committed by his troops (Prosecutor, 2010 9).

Al‐Bashir is not the first sitting Head of State to be indicted by an international court, and in analyzing the viability of his warrant one must consider the precedents for such judicial decisions. One of the most prominent cases is that of Yugoslavian President Slobodan Milošević, who was the sitting President during the Yugoslav Wars and Bosnian Conflict. As part of its response to the situation in Bosnia, the UN Security Council created an ad hoc tribunal, the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY), which was mandated to investigate and prosecute crimes against humanity committed in Yugoslavia since 1991 (Akhavan 626). The ICTY formally indicted Milošević in 1999 on charges of war crimes; the additional charge of genocide was not added until after Milošević was apprehended (Barria 7). In 2001 he was arrested by security forces, and, when attempts to prosecute him within Yugoslavia failed, he was extradited to The Hague for prosecution by the ICTY (Akhavan 626). Milošević died of a heart attack while he was on trial, yet the attempt to prosecute him for crimes committed while he was acting Head of State shows a strong push for criminal accountability in the context of political leaders. However, one will notice a large difference between the case in Yugoslavia and the current situation in Sudan. In the Yugoslavian conflict, NATO had effectively neutralized aggressive components of Milošević’s military, and, once he fell out of power, security forces could quite easily and forcefully arrest him. Unfortunately, this is not the case in Sudan; al‐ Bashir is still firmly in power, and any attempts to forcibly remove him from his post would unquestionably lead to war.

The case of Charles Taylor is another example where an arrest warrant had been issued for a sitting head of state. Following the Sierra Leone Civil War, the UN Security Council gave a Chapter VII mandate to establish the Special Court for Sierra Leone (SCSL) to investigate alleged war crimes committed during the conflict (Ssenyonjo 408). In 2003, the Court found reasonable grounds to indict the President of

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Liberia, Charles Taylor, for his role in human rights violations and aid to the Revolutionary United Front, a rebel group active in Sierra Leone.

Taylor was arrested in Nigeria in 2006 and soon extradited to Liberia for trial, where he will likely be convicted later in 2011 (Ssenyonjo 409).

Here, the Head of State was again placed on trial for crimes committed during his term in office, yet he was not forcibly apprehended by security forces while in his own country. In addition, Taylor had already left office by the time he was placed into custody.

There is significant controversy among international critics as to whether or not Heads of State should be immune from prosecution. The tenets of conventional diplomatic immunity are outlined in the 1961 Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations; however, the convention is moot on the point of immunities for a Head of State (Buzzard 913). There are traditionally two forms of immunity that can be applied to a Head of State. The most important to common affairs is immunity ratione personae, which dictates that a sitting Head of State is inviolable and immune from prosecution by foreign courts even if suspected of crimes against humanity; al‐Bashir would currently be subject to this immunity.

A second form is immunity ratione materiae, which protects former Heads of State from prosecution even after they have left office. This is to alleviate individuals from responsibility for state actions and to prevent states from influencing one another by prosecuting those who act on its behalf (Buzzard 915). This doctrine, if allowed to dictate international law, could permanently prevent the prosecution of Heads of State for crimes against humanity.

International judgments themselves are conflicting and indecisive. The Arrest Warrant Case of 2000 adjudicated by the International Court of Justice asserted that an arrest warrant issued by Belgium for the incumbent Foreign Minister of the Congo on crimes against humanity was illegal because it “failed to respect the immunity from criminal jurisdiction” that arises from political office (Buzzard 915).

In contrast, the Special Court for Sierra Leone found that it could fully disregard Taylor’s customary immunities because it was “part of the machineries of international justice” and was given a Chapter VII mandate over all crimes committed in Sierra Leone (Buzzard 916). In the first case, Belgium’s right to prosecute was denied on the grounds of ratione personae, yet Taylor’s similar immunity was overcome by the SCSL. The difference is presumably the fact that Sierra Leone, similarly to the ICTY, was given Chapter VII authorization from the UNSC to pursue any case within the confines of the civil war. Therefore, it

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becomes clear that definite and special jurisdiction must be established in order to pursue cases against Heads of State.

Article 27 of the Rome Statute, the ICC’s charter, states that it “shall apply equally to all persons without any distinction based on official capacity, [particularly] official capacity as a Head of State or Government” (United Nations, Rome Statute 18). However, Sudan has never ratified the Statute and is therefore customarily not subject to it in any way, shape, or form. The Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties prevents requirements for states and third parties to adhere to treaties they have not ratified (Buzzard 920). In fact, in 2008 the Sudanese government sent a cable to the UN Secretary General stating its intention to never accede to the Rome Statute (Buzzard 920). In order to purse al‐ Bashir and others in Sudan, the ICC would need additional legal support, and in 2005 it was found.

On March 31 of that year, the UN Security Council passed Resolution 1593, which referred the situation in Darfur to the International Criminal Court as a Chapter VII mandate (United Nations, Resolution 1). Similar resolutions had created ad hoc tribunals such as the SCSL, ICTY, and Rwandan ICTR. Chapter VII of the United Nations Charter acts as an effective elastic clause for use by the Security Council and asserts that decisions made by the body act as international law and are binding for all UN member states (United Nations, Charter 7). By receiving a referral from the Council, the ICC had obtained jurisdiction equivalent in force to that of the earlier ad hoc tribunals and could assert its powers under the Rome Statute over Sudan (Peskin 666). This includes Article 27, which eliminates Head of State exemptions (United Nations, Rome Statute 18). From that point on, President al‐Bashir was within the court’s reach.

Although the ICC had received the ability to prosecute al‐Bashir for his crimes relating to Darfur, many continue to doubt the sagacity of such a course of action. Previous cases had resolved with positive effects, yet it is unsure whether they could be applied to al‐Bashir’s situation. In the former Yugoslavia, the ICTY had served to create a certain element of deterrence for those involved in human rights violations. Indictments for leaders such as Radovan Karadžić and Ratko Mladić served to distance them from the political sphere and dramatically lower their abilities to continue committing crimes (Akhavan 634). In these cases, indictments stabilized the country. However, indicting a sitting Head of State without clear means to apprehend him has resulted in the opposite effect in Sudan. Immediately following the arrest warrant, al‐Bashir expelled over a dozen aid agencies from the country, “leaving more than one

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million people without access to food, water, and healthcare services” and catastrophically worsening the country’s humanitarian situation (Akhavan 648). The warrant caused a strong “turtling” effect on the part of the Sudanese government, which was attempting to protect itself from a massive confrontation by the international community.

It is following a reaction such as this that one must consider the heavy cost‐benefit ratio of pursuing accountability in human rights cases. As Professor Payam Akhavan states, there are two sides to this debate, “the ‘judicial romantic’ blindly pursuing justice in contrast with the cynical ‘political realist’” (652). Each side has its own goals and outcomes that must be carefully considered. The former wishes to create a world in which the threat of prosecution by an international tribunal would indefinitely deter crimes against humanity; leaders would understand that acts such as ethnic cleansing unequivocally lead to arrest and trial. Yet in many cases, searching for this form of justice comes at a cost. Threats of prosecution that arise in the midst of a conflict can lead those in power to prolong hostilities if only to hold onto office and remain out of reach (Akhavan 625). The path to immediate pacification and a timely end to conflicts lies in offering immunity. This strategy provides significant incentives to bring about peace and allows leaders a comfortable way out. Reconciliation commissions, especially those used in post‐war Rwanda, proved to be incredibly effective in rebuilding relations within the country, something that tribunals alone could never accomplish (Akhavan 627). However, these bodies were used mostly to placate the general population, not those who incited and led the mass killings of 1994 Rwanda. To many, impunity for a sitting Head of State responsible for mass ethnic cleansing is simply unacceptable.

On this note, one must consider the positive effects that have arisen from al‐Bashir’s indictment. Since the warrant was issued, observers have noticed a significant squeeze upon the Sudanese government’s actions. Elements of the government began to see “accountability” as a large factor in decision‐making, understanding that the international spotlight was on them (Akhavan 648). From the attempts to place blame arose serious divisions between government forces and the janjaweed militias, lessening their effectiveness at targeting civilians. Many also see the 2008 ceasefire in Darfur as a direct result of this increased international attention, though it is impossible to say whether or not it would have happened in the absence of al‐Bashir’s indictment. A month after the warrant, President al‐Bashir also promised that his government would pursue its own investigations and

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prosecutions regarding atrocities in Darfur, though this was very likely a move made to please the international community and to allow the Sudanese government the ability to place blame where it saw fit (Cockett 245). While the ICC’s action may have lessened al‐Bashir’s inclination to cause conflict, it proved to be too strong. These benefits cannot outweigh the resulting removal of humanitarian support for over a million refugees.

In 2008, the International Criminal Court had several other options to pursue. In many cases, the simple threat of prosecution can have the desired effect of prohibiting violence. By mid‐2004, Côte d’Ivoire was on the brink of ethnic conflict. Radio and television broadcasts spread hate messages, and genocide could have broken out at any point (Akhavan 639). In November of 2004, the UN Security Council passed Resolution 1572, condemning any incitement to violence and threatening prosecution by the ICC (Akhavan 639). This move effectively halted escalation of the conflict and promoted peace without having to appeal to international courts for assistance. Although this example occurred before any violence had broken out, its basic principle can be applied to the case of al‐Bashir. By seriously threatening a warrant for al‐ Bashir, the UN and ICC could have reached their desired effect without causing the expulsion of non‐governmental organizations from the country. The Sudanese government would then become aware that it was being watched by the international community and would likely take action to appease international observers, giving all the positive benefits of an actual warrant without al‐Bashir’s deleterious closed‐door response.

The ICC also neglected to consider the basic enforceability of the warrant it issued. There are essentially four ways for someone to be apprehended and brought before the Court. The first and most simple path is for the accused to turn himself in. This event is rather unlikely to occur in the case of Omar al‐Bashir. The second is for al‐Bashir to be arrested by Sudanese officials and extradited. Given his currently solid position of power, this option does not appear viable. The third possibility is for a UNAMID or other internationally mandated body to forcibly arrest him. This path would unquestionably lead to war and would unacceptably destabilize the nation; the African Union would also prohibitively oppose this course due to its initial stance against al‐ Bashir’s warrant. The final and most practicable option is to arrest al‐ Bashir while he is in another country that is party to the Rome Statute before sending him to the ICC for trial, yet even this option would prove difficult (Buzzard 931).

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The Rome Statute, that document which defines and limits the ICC’s powers, creates a difficult case for arresting Heads of State while abroad. Article 27 of the Statute states quite clearly that “[the] Statute shall apply equally to all persons without any distinction based on official capacity” (United Nations, Rome Statute 18). This clause effectively eliminates any assumed immunities given to Heads of State.

However, the ICC has no executive branch with which to carry out its own arrests and therefore relies on member states to act on its behalf.

The Rome Statute naturally includes limitations on the requirements placed upon states by the Court. One such limitation is outlined in Article 98(1) of the Statute, stating, “the Court may not proceed with a request for surrender or assistance which would require the requested State to act inconsistently with its obligations under international law with respect to the State or diplomatic immunity of a person or property of a third State” (United Nations, Rome Statute 69). In the case of Omar al‐Bashir, individual nations still feel the expectation to respect his immunity ratione personae and in most cases refuse to apprehend him under Article 98(1).

Since the 2008 warrant, al‐Bashir has enjoyed a surprising ability to travel outside of Sudan. In 2009 he visited Egypt with impunity in an apparent act of defiance against the warrant. Later in the year, he also visited Libya without any consequences (Wanted 1). From these instances, it would appear that the ICC’s conventional methods for bringing the accused to trial are wholly ineffective for al‐Bashir. Western nations are also loath to invoke traditional universal jurisdiction and forcibly apprehend al‐Bashir. The United States sees Sudan as “a strong partner in the War on Terror” and would not support exceedingly strong action against its government (Akhavan 647). Chinese investors are increasingly active in the Sudanese economy, and Russia relies on the Sudanese army as a market for military equipment (Akhavan 646).

Altogether, these nations’ interests in continuing positive relations with the government of Sudan rule out the possibility of any supported international action against al‐Bashir.

It would appear that the International Criminal Court has issued an unenforceable warrant. Together with the Court’s lack of a strong arm to pursue al‐Bashir, his current stability within his own country, and the refusal of other nations to take al‐Bashir into custody, bringing him to trial would be nearly impossible. Yet even if al‐Bashir were to be arrested, the effects would be unlikely to resolve the violence in Sudan.

In fact, it would likely lead to a drastic increase in hostilities.

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In 2005, the Sudanese government signed the Comprehensive Peace Agreement with the SPLM/A, effectively ending over ten years of civil war. The Agreement specifically allowed for southern Sudan to vote for its independence in January 2011; the vote passed by an amazing 99% (South Sudan Referendum 1). However, since 2005 tensions have continued between northern and southern Sudan, particularly in the oil‐ rich region of Abyei. In May of 2008, violence again broke out in this area between northern and southern forces. The clashes killed 89 people and displaced 50,000 (Thomas 18). Many see Abyei as a potential flash point to reignite war within Sudan, and any instability could easily lead to resumed conflict. Another point of concern is wealth‐sharing between the two newly‐shaped states. Significant oil resources lie in the south, yet most refineries are in northern Sudan. Disagreements on exactly where funding and wealth go have also caused issues (Thomas 19). President al‐Bashir has stated his concerns regarding stability within the south (Bashir 1). However, he swears to respect southern Sudan’s decision, a promise that another leader in his place may be less likely to make (Omar 1). Instability lies even within the north itself. Al‐Bashir rests atop an increasingly fragmented and separating body politic, one that would be quick to explode without significant leadership (Hassan 167). Given the current state of his own country, simply removing al‐Bashir from his government would have enormously destructive effects upon its stability and would unquestionably cause a power struggle and eventual war.

Once one has considered the entire picture surrounding the situation in Sudan, it becomes clear that the ICC has made a mistake in issuing a warrant for President Omar al‐Bashir. The Sudanese government’s initial reaction proved disastrous to the humanitarian goals within Sudan and backfired on the ICC. The Court’s quite profound inability to apprehend al‐Bashir and bring him to trial shows the warrant’s overall futility and foolishness. Additionally, the effects of a successful execution of said warrant would without doubt destroy the tenuous peace Sudan is currently enjoying. Such a result would be entirely unacceptable. However, as previously stated, it would be difficult to allow al‐Bashir to escape with impunity. In order to achieve its goals of accountability and further the deterrent international atmosphere it hopes to create, the ICC could have initially threatened prosecution in order to cool off hostilities within Sudan, restraining itself from more provocative action. Once al‐Bashir stepped down from power, it would be much easier to circumvent his immunity ratione personae and arrest him once he is no longer the Sudanese Head of State.

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However, there is little that can be done to alleviate the current situation.

Retraction of the ICC warrant would be deleterious to any sense of deterrence already present among Heads of State, especially within Africa. The best route that can be pursued at this time is a Security Council deferral under the Rome Statute, which would effectively postpone the warrant’s effect for at least a year. However, no recourse will be able to fully relieve the current situation of the International Criminal Court and the international community. While accountability for human rights violations must be pursued wherever and whenever practical, it is in many cases much more propitious to uphold the status quo as opposed to seeking idealized and costly international justice.

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Works Cited

Akhavan, Payam. “Are International Criminal Tribunals a Disincentive to Peace?: Reconciling Judicial Romanticism with Political Realism.” Human Rights Quarterly 31.3 (2009): 624‐54. JSTOR. Web. 12 Feb. 2011.

Barria, Lilian A., and Steven D. Roper. “How Effective Are International Criminal Tribunals? An Analysis of the ICTY and the ICTR.” International Journal of Human Rights 9.3 (2005): 349‐68. Academic Search Premier. Web. 12 Feb. 2011.

“Bashir Doubts South’s Viability.” AlJazeera. AlJazeera, 8 Jan. 2011. Web. 8 Jan. 2011. <http://english.aljazeera.net/news/africa/2011/01/ 2011171839053529.html>.

Buzzard, Lucas. “Holding an Arsonist’s Feet to the Fire? ‐ The Legality and Enforceability of the ICC’s Arrest Warrant for Sudanese President Omar al‐Bashir.” American University International Law Review 24.5 (2009): 897‐967. Academic Search Premier. Web. 12 Feb. 2011.

Childress, Diana. Omar al‐Bashir’s Sudan. Minneapolis: Twenty‐First Century, 2010. Print.

Cockett, Richard. Sudan: Darfur and the Failure of an African State. New Haven: Yale University, 2010. Print.

Collins, Robert. A History of Modern Sudan. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2008. Print.

Elagab, Omer Yousif. “Indicting the Sudanese President by the ICC: Resolution 1593 Revisited.” International Journal of Human Rights 13.5 (2009): 654–67. Academic Search Premier. Web. 10 Feb. 2011.

Hassan, Salah M., Carina E. Ray, eds. Darfur and the Crisis of Governance in Sudan: A Critical Reader. Ithaca: Cornell University, 2009. Print.

Hassan, Salah M. “Naming the Conflict: Darfur and the Crisis of Governance in Sudan.” Darfur and the Crisis of Governance in Sudan: A Critical Reader. Ed. Salah M. Hassan and Carina E. Ray. Ithaca: Cornell University, 2009. 154‐169. Print.

“Omar al‐Bashir Says South Sudan Not Ready for Split.” BBC. BBC, 8 Jan. 2011. Web. 8 Jan. 2011. <http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world‐ africa‐12141520>.

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Peskin, Victor. “Caution and Confrontation in the International Criminal Court’s Pursuit of Accountability in Uganda and Sudan.” Human Rights Quarterly 31.3 (2009): 655‐91. JSTOR. 10 Feb. 2011.

The Prosecutor v. Omar Ahmad Hassan al‐Bashir. No. ICC‐02/05‐01/09.

International Criminal Court. 12 July 2010. <www.icc‐cpi.int>. 11 Feb. 2011.

The Prosecutor v. Omar Hassan Ahmad al‐Bashir. No. ICC‐02/05‐01/09.

International Criminal Court. 4 Mar. 2009. <www.icc‐cpi.int>. 11 Feb. 2011.

“South Sudan Referendum: 99% Vote for Independence.” BBC. BBC, 30 January, 2011.

Web. 3 March 2011. <http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world‐africa‐ 12317927> Ssenyonjo, Manisuli. “The International Criminal Court and the Warrant of Arrest for Sudan’s President Al‐Bashir: A Crucial Step Towards Challenging Impunity or a Political Decision?” Nordic Journal of International Law 78 (2009): 397‐431. Print.

Thomas, Edward. Against the Gathering Storm: Securing Sudan’s Comprehensive Peace Agreement. London: Royal Institute for Foreign Affairs, 2009. Print.

United Nations. Rome Statute. United Nations. United Nations, 17 July 1998. Web. 28 Feb. 2011. <http://untreaty.un.org/cod/icc/statute/romefra.htm>.

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“Wanted Bashir ‘Drops Uganda Trip’.” BBC. BBC, 16 July 2009. Web. 3 March 2011. <http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8154730.stm>.

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9/11 REMEMBRANCE &COMMEMORATION

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9/11: OPENING REMARKS

Walter Klyce Faculty Fine Arts Department

Students, faculty, staff, parents, and all friends of Western Reserve Academy—thank you for being here this evening. We welcome you to the Chapel and invite you to commune with us tonight as we gather to remember the events of September 11, 2001. It has been ten years since that date, and yet, for many of us, the memory is as raw and as vivid as if it were yesterday. The very words ʺSeptember 11ʺ have taken on such profound meaning for us that just saying them speaks volumes, and it is almost The very words difficult to remember that that date was, once, just a date, like ʺSeptember 11ʺ have taken any other. In 2001, that changed on such profound meaning forever. In part, we are here to for us that just saying them grieve those who lost their lives speaks volumes, and it is in 9/11, whether they were almost difficult to friends, relatives, or even people we never met: no matter our remember that that date connection to them, their lives was, once, just a date, like hold meaning for us, and we any other. continue to mourn their passing.

We are also here to recognize the end of an era in our history.

On 9/11, the American landscape was irrevocably changed, and the unforgettable acts of terror that day have necessarily thrust us out of an age of innocence and into one of duty and responsibility. Finally, we set aside this time to honor those who sacrificed so much for us on 9/11, and those who continue to make sacrifices for us today, so that the world may be safe for freedom and for peace.

Many members of our community have volunteered to come up here tonight to share their experiences with us, and to remember 9/11 through readings and musical performances. Now, even more so than usual, we ask that you respect these presenters and performers by putting aside the distractions and disturbances that might detract from the solemnity and serenity of this service, which may have deep significance for the person seated right next to you. We also ask that

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you refrain from applauding after the performances, and that you participate wholeheartedly and sincerely in the communal songs and readings.

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9/11: THE EVENT

Inga Wells Senior Dublin, Ohio

On September 11, 2001, the United States of America experienced four devastating terrorist attacks. The first tragedy took place in New York City, as American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade center at 8:46 am. This was soon followed by United Airlines Flight 175, crashing into the South Tower at 9:02 a.m. Within the next hour, American Airlines Flight 77 would crash into the Pentagon in our nation’s capital. Not even half an hour later, at 10 o’clock, United Airlines Flight 93 crashed in Pennsylvania, the fourth and This would mark the start final attack that day, a day most tragic in our nation’s history. By of the longest war in the the end of the day, these attacks history of the United resulted in the deaths of nearly States, as national and 3000 people, including more international forces joined than 400 firemen, policemen, together to make sure the and medical technicians who died trying to save others. This free world would stay free. would mark the start of the longest war in the history of the United States, as national and international forces joined together to make sure the free world would stay free. “This attack altered not only the American mindset, but that of the entire world: and ever since 9/11, the entire international community has taken a stronger stand against terrorism.” Now, we pause on September 11th each year, to take a moment to reflect, appreciate, and remember the courageous firefighters, police, and civilians who gave their lives.

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9/11: HEROES

Monica Mehta Senior Warren, Ohio

At 8:46 a.m., September 11th, 2001, I was in Mrs. Rexroad’s second grade classroom at Glen Elementary School in Warren, Ohio.

Hours later, I would enter my front door and observe the horror on my mother’s face as she watched the planes fly into the World Trade Center towers over and over again on TV. I remember walking through the supermarket that night clutching onto my older brother terrified that a plane was going to hit the Sam’s Club I was in. I was ignorant and, arguably, too young to understand.

Looking past the unfortunate consequences, 9/11 showed us, as people of the world, the capability of a human being. Let’s take Flight 93. The passengers on this flight attempted to overcome the hijackers and ultimately crashed the plane [B]y choosing to sacrifice into an open field in Pennsylvania instead of its themselves and act, these intended target: Washington ordinary people DC. These passengers did not transformed themselves sign up to save the capital when into heroes and continue to they bought their airplane live on that way in our tickets. However, by choosing to sacrifice themselves and act, hearts and minds. these ordinary people transformed themselves into heroes and continue to live on that way in our hearts and minds. Or take the firefighters, who even as the burning buildings were still collapsing ran back inside to save people. Consider those volunteers who donated innumerable pints of blood to injured victims they had never met before. Remember those “Have You Seen This Person” flyers? Think about those strangers that spent hours searching through Internet databases. Those people that spent hours in the buildings’ ruins hunting for victims or remains in order to provide loved ones with some sense of closure.

Our pain was also felt around the world. French newspapers printed headlines reading “Nous Sommes Tous Americains” (We Are All Americans). In Berlin, 200,000 Germans marched in solidarity with

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our suffering. The “Star Spangled Banner” played in London and our flag was flown across the globe.

On September 11th, 2001, I was too young to understand the significance of this tragedy. Our generation is the last to experience this intimate connection with 9/11. Children that are now 7 or 8 years old, the age I was when 9/11 occurred, will not have their own story of September 11th. Still, we must all remember 9/11 so that we can understand the reasons behind the heavy airport security, the turmoil in the Middle East, and why al‐Qaeda is a household term. More importantly, we must remember those people that transformed themselves into heroes on 9/11, for they are the ones who illustrate what the human spirit is capable of in the face of darkest adversity.

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9/11: ON WITH THE SHOW

Greta Rothman Alumni & Development

From 1998 to 2002, I was working as a Special Events Director for a non‐profit theatre organization in NYC. Between 2000 and 2002, my office was located right in the middle of Time Square. Every morning, I would take the 9:10 a.m. train from Queens to 42nd Street and walk the last five blocks to my office.

On Tuesday, September 11, I remember waiting at the subway stop and noting what a perfect day it was. The sky was a clear, very rich blue, without a single cloud. The weather was very pleasant, and there was a light breeze—more like a spring day than fall. My train had not arrived on time, and I was worried about being late. I had no cell phone at that point so I walked the block back to my apartment and phoned my co‐worker to let him know I was running behind. He said, “I’m not surprised; some plane flew into one of the World Trade Center Towers— a prop plane accident I think—so all the trains are running a little slow.”

He was very nonchalant about the whole thing, and I just said I would be there ASAP. By the time I got a train it was 9:30 a.m. The first five stops that the train made were outdoors, and the track leading to the very last one before the line made its way underground curved around in such a way that you could see across to lower Manhattan. As our train made that curve I saw what would be the first of many unbelievable sights that day. There in the distance were the two towers of the World Trade Center—both on fire and billowing with the blackest thickest smoke.

The smoke from both towers was blowing to the right, towards the water, and I remember they looked like two giant birthday candles. On the train there was shock and confusion as people tried to comprehend what we were all seeing. Some tried to use their cell phones but could not get signals, and we all rushed to the one side of the train to get a better view. Soon we were underground and that is when talking began amongst the passenger: “Two planes?” “This has to be deliberate, right?”

Dazed and confused, I reached my stop, and announcements were coming over the PA that this would be the last stop of the day: the entire city was on lockdown until further notice. There would be no

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further entry or exit by land, water, or air. I quickly ran to my office only to find just two of my six co‐workers had decided to come in. The rest of the events of the day unfolded for me as they did for the rest of the world—on TV. At some point I decided to go down to get something to eat. It was then I realized that Time Square, the heart of the theatre community, was completely deserted. No traffic, no horns, no talking . . . the only sound was sirens way off in the distance.

That day, and in the weeks to come, it never occurred to me to be scared. After all, these events were unprecedented—how was I supposed to feel?

I did, however, begin almost immediately to question the worth of my occupation. Something about working in the theatre seemed so insignificant and almost inappropriate after the attacks. What would happen to theatre? Would people really want to go see a musical or a comedy when such terrible things were happening in the world?

As it turned out, that is exactly what people wanted to do. At first, it took some strong encouragement from our then Mayor, Rudy Giuliani, who went on the air on September 13th and implored all of us to get back to work, get back to The first turning point for our lives, and go on doing what we did to make New York great. me was when Saturday Once we heard from our Night Live came back on political leaders, we began to the air on September 15th. hear from the city’s Lorne Michaels, the creator entertainment community. The of the show, was first turning point for me was when Saturday Night Live came surrounded by fireman back on the air on September and policeman and the 15th. Lorne Michaels, the Mayor. Lorne turned to creator of the show, was the Mayor and said, “So surrounded by fireman and are we allowed to be policeman and the Mayor.

Lorne turned to the Mayor and funny?” Giuliani said, “So are we allowed to be responded, “Why start funny?” Giuliani responded, now?”

“Why start now?”

The why became very clear—people needed relief from the grief. We needed theatre like it was medicine. Tourists started slowly coming back to New York and seeing shows because they wanted an escape. Theatre gave people an excuse to get out of their homes and live.

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We didnʹt want to feel guilty anymore about allowing ourselves to be entertained—as if our having a good time was somehow a defamation to those we had lost—when, in reality, theatre was a way to celebrate life and demonstrate to the world what great talents the city and its people had to offer.

The organization I worked for had purchased 100 tickets for the then new musical Mamma Mia, and we had wondered if we would be able to sell them. Not only did they sell, but attending that show was one of the most exciting experiences I had ever been a part of. Watching everyone in that theatre let themselves go for a couple of hours, transport themselves—and even get up as a group to hold hands and sing Dancing Queen—was a wonder to behold.

In that moment, I knew it would be okay. ABBA makes every‐ thing ok! And so does theatre. It has the power to heal, to change, to motivate, and bring people together.

At the end of September, every working Broadway actor got together in Time Square to film an “I LOVE NY” commercial. I had a front row window view from my office as The Phantom of the Opera cast walked hand in hand with jungle animals from The Lion King. I watched my theatre idols singing their hearts out, take after take, as bystanders cheered and cheered. And I remember saying out loud to my co‐ workers, “This is our purpose. This is why we do what we do.” The last line of the commercial summed everything up for me: “Come to New York and letʹs get on with the show!” And thatʹs exactly what we did.

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9/11: ONE SON’S STORY

Eamonn O’Shea Senior Maplewood, New Jersey

September 11, 2001—a day that will be remembered forever as a day of great sorrow and despair for our country. It is also a day that should be remembered as one that displayed tremendous courage, pride, and honor in our nation. Many firemen, police officers, mothers, fathers, siblings, and so many others were lost. This day started out like any other for me.

It was a beautiful morning in Maplewood, New Jersey. As I was eating my breakfast, my dad bent down to give me a hug before he walked out the door to go to work in the city. I got ready for school, and my mom dropped my sister Shannon and me off at St. Rose of Lima and then took our oldest sister, Erin, to Villa Walsh Academy. As always, I started out talking to my friends in homeroom as our teacher wrote the date on the board. Soon after, the teachers began to display expressions of panic and shock as their eyes began to water and their faces turned white. I knew something was wrong; I just didn’t know what it was.

They soon started to dismiss everyone, calling mothers and nannies to pick up all the students early. Shannon and I went to our friend Molly’s house because our mom had to pick up Erin. We walked in and I rushed to the TV and turned it on. I remember seeing dark clouds of black smoke coming out of the symbolic Twin Towers. All of a sudden, my heart sank: All these thoughts ran through my mind: “Who’s going to take me to hockey practice every Saturday morning at dawn? Who’s going to tie my skates for me? Who’s going to be there for me no matter what and be my best friend when I needed them most?” As a 3rd grader, this was devastating. I told myself, “My dad was dead.” I was in that living room by myself feeling helpless and so weak that I couldn’t get up. I was numb . I couldn’t move. We had no communication with our mom to see if our dad had made it out.

However, when we got home . . . there he stood. He was coughing so much that it seemed he couldn’t breathe. His vest was covered with burnt ash holes. My dad had made it out alive and had also escorted coworkers to safety. He worked at 75 Wall St. and walked through the World Trade Center every morning. He reached the

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Hoboken Train Station where they hosed everyone down. I was overjoyed and felt so much relief knowing that my dad was okay. I was so excited that I talked to one of my best friends saying, “My dad’s ok!

My dad’s ok!” He said nothing. He stared at the ground and broke out into tears. His beloved father had been taken from him like so many others.

My dad and I watched That day put everything the Yankees game together on the couch soon after, with his into perspective for me. It arm around me. When Mayor, taught me that you should Rudy Giuliani, walked out to always feel blessed for the pitcher’s mound, the crowd what you have in life and began to roar with “USA” live every day as if it’s your chants that were so loud it seemed we could feel the echo last. in our house. Now, my dad works at 7 World Trade, right above ground zero where the Twin Towers once stood. To this day, he has nightmares that keep him up at night. He has never been the same. Our family is still worried for his safety as we know that there is a strong possibility of another attack.

Many of my friends’ fathers, brothers, uncles, and mothers lost their lives so that others could have a chance of living longer. We cherish this day in our hearts forever as not one of loss, but one of gain.

We, as a country, grew stronger together after September 11, 2001. That day put everything into perspective for me. It taught me that you should always feel blessed for what you have in life and live every day as if it’s your last. The courageous acts that were performed that day will never be forgotten. I will never forget. We will never forget.

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9/11: A LOST PIONEER

Daniel Crowder Senior Rootstown, Ohio

Hanging on the wall in the concession area of the Murdough Athletic Center is a memorial to one of Western Reserve Academy’s own alumnus, and my personal hero, Todd C. Weaver, Class of 1989. The story of Todd Weaver, outlined by a couple of pictures, a game jersey, and several paragraphs, is one of personal sacrifice—the willingness to give up the comfort of the self for the benefit of others. The memorial of the man who wore the number 54 for the undefeated 1988‐1989 Reserve Football team shows his exemplary sacrifice.

As quoted in the memorial, “Todd had been a three‐sport athlete, playing football, basketball, and lacrosse, but a painful back injury suffered during the spring of his sophomore year The retirement of Todd’s necessitated the use of a brace. jersey, in memory of his For many, such a serious setback selfless life and death, was would have spelled the end of a a part of our football promising athletic career. Not for Todd.

Instead, team’s memorial to him demonstrating his fierce this year. Every time I determination and competitive want to give less than my spirit, the player known as “the all, be it in a practice or a Lieutenant” persevered to game, I remind myself of become a mainstay on the 1987 football squad, earning All‐ Todd. I remind myself of League recognition as he helped his sacrifice for his alma the team finish as league co‐ mater, his coworkers, his champions. The following year, country, and this world. as a senior, Todd started at both defensive end and offensive guard. That 1988 team would remain undefeated and captured the league title outright.”

Todd could have given up on his teammates. His injury certainly was reason enough to hang up the pads and watch his team face a season without him. But he didn’t give up. Todd sacrificed his

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own luxury every day for his brothers, stepping out onto the grass knowing he would be in pain, yet believing his teammates would, and unquestionably did, benefit from his discomfort.

Ten years ago today, Todd was killed while working on the 94th floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center, where, as again noted by his memorial in the MAC, “he was vice‐president of hedge funds for Fiduciary Trust International, a ‘dream job’ he had accepted eight months earlier.” In truth, Todd could have gotten to safety. Even though two staircases were taken out by the attacks, the other remained untouched, thanks to a row of elevators sitting in the way. So why didn’t Todd run to safety? I personally believe the answer lies in Todd’s commitment to personal sacrifice. The lives of everyone in this world were changed that day, but lives were also saved because one man, Todd Weaver, was willing to sacrifice, to give up his own safety so that others might live.

Todd Weaver’s life and sacrifice is still evident in our own lives today. The number 54 is no longer worn on the Reserve football squad.

The retirement of Todd’s jersey, in memory of his selfless life and death, was a part of our football team’s memorial to him this year. Every time I want to give less than my all, be it in a practice or a game, I remind myself of Todd. I remind myself of his sacrifice for his alma mater, his coworkers, his country, and this world.

I am humbled to have played in the same program this man played in, to have stepped out on the same fields as he once did, to strap on pads in the same way he did. I may have never met the man I call my hero, but both Reserve football and I will never forget the personal sacrifices of Todd Weaver and the example he set for all of us.

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9/11: A CALL FOR GREATER UNDERSTANDING

Christopher D. Burner Head of School

Today it is appropriate to remember and honor those who perished on this day a decade ago. It is also fitting that we remember one of our own, Todd Weaver, who died in the Twin Towers on this day.

In fact, we must continue to remember those who suffered and perished, as well as those who continue to serve to protect us.

Nonetheless, we also th must look forward, we must On the 10 anniversary of learn and grow and become 9/11, I join you and others in even more aware of global remembering and honoring events; in the past decade much has changed, and new those who suffered and events continue to have an perished on this day. I also impact on each of us.

One way to respond suggest that as we move to 9/11 is to seek a greater forward and continue to understanding of events, as struggle to respond to the well as regions, cultures and religions that may, at one events of that day, we commit time, have seemed distant to ourselves to more learning some of us—that is no longer and better understanding. If the case.

We can see, even you do not know much about here at WRA, our interests a region, culture or distant changing, even as we consider the curriculum. land, take the time to learn New courses include and understand more; they environmental science, have a direct bearing on each Mandarin Chinese, as well as Middle Eastern History. Not of us today. too long ago our sophomore history course, now called World History, was called Shaping of Western Society. We also enroll a much more geographically diverse student body than we did even ten years ago.

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As a school, in our small way right here as we consider and respond to 9/11, we must grow and learn, and I urge each of you to do so in your own way.

One of the ways I respond to new events is to learn more about the event or related areas. In 2007, I found a newly written history of the Middle East by Michael B. Oren entitled, Power Faith and Fantasy: America in the Middle East, 1776 to the Present. The book provides a straightforward history of the Middle East; it also reveals the long standing relations between this America and the Middle East. In the introduction Mr. Oren comments:

. . . since the Gulf War of 1991, and certainly since 9/11, familiarity with the Middle East has expanded immensely among Americans. Fifteen years ago, How many of them knew the meaning of jihad, or were acquainted with the words al‐Qaeda, intifada, and Wahhabi? How many could distinguish between Arabs and Iranians, Ba’athists and Islamists, and Sunni and Shi’te Muslims? Indeed, the names of Middle Eastern towns such as Faluja and Jenin are often more familiar to Americans today than those of their own mid‐western cities.

The growing familiarity that Americans display toward the Middle East reflects the essential role that the region now occupies in their lives. The United States is extensively, profoundly, and perhaps even existentially involved in the Middle East.1 He goes on to explain:

In spite of the paramount importance of the Middle East, Americans remain largely unaware of their country’s rich and multidimensional history in the area. A majority of them seem to believe that the United States became active in the Middle East shortly after the Second World War, with the advent of the Arab‐Israeli conflict or the tapping of Saudi oil. Many would respond incredulously to the claim that relations with a region so physically remote—some thirty‐five hundred miles separate New York from the closest Middle Eastern city, Sidi Ifni in Morocco—could have influenced the drafting of the Constitution and the

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creation of the U.S. Navy. Most would be surprised to learn that Americans and Middle Eastern peoples have met not only on oil fields and battlefields, but also in the spheres of art, education and philanthropy. Americans built the first modern universities in the Middle East and both the Star Spangled Banner and the Statue of Liberty originated in America’s Middle Eastern experience.2

On the 10th anniversary of 9/11, I join you and others in remembering and honoring those who suffered and perished on this day. I also suggest that as we move forward and continue to struggle to respond to the events of that day, we commit ourselves to more learning and better understanding. If you do not know much about a region, culture or distant land, take the time to learn and understand more; they have a direct bearing on each of us today.

It is also interesting to note how quickly events have moved even in the three years since Mr. Oren wrote this book as we follow events in Afghanistan, the Arab spring and Libya. I urge you not to be a bystander through these important events; be curious and learn.

________________________________________________________ 1 Oren, Michael B., Power, Faith, and Fantasy: America in the Middle East 1776 to the Present.(New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 2007), page 9 2 Oren, page 10

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9/11: CLOSING REMARKS

Walter Klyce Faculty Fine Arts Department

Once again, thank you all for your attendance and respect at this commemorative event. Thank you especially to the faculty and staff members who put this event together; and to all of our speakers and performers, for sharing their thoughts and talents with us this evening.

On September 26 of 2001, the last Headmaster, Dr. Skip Flanagan, wrote a letter to the WRA community, informing the alumni of the tragic death of Todd Weaver, and offering with them some words of comfort and guidance. Though a decade has passed, his words have gained new relevance to us today, and I would like to share them with you now: We are now presented with an opportunity to manifest the strength of that for which we stand by the actions we take. Therefore, let us begin each day with the resolve that we will conduct ourselves as citizens of a civil and free nation—one that gains power through understanding. Know that in the fullness of time, those responsible will be found out and that swift retribution will be realized. None of that, however, offers solace for the unwanton carnage and the cruel death visited upon our countrymen: innocent citizens, courageous firemen, policemen, government workers, and military personnel. The date of September 11, 2001 will carry with it unforgettable images for each of us. It will remain a temporal bookmark in our collective lives.

In a moment, we will share a collective communal reading, after which we will have a candle‐lighting ceremony, and eight student leaders will come down each row and light your candles. These candles, with their small flames, are symbols both of sacrifice and of peace, and they will mark the conclusion of our ceremony this evening. After the Chapel bell rings, you may begin to recess out in silence, placing your

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candles in the receptacles outside the Chapel. If you need some time to sit and think in the silence, you may remain as long as you need, after which you should continue on to your dormitories or to the dedication of the peace garden on Chapel Street. For now, please stand and, let us read aloud together the ʺPrayer at Time of Adversity,ʺ found on the inside of your programs.

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CHAPEL SPEECHES: “THIS I BELIEVE”

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FEBRUARY 20, 2012

Rachel Silver Senior Akron, Ohio

Hello daaahlings! My name is Rachel Alana Silver. I could stand up here and tell you the story about the day I shadowed and how Sam Pratt ate my chips, but instead I am going to go off on a rather unusual tack and share some random thoughts with you.

It has taken me a long time to realize that Reserve is not just the varsity athletes, nor the students that win academic awards. It is all of us. It is the artists, the ones that try their hardest and earn a 4.5. It is the quiet ones who makes you laugh with the comments under their breath.

It is your roommate. It is your friends and teachers.

Here are some things you may or may not know about me. I have had four advisors here, and each one has helped me grow as a student and a person. I am the “Dictator of Improv Club.” My feet smell sometimes. I run really slowly. Lots of things make me cry for no good reason. I get really crabby when I am hungry. I like chocolate. Random things strike me as funny. I cannot spell. I have four piercings. I like strange facts, non sequiturs, and red pandas. I snore sometimes and talk in my sleep. Public speaking actually makes me very nervous. I am ticklish. I am afraid of fish. In other words, I am perfect.

I believe in a lot of things: women everywhere should have a choice; everyone should marry whom they want; your religion is your opinion; getting a letter in the mail can improve your whole day; Improv Club is awesome (You should join!); hugs cure lots of things; and you should always hold a hug longer than the other person wants because then you get a double hug. I also believe there are zombies on campus, and I refuse to walk to the dorm alone at night or while talking on my cell phone.

I want to thank my parents. If you have not had the pleasure of meeting them you are missing out. I am not being sarcastic. Thank you, mom and dad, for letting me make my own decisions and always having my back. Thank you for letting me come to Reserve even though I miss you, and I know you miss me, too. Thank you for never judging me. I love you.

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Now on to the most important topic: Why am I wearing this terrific fluffy pink tutu? I must thank Emma Leonard for this. I do not wear it for attention. I wear it, specifically in the wintertime, because everyone is a bit down in the dumps and feels as grey as the Ohio sky. It makes most people smile or forget whatever they were worried about.

The ridiculous looks of incredulity and confusion I get are worth it. It makes people happy and laugh.

On that note, I know there are at least twelve people who have ignored most of this speech, so to them I have this to say, “STOP WHAT YOU ARE STUDYING!” (It’s too late anyhow!) “STOP PLAYING ON YOUR PHONE, I AM MORE IMPORTANT . . . and so are the people around you.” That text about how weird I am and how bored you are will still be there ready for you to send in a minute when I am done.

Look up at me. Everyone smile! Laugh! Tell someone you love them!

Not a romantic love, just a platonic love. Tell them they are important or give them a compliment! Everyone loves to know they are loved!

Some of you are sitting there purposely frowning, or sarcastically saying you love the person next to you. GOOD! That at least proves you have been listening. If it impacts one person and makes them feel better today—and they actually smiled genuinely—then wonderful! It means this speech has done more than just allow me to stand up her and spew out words you will all forget in a week’s time.

So what can you conclude from this random shenanigan? This I believe: Believe in what you want; be yourself; let others think what they want; keep your friends close; smile; and don’t be afraid to say thank you and I love you. (Blow a kiss)

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FEBRUARY 28, 2012

Genevieve Bettendorf Senior Mayfield Heights, Ohio

Over the summer, Mr. Morris required my AP English IV class to read John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. (Today is actually John Irving’s seventieth birthday; he was born on this day in 1942, so send him some birthday wishes!) Owen, the protagonist, attended a boarding school called Gravesend Academy in Gravesend, New Hampshire. On the experience and faculty members, he says this: “What are they concerned about? … are they ‘concerned’ with our education—that it be both ‘classical’ and ‘timely’—or are they ‘concerned’ that we might possibly learn more than they have learned; that we might inform ourselves sufficiently to challenge a few of their more hardened and idiotic opinions? Are they ‘concerned’ about the quality and vigorousness of our education; or are they more superficially ‘concerned’ that we might fail to get into the university or college of their choice?”

(294).

Owen was inquisitive and cynical, much like those of us who sit in the first few rows of pews in the Chapel this morning. He was disillusioned with the preexisting institutions; he was the wisecracking teenager we all want to be (but few actually are). He dared to question.

A few weeks ago, Mr. Manoli said to my Calculus class, “You have got to put your teenage cynicism to work: It’s your sworn duty as an adolescent to say, ‘That’s not good enough!’” The educators here do more than teach: They lead. They drag us along in their own pursuits of knowledge and excellence, and although we kick and scream and cry out in protest, they know that, on the whole, we will be better off. The very best are aflame with what they teach; from every pore issues an unending love of learning; they are, in the words of Virginia Woolf, “wrapped round with phrases, like damp straw” (The Waves, 159), and we are surrounded by the very best. They question us so that we might inherit their academic skepticism and passion and inquisitiveness.

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Owen was kicked out of Gravesend Academy because he questioned too much. I’m asking you today to question—not to the extent Owen did, but to question nonetheless. We all go through a certain transition period. We have a right and, as Mr. Manoli says, a “duty” to question the institutions and ideas we once accepted as natural constants, just as Owen did. Eventually, we begin to grow skeptical of those who say to know better than us. So we then “CHALLENGE” them, as Owen puts it, but in our attempts to “CHALLENGE” their beliefs we merely reinforce what they knew all along: We grow through questioning. “THEY” do indeed want us to “CHALLENGE” them.

Although we may not be able to see it that way yet, through the fog of lack of sleep and Thesis papers and integrals, that is how “THEY” see it.

In my short sixteen years, I have regretted only two things: Dropping out of Mr. Ong’s AP United States History course is one of them. He is, as I have come to appreciate him, one of a small handful of teachers from whom every student should take a class, because he’s just that good.

AP Economics with Mr. Ong is the most difficult thing to which I have ever voluntarily subjected myself. But in his case, the marginal benefits far outweigh the marginal costs. The sleepless nights and tears and failing grades do not, as he reassures, matter in later life. What will have mattered is the almost‐Aristotelian drive for knowledge to improve the soul that I will have learned to embrace. He is excellent: I can go to him when I am in need of help; he will accommodate me; he puts his students first, sometimes at the risk of his own happiness. He leads by example. I tell him I know something about the average total cost curve, and he asks me to explain it. The explanation is not for his benefit; it is for mine. He wants me to be excellent, and because of his passion for excellence, I have become a better person.

I say this not to praise Mr. Ong—he is deserving of far more credit than I give him—but, rather, to provide an example of this excellence that resides within our walls. We are privy to something truly great. He pushes me to my limits, as the educators here have only done, and just over them so that, on occasion, I fall over the edge. But whenever I do fall over that edge, I know that he will be there to catch me. As he says, he wants us to “face [our] own confusion.” He subjects us to the truth in the hopes that we can, next time, do it better. Mr. Ong is a member of a small army of teachers that fights each and every day for what I am calling the “Aristotelian education” (for lack of a better

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label), leading us to greatness by asking us to question for the sake of our souls.

It is a sad fact that we will one day die. When writing my Senior Thesis paper on Shakespeare’s Hamlet and his existentialism, I came across this quotation by writer J. Glenn Gray: “Shipwreck is the ultimate,” writes [Karl] Jaspers, meaning thereby that hopes for immortality are vain.

Our frail crafts are afloat on an unending sea around which there are no ports. To recognize this fact, the painful fact of human finitude, the inevitability of death, can alone make life meaningful and significant” (118).

As dismal as this may sound, we should take heart in the final message.

Mr. Morris assigned Virginia Woolf’s book To the Lighthouse in his class last semester, and for the first twenty pages, I hated it. But he pushed the class through it, knowing with absolute certainty that this piece of literature will better us. In the end we came to an understanding of the book that could have only been achieved through our questions and discoveries.

Through questioning, we begin a dialogue that can transcend the boundaries of death and loss. Fifty years from now Julia Ferguson will see a sign that says “THIS WAY TO THE LIGHTHOUSE,” and think of her English IV teacher who dragged her through Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. She will recall Inga Wells, from whom she drifted slowly, and realize how she was unaware of the loss until she read the road sign.

She will go home with sand in her toes and write to Inga, remembering their vehement discussions of Freud and shipwrecks and friendship. She will correspond with Inga for the rest of her days. And although the man who taught them to question will be returning to dust (God rest his gentle soul), he will have lived on in the letters between Julia and Inga.

A niece will find the letters in her aunt’s attic when clearing out the last of her aunt’s belongings. She will sit down to read the yellowed and dog‐eared copy that was mentioned in one of the letters. And so the friendship lives on. So he—who questioned for his students’ sake—lives on. So we live on.

We are dwarfed by the fourth dimension, captives to the spiral of the hour hand. The thought of “shipwreck,” as Jaspers puts it, used to make me want to curl up and sleep the day away. I would hide in Ellsworth, as if there were no reason to come out and live my life. But after Woolf and Hamlet, I know now that I do matter—that we all

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matter, each one of us. Each question has an answer. When I question (and answer), I extend the boundaries of my own life, and broaden those of another. Whenever I write, or act, or question, I have an effect.

I failed to do my English reading for a week straight last year.

We were in the middle of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, and I was thoroughly unengaged. Mr. O’Brien knew it. He called me out: He said, “This is the kind of book that will stick with you. You’ll think of it when you get your heart broken and see him again years later. Read it,” he said to me one night after dinner. “Read it,” he said, and then walked away.

Woolf writes, “I am aware of our ephemeral passage” (The Waves, 82). My singular existence, separate and apart from those of everyone else, does not matter. But when I live in such a way as to affect the lives of others, my life suddenly, beautifully, miraculously, assumes so much meaning. When we question others (and ourselves) we better the soul. The teachers here are aware of this fact, consciously or otherwise. They teach not to the test but, rather, (As Mr. Wiles says) “to life.” So engage your surroundings. Sylvia Plath writes, “Whenever I’m sad I’m going to die, or so nervous I can’t sleep, or in love with somebody I won’t be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say, ‘I’ll go take a hot bath’” (The Bell Jar, 16). I do the same. I soak in the idea that I would not be anything without the people around me, and then I get out and do as Mr. O’Brien says. I read my book; I do my laundry; I go to sit‐down meals; I attend classes. I question. Because I know that as soon as I begin to go on, I’ll slowly return my sense of meaning to my life.

They push me here. They push me so hard I have no choice sometimes but to curl up under the covers with a good book and escape for a while. But when what I love has filled in the cracks that the homework and performances and seasons bring upon me, I return to the people who push me. I know that they do it because they want to see me succeed.

Reserve is truly great. And although it may not be the only institution that provides this kind of experience (there are others, I am sure, of similar merit), it does facilitate a truly excellent four years. The teachers here know, like Owen’s creator, John Irving, “It is the well‐ educated who will improve society—and they will improve it, at first, by criticizing it” (302). Through criticism and questioning, they educate us so that we can better not only ourselves but also those around us.

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Cherish them and their lessons, because I have a feeling that true educators—who fulfill the sense of the Latin roots—are few and far between beyond our walls.

So this I charge you: Pour your heart into all that you do; exhaust every opportunity so that—when you yourself are thoroughly exhausted and feel as though every ounce of your heart will writhe in agony if you go on any farther loving what you have loved—you will know that you have done your best. Question; consume every possible answer and fail to tire until you have found the answer. Then move on to another question. Care about the things you love; be another Mr. Ramsay and do “not sleep for thinking of them” (95). In the words of Pulitzer‐prizewinning author Annie Dillard, “Give it, give it all, give it now.” So do as she says, and give all that you have to all that you do and all that you are so that, by the end, you will know that you have wrung the rag dry.

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APRIL 18, 2012

Nathan Hulsey Senior Hudson, Ohio

When I decided to make a “This I Believe” speech, I knew I wanted to talk about something meaningful, something close to me, but also something everyone else could relate to as well. As some of you may know, sometimes I have a lot of ideas. This inevitably made it extremely difficult for me to pick just one thing to focus on. There were so many things I wanted to say it was impossible to fit it all in one speech. After all, there is no way I could fit four incredible years into even a whole Morning Meeting. Let alone a single short speech. So for all of your sakes, I finally decided on something that should have been obvious all along.

In a few weeks I will graduate from these pews as a four year senior. In fact, making it this far is undoubtedly the greatest achieve‐ ment of my life, and I say this with absolute certainty. Freshmen, when you are here three years from now you’ll know exactly what I mean.

Reserve is challenging. This school has pushed me in more ways than I thought possible—from the classroom, to the athletic fields. It has placed more responsibility on me as an eighteen‐year‐old guy than should probably be allowed. But above all, it is the greatest achievement to me because not everyone makes it.

Some of you here this morning won’t all make it. It’s sad, but true. It is not because you are not good enough, not because you are not “Reserve material,” but probably because just being a teenager means having the odds stacked against you. Of course, I would love for you to prove me wrong. You see, every year of my Reserve career a close friend of mine has left the school. And some of them were probably friends of yours as well. Now, maybe I have just been unlucky, but for those of you who don’t know the feeling, nothing else compares to it—the frustration, the sadness, the depressing silence that seems to consume those around you for weeks afterwards, every time youʹre reminded of their absence. It is the pain of being helpless. Helpless because there’s nothing you can do. Helpless because they aren’t there anymore, and a piece of your life is missing.

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If there is one thing that my bad luck has taught me, however, it is to appreciate my friends. Every second of every day. I’m not going to stand up here and tell you to appreciate your Reserve education, because you can’t yet. That will happen years from now, when you’re all successful alums, building businesses, traveling the world, discovering the cure for some terrible disease. That’s when you’ll appreciate the opportunities that this school has given us.

But what you can do, right now, is appreciate your friends here.

Because they are tangible, they affect you every day. They can make a bad day great, and a good day even better. At a place like Reserve, your friends are your lifeline, your backbone. Nothing in this world is more important and more crucial in keeping your sanity.

“Hey, Blanchard, . . . Oh, your car died in the middle of the Mcdonald’s drive‐thru? Let me just drive over in my PJ’s and slippers and help you roll it across the parking lot.” I cannot even count the number of times things like this have happened to me. It doesn’t matter though, because being there for my friends is always my first priority. I have experienced firsthand that our time is limited, so it’s only right to make the most of the time we have. Not knowing when this time is going to run out is both a blessing and a curse. It seems to run out at the worst possible times, when you least expect it, but it allows me to live every day with my friends to the highest potential—whether it’s doing something fun, just sitting in Wilson, or even running errands. It doesn’t matter because I’m with my friends. Because the moments you are going to remember most are the ones spent with those closest to you. That time you did some ridiculous thing together, or laughed so hard you cried. We all have those moments, and every one of them is special.

Just the other day Mr. Burner addressed the senior class. He told us our time here is almost over. The end is really finally in sight.

However, there was one thing he said that really stuck with me. “Look out for each other,” he said. And I realized that that, too, is a part of friendship. Have each other’s backs. Because that is the only way to make it this far.

Like I mentioned before, this subject, friendship, is something that I should have known to speak about all along. Friendship and camaraderie is something we all know. It is the most important thing in my life. I place my friends above all else, because in reality, I would not be anywhere without them, so they’re totally worth it.

Grasp every single moment together. Appreciate your bros and lady bros. Appreciate the long walks to Chipotle with them, or late nights in the dorm. Laugh with them, maybe cry with them, just sit

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around and shoot the crap with them, because every second counts.

Open up to them, let them open up to you, and never get caught with that feeling of not knowing what it is you had until its gone. Take notice.

This I believe: appreciate, love, and cherish your friends here, because you never know when they’re going to go, but you sure as hell won’t get anywhere without them.

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APRIL 27, 2012

Julia Ferguson Senior Chicago, Illinois

It is my belief that we are all born with a particular seed of passion that is meant to germinate throughout the course of our life.

These seeds are inconsistent from one person to the next and are sometimes difficult to spot. The similarities, however, lie in the way these passions make us feel deep within ourselves. In my opinion, the best way to determine what emerging seed another person possesses (because only sometimes do they perfectly align for clarity’s sake) is to recognize your own and then perceive that same spark in others. The passions I have perceived lately, include a kid, destined for archeology, hiding under the covers with a flashlight late in the night reading about dinosaurs; a budding chef concocting scrambled eggs with untraditional ingredients to create the perfect palette pleaser; a teammate with the unyielding will to beat me on the field in practice; a music lover who spends the bulk of their money on concert tickets; and a dedicated environmentalist who is bent on saving the ozone layer (just to list a few). All of these people may have nothing more in common than simply having an intent based on deep‐seated enjoyment.

Today, you won’t have to guess my particular brand of passion; I am going to share it because you deserve to know that you are the very people that drive my distinct feelings of excitement, hope, and infatuation. I’m passionate about people. I like the way in which we communicate ideas, exchange opinions, and arrive at familiarity. You help me to adjust my innately narrow perspectives with tiny insights that you share (both intentionally and inadvertently). Although I am unsure of the extent of my own reciprocation, I do hope that you have had similar experiences with others throughout your days and understand something of what I am saying.

To offer a somewhat illuminating anecdote, I’ll share with you that over the years I have looked through many past yearbooks of classes who are now long gone. It’s imprinted in me a sense of nostalgia for a time I never experienced and for people I have never met. There is a certain je ne sais quoi that distant time periods possess for me that is completely unexplainable but powerful all the same. These roman‐

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ticized notions of the past have made my present more exciting. To be honest, in many of you I see their images, because although we are each unique individuals, we are also part of a cycle. This school has cycled through (if my subtraction is correct) 186 classes of people, we 2012ers are the 187th, and it will only continue. (I add this note for a good daily dose of existential thought and to provide a potentially useful framework for your thinking. Please forgive the digression.)

My passion for knowing people lies in the communication we share, verbal and nonverbal. A good conversation to me is worth the world, whether it is with a stranger or a best friend (the former often becoming the latter with time), a freshman or faculty member, an airplane seat partner or one of my little sisters. In four years I have had many, many conversations. Whether they occurred during sit‐down meals, late‐night AP US study sessions turned philosophical debates, English classes, back‐field hikes, or long autumn car rides, I find that each one built on the last. Each person I begin to know accumulates and suddenly I realize I have a whole school worth of people I deeply care for.

Because we have built this community, I owe you special thanks for being here. The symbiotic relationship between our school and us makes clear the essential nature of our being here. These years have been lived well and we are amid the throes of the last pages of the book we have collectively written. As I speak these heartfelt words, the past quickly recedes behind us. But memories are neither effortless nor free; you have to make them for yourself and keep them close. We have to be willing to step outside of ourselves into new realms of people and experiences. Perhaps during your time here you and your best friends will join the cast of a play or you will find a new sport to which to can dedicate your afternoons. Maybe you will fall in love, or out of love, or both. Perchance you’ll realize your “calling” in life; or perhaps you will conclude that not knowing is just as good. Whatever it is, make sure to enjoy yourself to the utmost wherever you are, because you’ll only ever have this chance once.

So thank you, all of you, for sharing this place and yourselves with me. Yours are the faces that will populate my favorite memories.

Thank you for letting me play Led Zeppelin at TGIF Thank you for listening to Viewpoints announcements (or more frequently, Viewpoints rants). Thank you for cheering at my games, encouraging me to study Precalc, smiling at me on Brick Row, playing Rabbit Rabbit, being my teammates, dormmates, classmates, and even (for some of you) just mere

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acquaintances. Thank you for learning, laughing, and living with me so that I could indulge my passion.

This I believe: passion is worth committing to. Find your own and live it.

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MAY 9, 2012

Emily Kalis Senior Pottstown, Pennsylvania

A few months ago at the dinner table, after I enthusiastically updated my parents on everything going on here at Reserve, my mom and dad turned to me. My mom put her hand on my shoulder, stared me straight in the eye and said, “Emily, at the end of this year, you’re actually going to have to leave Reserve. You can’t stay another year.” I could tell it was difficult for my mom to say this to me.

There were some memories that immediately came to my mind: I remember Katherine Winford’s first snowfall freshman year on October 28th (yes I remember the exact date) when we made a small snowman on the front fields. I remember doing our freshman field hockey dance to “My Humps” by the Black Eyed Peas. I remember Ms. Fahey‐Hunt as my sophomore English teacher and always talking about our feelings in class. I remember my first move‐in day. I was walking up one of the paths to the Ellsworth patio and this other person was walking up the other. I was in my usual JCrew attire, but she was in all black with skulls on her flip flops. I took one look at this girl and said to myself, “No, I will never be friends with her. I will never be friends with her.”

Needless to say, Rachel Silver and I have been best friends ever since.

It’s evident that every senior will find a breaking point; that point when you realize it’s all over. I thought my moment would have come when my mom said that I can’t come back next year, but in fact it came last Monday. I live six hours away, in Pottstown. It’s quite a drive, and it is an event for my parents to take time out of their busy schedules to travel here. A few times each season, my parents try to come out for some of my field hockey and lacrosse games. We always go out to dinner the night they come and finish the trip with a Yours Truly breakfast. These are considered very special weekends.

However, at the end of lacrosse practice last Monday, our coach, Ms. Harman, mentioned to a few of us that our senior night game against Beaumont (that was supposed to have been this Friday) was going be rescheduled because it was Beaumont’s prom. It just so happens that this was the only game my parents would have been able

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to attend this season. When I heard Ms. Harman utter those words, I lost it. I left sit‐down dinner, bursting into tears, and hid behind the wall in front of Morgan. There was something about discovering my parents would never again see me play another game proudly wearing the Reserve uniform (or, indeed, even once during my senior lacrosse season) that made me realize that I don’t have much time left on this campus. It was that moment where I realized that everyone and everything I held dear would soon be gone, and things I took for granted would be noticed by their absence.

If I may quote Emily Webb from Thornton Wilder’s play, Our Town (a role played by Inga Wells a few weeks back), she says, “Does anyone every realize life while they live it . . . every, every minute?”

Wilder also mentioned the ideas of ignorance and bliss in his play. What ignorance and bliss we have at this school. I took for granted every time my parents came to Reserve to see me, and now I’ll be more than six hours away from here myself. I’ll be nine hours away in North Carolina.

This thought brought to mind all of the things this school has taught me: things such as the school kilt, which taught me to dress for success; and check‐ins, which taught me time management; and SPAR, which taught me responsibility; or the seated lunches that helped me maintain my table manners; and morning meetings and the singing of the alma mater, which made me appreciate every opportunity we have had to spend time together.

Reserve watched me grow up. We were sent here when we were just fourteen—some of us just thirteen (right, Gen?)—and we were expected to mature, some of us without our parents around to guide us.

Here we discovered our strengths, our weaknesses, our faults, our talents, our mistakes, our life lessons. Here I learned that I project and that my voice has the potential to carry clear across campus even though the person I’m talking to is standing right next to me. Here I learned that a commitment is a commitment and that when you begin something it should be completed with full force. Here, I learned you can be weak and it is okay. I learned that particular lesson while prefecting on Ellsworth 3rd last year.

If you remember Jelly—we all know Jelly—she taught me that.

She taught me that you can let down your guard and still be strong.

Every night I would spend some personal time with Jelly. We were sisters, without a doubt, and every night she would ask me if I’m ever going to leave, vanish from her life, never care about her again; and every night I would say, “No, Jelly, I’m not going anywhere. I will always be there for you.” It was a bit of a separation at the beginning of

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this year when I moved to Cartwright and she remained in Ellsworth, and she thought I was gone. She didn’t see me much, and I wasn’t in her room almost every night. I would always tell her what Winnie‐the‐Pooh reminds me in one of my favorite quotes, “If ever there is a tomorrow when we’re not together, there is something you must always remember: you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even when we’re apart, I’ll always be with you.” I think of Jelly almost every day. I still have her little pink ribbon with white polka dots tied to my school bag, and I hope she knows how extremely important she is to me.

She taught me that even though someone may not be there physically they can always be in your heart. Your best friends, your siblings, your professors, your parents, they will all be there for you. My family will always be my biggest fans. But it’s also more than just people for me: it’s Reserve. Brick Row cushioned me when I fell flat on my behind in the winter. Ellsworth and Cartwright kept my secrets for four years. Wilson has just been a good place to me. Seymour has picked me up every time I almost face‐planted going up the stairs. And the turf has absorbed a lot of blood, sweat, and tears from my teammates and me.

In eighteen days, I will be wearing my white dress, walking next to Deeter, becoming an alumna, and saying goodbye to my playground; but I won’t fully be saying goodbye. Reserve raised me and for that it can never leave me. It will stay with me forever. I am extremely sad to be leaving Reserve, but I know when I get my diploma I’ll be ready.

Reserve has taught me everything it needed to teach. Every success and failure, mistake and decision taught me something that helped me become who I am right now. I’m ready to say goodbye.

This I believe: Goodbyes are never complete, or forever, because everything, everyone, and every event that occurs in your life helps define who you are and will always remain with you. I believe in the power and value of goodbyes.

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MAY 11, 2012

Zachary Zockoll Senior Hudson, Ohio

I would like to begin today with the lyrics from one of my favorite songs. There is no prize to who can guess what kind of song it is. Yes, it’s a country song, but bear with me here, and really listen to the lyrics. Try to understand them. I won’t bore you by singing the song but listen carefully.

“I Want to Live” ‐ Josh Gracin

I want to cry like the rain I want to shine like the sun, on a beautiful morning I want to sing to the heavens like a church bell ringing I want to fight with the Devil and go down swinging I want to fly like a bird, and roll like a stone I want to love like I’m not afraid of being alone I want to take everything that this world has to give I want to live

This song has gotten me through a lot of rough times in my life, and it’s a powerful song on many levels. I’d like to branch off slightly here, but keep the song in mind. I would like to talk about the Power of One. I believe whole‐heartedly in the power of one person to change everything and anything, through sheer power of will and passion.

Whether this deals with person‐to‐person social interactions or global problems and solutions, this power is unlimited.

Let’s start here at Reserve. We have individuals who everyday make our world and our lives better. Rachel Silver, the “Dictator of Improv Club,” (See, it brings a smile to my face just to say “Dictator of Improv Club,”) but seriously, she takes time out of her busy life to run the club. Improv Club is a place where students can, and do, interact without inhibitions, where we can smile and laugh. I firmly believe laughter to be one of the true joys in life. Rachel, Thank You.

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We also have students like Jonathon Deeter and Emily Kalis, who put a lot of their time and effort into ensuring that the wants, needs, and feelings of the student body are represented to the administration.

We have our student artists like Grant Ederer and Alex Eliopoulos. (By the way, I will only use some examples from the senior class, but there are many more students who fall into these categories who I just don’t have the time to mention. Even those people who do not easily fit into a specific category I name but who undeniably enhance our day‐to‐day lives, deserve our thanks.) Anyway, as I was saying, we have student artists like Alex and Grant, whose passions, skills, and emotions are put into amazing paintings, pottery, photos, videos, etc. So to Grant and Alex and all the other artists, Thank You. We have student athletes like Gulasey, Krista, Crowder, and Allison—to name but a few—who hone their physical attributes to their peak and who practice with a drive and commitment which often is amazing to behold. They do this not only for themselves but for their teams and for us as a school. We take pride in them as fans and derive joy from cheering for our friends. To Gulasey, Krista, Crowder, Allison, and so many others, Thank You. We have musicians like Albert, Aylin, Gen, Emma and others who devote their time to meticulous and passionate practice every day in order to reach amazing levels of prowess on their instruments. They perform for us in such a way that moves us each in a deeply personal manner. They do this with such seeming ease that it makes us believe it just comes naturally, when really it involves so much more. Their performances, and the general atmosphere of music that pervades campus, are one of the things I will most miss about Reserve. So to Albert, Aylin, Gen, Emma, and all our talented musicians, Thank You. To the whole host of students who run clubs, host activities, or take care of us in the dorm or the library as prefects; to those who tutor their peers when a little guidance is needed; to those who do anything any of you could possibly imagine—and do it out of the goodness of your heart with a smile on your face and a spring in your step—to all you students, my peers, Thank You. As for the faculty (or as Bill Feng would say, “our esteemed Faculty”), Reserve teachers are truly like no others. We have teachers who not only teach us in the classroom, but on the sports fields, at meals, and even in their homes. They instill in us valuable life lessons. We have teachers who choose to study and learn not for their own personal gain but rather because they yearn to pass that knowledge unto our

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young inquisitive and sometimes unruly minds. To all of the amazing educators here, Thank You. I often tutor 3rd and 4th graders at the Orchard School up in Cleveland. During my sophomore year I was tutoring a boy named Sam Aponte. Sam was a bright child, if a bit rambunctious, and I still think that if he truly exerts himself and stays out of trouble he will go far.

Well, one day when I was tutoring Sam I hoped to scare him and to show him that his school life wasn’t too bad. He had just been complaining about school for the first time. I looked him in the eye and in my scariest tone said, “Well, we have to go to school on Saturday.”

Whenever I say this I usually get responses along the lines of “That’s horrible” or “How do you survive?” But, no, Sam just looked at me, his eyes growing to twice their normal size, and he said, “I would love to go to school on Saturday!” This surprised me and has been a constant reminder of how lucky we are to be here at Reserve experiencing all that we do.

The friends each of you makes at Reserve, I’m sure you have been told before, are friends who will stay with you throughout your life. I believe that now more than ever as the finish line of graduation appears just around the corner. These friends are the kind you can call at 2:00 a.m. to talk about anything just to have someone to comfort you. I consider the vast majority of you my friends, but I’d like to say to my closest friends, and you know who you are, Thank You. Enough about Reserve, that portion of this speech is over, and it was something I felt like I needed to say before I leave “the lawn’s wide sweep,” and I would love to talk to each and every one of you about what you think of Reserve. Come find me, I’m usually sitting in the Adirondacks, or in the WRAP, or the library—just find me, and let’s chat.

* * *

Now Reserve was just my example of smaller personal communities. I believe in the Power of One on a global scale. Regard‐ less of your political party affiliation, you must respect world politicians.

Take Obama. Regardless of what you think about his policies, ideas, or values (you may even think someone else would be far better suited for the job), the fact remains that he is the President of the United States, and that alone should earned him our respect. Anyone who can attain that position—with all the responsibilities, both big and small, that accompany it—that person has the Power of One.

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So, too, do musicians who wake up every day and create music that touches peoples’ lives. Whether it’s Tim McGraw or Rihanna (the genre doesn’t much matter), these people have the passion, drive, and commitment to pour their hearts and souls into something that changes the world.

We also have good Samaritans who give their time, money, and energy to help people who are less fortunate. Whether its building schools in the Middle East or giving shoes to children in Africa, they can be found all over the world. These people have both the inner beliefs and sheer tenacity to work towards the solution of major global problems.

You may ask what drives this Power of One, what gives these people something that others seem to lack. Nothing! They are no different from you or me. They are not superheroes. They have no super‐strength or supernatural intelligence. They just have drive and are committed towards pursuing an idea. Underlying this drive and commitment—and here it is the point of my speech—are extremes.

In this day and age, we have come to vilify extremes as something to be avoided at all costs. This is ironic, because such vilification is an extreme in itself. The world runs on extremes. It is these extreme commitments, passions, and ideas which drive individuals, both here at Reserve and globally, to do their best and to give their all. It is extreme sadness, which allows us to appreciate feelings of euphoria, elatedness, and joy—without their counterparts, these would be hollow. I, like all of you, have experienced these extreme emotions on the negative side: they naturally accompany such trials as college rejections, low grades, and, of course, trouble with girls. But just think of the extreme joys brought by sunshine, good friends, good conversations, and love. It is these extremes, which drive the power of the individual. I encourage you all to take advantage of the opportunities presented here at Reserve and in the wider world. If anything that catches your interest or makes you raises your eyebrow, dive straight in, wholeheartedly, without fear or reservations. So what if you fail? You are guaranteed to fail if you don’t even try. I maintain that you’ve succeeded just by trying. Now you might think me a hypocrite. You might say that I don’t live my life this way. You would be right. But I wish I did, and I hope I will. The kind of life I am describing is one worth living. So listen to these lyrics again. They are words that capture the Power of One, the necessity of extremes, and the shortness of life.

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Sometimes I feel like I need To shake myself To wake myself I feel like Iʹm just sleepwalking Through my life Itʹs like Iʹm swimming in An ocean of emotion But still somehow slowly Goingʹ numb inside I donʹt like who Iʹm becoming I know Iʹve got to do something Before my life passes right by

I want to cry like the rain, Cry like the rain I want to shine like the sun on a Beautiful morning I want to sing to the Heavens like a Church bell ringing I want to fight with the devil and go Down swinging I want to fly like a bird, roll like a stone I want to love like I am not afraid to be Alone I want to take everything that this World has to give I want to live

Something deep inside Keeps saying Life is like a vapor Itʹs gone in just the Twinklingʹ of an eye

So this I believe: Live your life with confidence, live your life with appreciation, live your life believing in the Power of One, and live your life with extremes. Live a life worth living, and live life to the end.

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VIEWPOINTS ‐ WRA CAMPUS SURVEY: SPRING 2012

KEY

Day Students

Boarding Students

Faculty/Staff

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Male Students

Female Students

Freshmen

Sophomores

Juniors

Seniors

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< As a Citizen of the World >

To which of the major political parties do you either belong or most closely associate yourself with?

Democrat

29.8% 36.2% 24.1% 28.8% 57.4%

28.3% 29.3% 31.4% 18.4%

Republican

28.8% 21.7% 27.7% 23.1% 21.3%

26.1% 26.8% 25.5% 22.4%

Independent

23.1% 12.3% 15.7% 17.3% 18%

17.4% 9.8% 11.8% 26.5%

Other

1.9% 1.4% 1.2% 3.8% 0%

2.2% 2.4% 2% 4.1%

Undecided

16.3% 28.3% 31.3% 26.9% 3.3%

26.1% 31.7% 29.4% 28.6%

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Who do you think will be elected as the next President of the United States?

Barack Obama

52.9% 45.7% 45.8% 38.5% 72.1%

41.3% 36.6% 47.1% 40.8%

Mitt Romney

30.8% 21% 26.5% 26.9% 18%

23.9% 22% 27.5% 32.7%

Unsure / no opinion

16.3% 33.3% 27.7% 34.6% 9.8%

34.8% 41.5% 25.5% 26.5%

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Which of the following best describes your level of political involvement and/or understanding?

I don’t care about, nor do I pay much attention to, political issues at all.

10.6% 13% 10.8% 16.3% 4.9%

15.2% 14.6% 13.7% 12.2%

I’m somewhat interested in political issues, but I only know about what I hear on campus.

29.8% 39.9% 47% 43.3% 6.6%

43.5% 53.7% 47.1% 36.7%

I’m quite interested in political issues, and I try to read a news source whenever I have the time.

42.3% 39.9% 33.7% 33.7% 62.3%

32.6% 26.8% 33.3% 40.8%

I’m extremely interested in the world of politics and current social issues, and I make sure to update myself daily on national news and current events.

17.3% 7.2% 8.4% 6.7% 26.2%

8.7% 4.9% 5.9% 10.2%

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How often do you engage in a conversation that covers politics or current events?

Very often, at least 2 or 3 times a week

27.9% 16.7% 22.9% 12.5% 34.4%

17.4% 9.8% 21.6% 18.4%

Regularly, once a week or so

25% 28.3% 25.3% 26.9% 31.1%

17.4% 29.3% 23.5% 34.7%

Occasionally, once every few weeks

26% 22.5% 25.3% 24% 21.3%

32.6% 19.5% 25.5% 20.4%

Only very rarely

11.5% 20.3% 16.9% 18.3% 11.5%

17.4% 26.8% 13.7% 14.3%

Almost never

9.6% 12.3% 9.6% 18.3% 1.6%

15.2% 14.6% 15.7% 12.2%

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Which of the following best describes your views on gay marriage?

It should be legal everywhere in the United States.

57.7% 73.9% 67.5% 63.5% 75.4%

63% 61% 72.5% 63.3%

The institution of marriage should be legal only between a man and a woman, but some other legal arrangement, such as a “civil union,” could be made available for same‐sex couples

15.4% 16.7% 19.3% 11.5% 18%

23.9% 19.5% 5.9% 12.2%

There should be no legal recognition by any state of either a marriage or civil union between members of the same sex.

14.4% 2.9% 7.2% 9.6% 4.9%

6.5% 7.3% 11.8% 8.2%

Unsure / no opinion

12.5% 6.5% 6% 15.4% 1.6%

6.5% 12.2% 9.8% 16.3%

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Finish the following sentence with the option that most closely matches your own views: “Americans who earn more than a million dollars a year are currently paying _______________ .”

too little in taxes

52.9% 45.7% 39.8% 38.5% 80.3%

39.1% 41.5% 45.1% 30.6%

too much in taxes

10.6% 9.4% 13.3% 8.7% 6.6%

19.6% 4.9% 9.8% 8.2%

about the right amount in taxes

21.2% 21.7% 26.5% 22.1% 11.5%

17.4% 26.8% 21.6% 30.6%

unsure / no opinion

15.4% 23.2% 20.5% 30.8% 1.6%

23.9%

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26.8%

23.5%

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30.6%

Do you believe in the death penalty?

Yes

57.7% 39.9% 49.4% 48.1% 39.3%

54.3% 53.7% 43.1% 44.9%

No

30.8% 37% 34.9% 29.8% 45.9%

19.6% 36.6% 39.2% 32.7%

unsure / no opinion

11.5% 23.9% 15.7% 22.1% 14.8%

26.1% 9.8% 17.6% 22.4%

Do you believe that women should be paid the same salary (or hourly wage) as men when performing the same job?

Yes

89.4% 100% 94% 95.2% 98.4%

100% 100% 88.2% 91.8%

No

7.7% 0% 4.8% 3.8% 0%

0% 0% 9.8% 6.1%

unsure / no opinion

2.9% 0% 1.2% 1% 1.6%

0% 0% 2% 2%

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

188

Which of the following best describes your own views on the issue of abortion?

It should be legal throughout the United States. I believe it should entirely be the decision of a woman in consulation with her physician.

52.9% 42% 41% 45.2% 59%

34.8% 29.3% 54.9% 51%

I believe it should be legal only early on in a pregnancy (e.g. the first trimester).

17.3% 26.1% 19.3% 22.1% 26.2%

10.9% 22% 27.5% 22.4%

It should, generally speaking, be illegal: though it might be permissible in extreme cases (such as when the pregnancy is the result of rape or incest or if the pregnancy carries significant health risks for the mother).

21.2% 27.5% 28.9% 28.8% 11.5%

45.7% 43.9% 11.8% 18.4%

It should be illegal under any circumstances anywhere within the United States.

8.7% 4.3% 10.8% 3.8% 3.3%

8.7%

189

4.9%

5.9%

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

8.2%

Finish the following sentence with the option that most closely matches your own views: “Over the past ten years or so race relations in the United States have ____________.”

Become better

44.2% 36.2% 38.6% 41.3% 39.3%

41.3% 29.3% 45.1% 42.9%

Gotten worse

12.5% 12.3% 12% 10.6% 14.6%

17.4% 12.2% 9.8% 6.1%

Stayed about the same

34.6% 39.9% 37.3% 34.6% 42.6%

32.6% 48.8% 27.5% 36.7%

Unsure / no opinion

8.7% 12.3% 12% 13.5% 3.3%

8.7%

9.8%

17.6%

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

14.3%

190

Is it acceptable to break laws to which you are morally opposed?

Yes, following your own moral compass is more important than strict legal compliance.

16.3% 8% 13.3% 15.4% 4.9%

4.3% 17.1% 15.7% 20.4%

Maybe, but only in extreme instances where to obey the law might jeopardize the physical well‐being of other peorple.

68.3% 73.2% 75.9% 74% 57.4%

87% 68.3% 80.4% 63.3%

No, the law should always be observed.

16.3% 19.6% 10.8% 14.4% 32.8%

13% 14.6% 5.9% 18.4%

Unsure / no opinion

2.9% 4.3% 4.8% 2.9% 4.9%

0% 4.9% 3.9% 6.1%

191

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

< As a Citizen of Reserve >

The athletic requirement at WRA should . . .

. . . remain as it currently is (three seasons of team sports per year for underclassmen; two for upperclassmen), but the school should allow for occasional exceptions to this general rule.

27.9% 30.4% 38.6% 24% 26.2%

43.5% 22% 27.5% 28.6%

. . . remain as it is (three seasons of team sports per year for underclassmen; two for upperclassmen), but it should be more strictly enforced to stop students from ducking the requirement.

37.5% 39.9% 37.3% 40.4% 36.1%

23.9% 36.6% 51% 42.9%

. . . become even more flexible so as to allow a greater number of students to pursue other options (such as community service or afternoon practice in the arts).

26% 23.2% 14.5% 26.8% 36.1%

23.9% 34.1% 7.8% 20.4%

. . . be done away with altogether.

3.8% 5.1% 7.2% 5.8% 0%

6.5% 4.9% 11.8% 2%

. . . wait . . . there’s an athletic requirement at Reserve?

4.8% 1.4% 2.4% 3.8% 1.6%

2.2% 2.4% 2% 6.1%

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

192

Which of the following best matches your feelings about sit‐down meals at WRA?

I’d like to see us have at least one sit‐down meal (either lunch or dinner) once each weekday.

3.8% 10.1% 7.2% 7.7% 8.2%

6.5% 9.8% 9.8% 4.1%

I’d like to see at least one more sit‐down lunch added to the schedule.

11.5% 14.5% 9.6% 12.5% 18%

8.7% 4.9% 9.8% 20.4%

I like the current system of one sit‐down lunch and two sit‐down dinners.

45.2% 47.1% 48.2% 42.3% 49.2%

43.5% 39% 49% 46.9%

I’d like to cut the number of sit‐down meals to just one or two a week.

30.8% 20.3% 28.9% 26.9% 16.4%

32.6% 34.1% 25.5% 20.4%

I’d like to see sit‐down meals eliminated entirely (except, maybe, for two or three special occasions each year).

8.7% 8% 6% 10.6% 8.2%

8.7% 12.2% 5.9% 8.2%

193

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

How often do you attend sit‐down dinner?

Always

4.8% 55.8% 23%

32.6% 36.6% 35.3%

Almost always (missed 2 or 3, at most, this year)

7.2% 30.8% 16.4%

17.4% 26.8% 15.7%

Usually (Half a dozen misses or so)

9.6% 7.7% 13.1%

8.7% 7.3% 3.9%

Less than half the time

12% 1% 1.6%

4.3% 4.9% 11.8%

Almost never

33.7% 3.8% 6.6%

19.6% 12.2% 19.6% Never

32.5% 1% 39.3%

17.4%

12.2%

13.7%

♂ 18.3%

♀ 38.4%

28.6%

♂ 21.2% ♀ 18.1% 22.4%

♂ 12.5% ♀ 8% 14.3%

♂ 6.7%

♀ 3.6%

2%

♂ 22.1% ♀ 9.4% 16.3%

♂ 19.2%

♀ 22.5%

16.3%

194

While school is in session, approximately how many hours of sleep (on average) do you get each school night?

More than 9

1% 0% 1.4% 0% 0% 1% 0%

0% 0% 2.6% 0% 0% 2%

Between 8 and 9

5.8% 2.2% 8.4% 1.9% 0%

8.7% 2.4% 0% 8.2%

Between 7 and 8

31.7% 24.6% 24.1% 25% 36.1%

45.7% 22% 11.8% 20.4%

Between 6 and 7

36.5% 47.8% 37.3% 47.1% 42.6%

39.1% 51.2% 45.1% 36.7%

Between 5 and 6

20.2% 21.7% 24.1% 22.1% 16.4%

4.3% 19.5% 37.3% 28.6%

Fewer than 5

4.8% 3.6% 6% 2.9% 4.9%

2.2% 4.9% 5.9% 4.1%

195

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

Which academic department provides you with your most enjoyable and/or useful classes?

English

17.5% 18.6% 19.3% 18.3%

17.4% 31.7% 15.7% 12.2%

Fine & Performing Arts

7.5% 16.7% 13.3% 11.5%

10.9% 14.6% 7.8% 16.3%

History

22.5% 15.7% 19.3% 18.3%

13% 9.8% 23.5% 26.5%

Language

5% 13.7% 13.3% 7.7%

15.2% 12.2% 9.8% 4.1%

Math

12.5% 9.8% 8.4% 12.5%

6.5% 19.5% 9.8% 8.2%

♂

♀

♂

♀

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♂

♀

♂

♀

196

Science

30% 24.1% 27.9%

32.6% 9.8% 31.4% 28.6%

You mean people actually find classes enjoyable and/or useful?!!!.

5% 2.4% 3.8%

4.3%

197

2.4%

2%

♂

♀ 23.5%

♂

♀ 2%

4.1%

Which of the following best matches your own thoughts about next year’s Monday through Friday academic schedule?

There are a few things I don’t like about the way it looks, and I’m not really looking forward to the change at all.

33.8% 43.1% 39.8% 38.5%

34.8% 48.8% 41.2% 32.7%

I’m somewhat apprehensive about the changes, but I’m willing to wait to see what it is like before I pass final judgement.

48.8% 47.1% 51.8% 44.2%

54.3% 46.3% 58.8% 30.6%

From what I can tell, it looks great, and I’m really looking forward to next year.

1.3% 2.9% 1.2% 2.9%

6.5% 0% 0% 2%

I haven’t really looked at the weekly schedule very carefully, so I have no strong opinions one way or the other.

16.3% 6.9% 7.2% 14.4%

4.3% 4.9% 0% 34.7%

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

198

Which of the following best matches your own thoughts about next year’s Saturday Academy ECHO modules and class seminars?

I would rather just have regular classes on Saturdays.

45% 31.4% 39.8% 34.6%

34.8% 29.3% 47.1% 34.7%

The varies ECHO modules I’ve heard about sound interesting, and I’m looking forward to signing up for a couple of them.

32.5% 51% 43.4% 44.2%

50% 51.2% 45.1% 30.6%

I haven’t really looked at the Saturday Academy plans very carefully, so I have no strong opinions one way of the other.

22.5% 17.6% 16.9% 21.2%

15.2% 19.5% 7.8% 34.7%

199

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

Have the Class Deans had an impact on your past year at Reserve?

Absolutely. They have helped me in a number of different ways.

0% 6.9% 1.2% 6.7%

4.3% 7.3% 3.9% 2%

Somewhat. The have offered some helpful advice here and there.

15% 17.6% 16.9% 17.3%

26.1% 14.6% 11.8% 16.3%

Not all that much. I listen to them at our class meetings, and that information is somewhat interesting, but I really haven’t had a personal need to interact with them one‐to‐one.

31% 42.2% 38.6% 34.6%

47.8% 39% 31.4% 28.6%

No. I only really come into contact with them during our class meetings, and those sessions don’t have a significant impact on my life.

53.8% 33.3% 43.4% 41.3%

21.7% 39% 52.9% 53.1%

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

200

Which of the following best describes you as regards illegal substance use during your time as a Reserve student?

I have never used any illegal substance (alcohol, tobacco, drugs, etc.) either on campus or off.

56.3% 61.8% 71.1% 51%

100% 68.3% 39.2% 36.7%

I have never used any illegal substance (alcohol, tobacco, drugs, etc.) on campus, but I have off campus.

22.5% 26.5% 16.9% 30.8%

0% 22% 45.1% 28.6%

I have used illegal substances on capmus but have never been caught.

20% 7.8% 10.8% 14.4%

0% 7.3% 11.8% 30.6%

I have used illegal substances on capmus and have been caught.

1.3% 3.9% 1.2% 3.8%

0% 2.4% 3.9% 4.1%

201

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

Have you at any time during the current academic year (2010‐2011) violated the school’s policy regarding academic honesty (i.e. cheated on a homework assignment, quiz, test, paper, etc.)?

Yes

26.3% 10.8% 15.7% 18.3%

4.3% 9.8% 23.5% 28.6%

No

73.8% 89.2% 84.3% 81.7%

95.7% 90.2% 76.5% 71.4%

♂

♀

♂

♀

202

Do you obey the school’s dress code?

Every day. And it’s bothersome when others do not.

41.3% 25.3% 27.9%

26.1% 26.8% 31.4% 22.4%

Generally speaking, but I do let things slip from time to time.

53.8% 71.1% 63.5%

73.9% 63.4% 62.7% 67.3%

Rarely. I think the dress code is stupid.

2.5% 2.4% 4.8%

0% 7.3% 2% 6.1%

Never. But I look good enough—so chill out!

0% 0% 2.9%

0% 2.4% 0% 4.1%

The school has a dress code?!

2.5% 1.2% 1%

0% 0% 3.9% 0%

203

♂

♀ 12.7%

♂

♀ 79.4%

♂

♀ 4.9%

♂

♀ 2.9%

♂

♀ 0%

While at Reserve, from whom do you get the most good advice and guidance about school issues and life in general?

Teacher(s)

23.8% 16.7% 19.3% 20.2%

28.3% 9.8% 21.6% 18.4%

Advisor

20% 16.7% 19.3% 18.3%

17.4% 19.5% 25.5% 12.2%

Coach(es)

11.3% 5.9% 6% 9.6%

13% 4.9% 3.9% 10.2%

Parent(s)

6.3% 16.7% 15.7% 8.7%

10% 24.4% 7.8% 6.1%

Friend(s)

38.8% 44.1% 39.8% 43.3%

30.4% 41.5% 41.2% 53.1%

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

204

Where and how do you spend the majority of your free time while at school?

Studying either in my room or the library.

35% 30.4% 48.2% 19.2%

37% 39% 41.2% 12.2%

Eating or shopping in downtown Hudson.

1.3% 9.8% 3.6% 8.7%

6.5% 12.2% 3.9% 4.1%

Hanging out with friends in a dorm room.

40% 34.3% 28.9% 42.3%

41.3% 29.3% 21.6% 53.1%

Playing games or reading by myself in my own room.

6.3% 5.9% 1.2% 11.5%

2.2% 7.3% 7.8% 10.2%

205

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

Enjoying the great outdoors—weather permitting!.

15.7% 18.3%

8.7% 12.2% 25.5%

Lounging in the Green Key.

2.4% 0%

4.3% 0% 0%

♂ 17.5%

♀ 17.6%

20.4%

♂ 0%

♀ 2%

0%

206

Do you feel as though your Reserve education is preparing (or has prepared) you well for college or university success.

Yes

95% 93.1% 100% 89.4%

100% 85.4% 96.1% 93.9%

No

5% 6.9% 0% 10.6%

0% 14.6% 3.9% 6.1%

207

♂

♀

♂

♀

Which of the following statements best describes your feelings about your Reserve experience thus far?

I wanted to come to Reserve, and I love it here.

38.8% 50% 51.8% 40.4%

63% 29.3% 39.2% 49%

I wanted to come to school here, and it is okay here.

32.5% 24.5% 28.9% 27.9%

26.1% 36.6% 31.4% 20.4%

I wanted to come to WRA, but now I wish I’d chosen a different school.

11.3% 14.7% 7.2% 17.3%

0% 19.5% 15.7% 16.3%

I did not want to come to Reserve, but I have actually come to like it here.

13.8% 8.8% 10.8% 10.6%

10.9% 9.8% 9.8% 12.2%

I did not want to attend Reserve and still do not want to be here . . blame my parents.

3.8% 2% 1.2% 3.8%

0% 4.9% 3.9% 2%

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

208

< As a Private Individual >

Which of the following best describes your religious beliefs and/or practices?

Catholic

25% 26.1% 33.7% 13.5% 32.8%

30.4% 14.6% 19.6% 24.5%

Protestant

21.2% 21% 16.9% 17.3% 31.1%

15.2% 19.5% 19.6% 14.3%

Jewish

2.9% 3.6% 2.4% 3.8% 3.3%

2.2% 0% 3.9% 6.1%

Muslim

0% 0.7% 0% 1% 0%

0% 0% 0% 0%

209

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

Hindu

1% 2.2% 1.2% 2.9% 0%

2.2% 2.4% 2% 2%

Buddhist

1% 2.2% 0% 3.8% 0%

2.2% 0% 3.9% 2%

Spritual, but not currently a practicing member of any formal religion or denomination

11.5% 15.9% 14.5% 13.5% 16.4%

8.7% 14.6% 15.7% 16.3%

Atheist/Agnostic

34.6% 15.9% 24.1% 29.8% 14.8%

26.1% 31.7% 23.5% 28.6%

Other

2.9% 12.3% 7.2% 14.4% 1.6%

13% 17.1% 11.8% 4.1%

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

210

Which genre of music do you most enjoy?

Classic Rock

8.4% 14.4% 21.3%

10.9% 7.3% 9.8%

Top 40

21.7% 14.4% 16.4%

21.7% 19.5% 15.7%

Jazz

4.8% 0% 1.6%

0% 0% 0%

Blues

0% 1% 0%

0% 2.4% 0%

Reggae

0% 1% 1.6%

0% 2.4% 0%

Rap / Hip Hop

19.3% 11.5% 4.9%

21.7% 12.2% 15.7%

211

♂ 16.3%

♀ 12.3%

18.4%

♂ 9.6%

♀ 23.9%

14.3%

♂ 2.9%

♀ 1.4%

8.2%

♂ 0%

♀ 0.7%

0%

♂ 1%

♀ 0.7%

0%

♂ 23.1% 10.2%

♀ 5.1%

Folk / Indie

7.2% 9.6%

0%

Country

4.8% 10.6%

10.9%

Dance / Techno

7.2% 4.8%

4.3%

Alternative

16.9% 18.3%

17.4%

Classical

0% 3.8%

0%

Other

9.6% 10.6%

13%

♂ 6.7%

13.1% 12.2%

7.8%

7.3%

7.8%

7.8%

25.5%

2%

8.2%

7.8%

♀ 4.3%

4.1%

♂ 9.6%

14.8% 12.2%

8.2%

♂ 3.8%

11.5% 2.4%

♀ 2.9%

♂ 10.6% ♀ 16.7%

3.3% 19.5%

♀ 8.7%

6.1%

♂ 6.7%

0% 2.4%

14.3%

♂ 9.6%

11.5%

♀ 10.9%

♀ 12.3%

8.2%

212

Which do you prefer?

Winter

10.8% 8.7%

13%

Spring

26.5% 40.4%

28.3%

Summer

47% 26%

43.5%

Fall

15.7% 25%

15.2%

213

♂ 9.6%

0% 4.9%

3.9%

26.8%

37.3%

37.3%

42.9%

18.4%

♂ 24%

41% 24.4%

♀ 30.4%

♂ 40.4% ♀ 39.9%

50.8% 43.9%

16.3%

♂ 26%

8.2%

♀ 5.1%

21.6%

22.4%

♀ 24.6%

Who has had a bigger impact on the world??

Bill Gates

44.6% 52.9% 54.1%

50% 56.1% 47.1%

Steve Jobs

55.4% 47.1% 45.9%

50% 43.9% 52.9%

♂ 64.4%

♀ 39.9%

44.9%

♂ 35.6% ♀ 60.9% 55.1%

214

Casey Anthony?

Guilty

79.5% 68.3%

76.1%

Not Guilty

7.2% 7.7%

2.2%

Who?!

13.3% 24%

21.7%

215

♂ 62.5%

75.4% 75.6%

76.5%

9.8%

12.2%

♂ 26%

19.7% 19.5%

65.3%

♂ 11.5% ♀ 2.9%

4.9% 4.9%

♀ 83.3%

13.7%

22.4%

♀ 13.8%

Which would you rather be?

Very happy and not very rich.

16.9% 16.3% 6.6%

15.2% 19.5% 17.6%

Very happy and relatively poor.

83.1% 83.7% 93.4%

84.8% 80.5% 82.4%

Which would you rather be?

Extremely attractive with average intelligence

27.7% 32.7% 16.4%

34.8% 29.3% 31.4%

Extremely intellegence with just average looks

72.3% 67.3% 83.6%

65.2% 70.7% 68.6%

♂ 14.4%

♀ 14.5%

14.3%

♂ 85.6% ♀ 85.5% 85.7%

♂ 22.1% ♀ 31.9% 26.5%

♂ 77.9%

♀ 68.1%

73.5%

216

Which of the following is the most important factor in choosing a potential life partner?

Physical attraction and sex appeal

11.5% 2.9% 9.6% 5.8% 3.3%

6.5% 4.9% 13.7% 4.1%

Personality compatibility

85.6% 92.8% 84.3% 91.3% 95.1%

91.3% 87.8% 82.4% 91.8%

Finacial resources

1% 2.9% 3.6% 1.9% 0%

2.2% 2.4% 2% 4.1%

“Beggars can’t be choosers!”

1.9% 1.4% 2.4% 1% 1.6%

0% 4.9% 2% 0%

217

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

Do you recycle?

Always!

10.8% 12.5%

13%

More often than not

44.6% 43.3%

45.7%

Only when it’s convenient

37.3% 38.5%

34.8%

Almost never

7.2% 5.8%

6.5%

♂ 10.6%

29.5% 14.6%

11.8%

34.1%

45.1%

29.4%

49%

38.8%

♂ 8.7%

3.3% 0%

♀ 43.5%

♂ 31.7% ♀ 31.9%

11.5% 51.2%

8.2%

♂ 49%

55.7%

♀ 21%

13.7%

♀ 3.6%

4.1%

218

iPad??

Got one!

21.7% 14.4%

21.7%

Want one!!!

15.7% 23.1%

30.4%

Okay . . . I guess

30.1% 19.2%

19.6%

Couldn’t care less

32.5% 43.3%

28.3%

219

♂ 22.1%

31.1% 14.6%

15.7%

23.5%

27.5%

22.4%

♂ 30.8% ♀ 33.3%

18% 46.3%

12.2%

♂ 26.9% ♀ 21.7%

23% 26.8%

18.4%

♂ 20.2% ♀ 23.9%

27.9% 12.2%

♀ 21%

33.3%

46.9%

Which do you prefer?

Facebook

75.9% 65.4%

76.1%

Twitter

10.8% 12.5%

6.5%

Tumblr

6% 16.3%

8.7%

Google+

7.2% 5.8% 8.7%

♂ 68.3%

60.7% 53.7%

68.6%

19.6%

7.8%

♀ 8.7%

10.2%

♂ 14.4% ♀ 12.3%

32.8% 12.2%

8.2%

♂ 4.8%

0% 22%

79.6%

♂ 12.5% ♀ 9.4%

6.6% 12.2%

♀ 69.6%

3.9%

2%

220

How many hours, on average, do you spend on social networking sites?

At least three hours a day

4.8% 11.6% 4.8% 17.3% 1.6%

4.3% 24.4% 7.8% 12.2%

An hour or so every day

39.4% 34.1% 50.6% 36.5% 10%

43.5% 31.7% 51% 42.9%

Two or three hours a week

15.4% 13% 13.3% 18.3% 4%

13% 14.6% 13.7% 22.4%

Maybe an hour a week

13.5% 23.2% 19.3% 16.3% 13%

19.6% 12.2% 21.6% 16.3%

An hour or so, at most, over the course of a couple of weeks or more

14.4% 9.4% 6% 3.8% 20%

6.5% 4.9% 3.9% 4.1%

“what’s social networking?”

12.5% 8.7% 6% 7.7% 13%

13% 12.2% 2% 2%

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♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

♂

♀

Which do you find yourself fantasizing about most?

sex

42.3% 37.3% 28.8% 9.8%

15.2% 34.1% 43.1% 36.7%

wealth

11.5% 10.8% 5.8% 13.1%

13% 2.4% 11.8% 4.1%

personal achievment in a particular endeavor / field

28.8% 27.7% 37.5% 21.3%

47.8% 29.3% 23.5% 32.7%

travel

5.8% 8.4% 11.5% 24.6%

13% 12.2% 7.8% 8.2%

Fame / celebrity

1% 1.2% 1.9% 0%

0% 4.9% 0% 2%

other

10.6% 14.5% 14.4% 31.1%

10.9% 17.1% 13.7% 16.3%

♂

♀ 15.2%

♂

♀ 8%

♂

♀ 31.2%

♂

♀ 20.3%

♂

♀ 1.4%

♂

♀ 23.9%

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What is your favorite contemporary dance move?

The Dougie

18.1% 16.3% 4.9%

21.7% 19.5% 17.6%

Krumping

7.2% 6.7% 3.3%

% 2.2% 9.8%

The Stanky Leg

7.2% 8.7% 4.9%

6.5% 7.3% 3.9%

The Cat Daddy

25.3% 22.1% 1.6%

26.1% 17.1% 29.4%

“I beg your pardon?”

42.2% 46.2% 85.2%

♂ 18.3%

♀ 10.9%

10.2%

♂ 2.9%

♀ 8.7%

0%

♂ 4.8%

♀ 8.7%

14.3%

♂ 19.2% ♀ 18.1% 20.4%

♂ 54.8% ♀ 53.6%

43.5%

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39%

39.2%

55.1%

The Viewpoints Survey was conducted online via Survey Monkey from April 21‐28, 2012. The following demographic information is provided to help put the results into some context.

Total completed surveys: 248 Surveys started but not completed: 25

Total respondent breakdown:

Students: 187

Day Students: 83

Boarding Students: 104 Faculty/Staff: 61

Male: 104 Female: 138 (Chose not to respond: 6)

Composition of student respondents:

Freshmen: 46 Sophomores: 41 Juniors: 51 Seniors: 49

Live in Ohio and are U.S. citizens: 132 Live in Ohio but are not U.S. citizens: 4 Live in the U.S., outside of Ohio, and are U.S. citizens: 31 Live in the U.S., outside of Ohio, but are not U.S. citizens: 0 Live outside of U.S. but are U.S. citizens: 5 Live outside of U.S. and are not U.S. citizens: 15

With the exception of the question about gender, all questions required an answer in order to move on with the survey. The twenty‐five surveys started but not completed were not included in the tallying of results.

This survey is not presented as being scientifically accurate to within a specific margin of error. The survey is intended for entertainment purposes only.

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