RSD Lives Issue II

a platform for the untold

ISSUE II

rsdlives

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Meet the Team

Emma Coen, "Idyllic Imagination"

Saanvi Gudreddi, "Two Gifts: A Person and a Thing"

Caoimhe Farris, "Untitled"

Caoimhe Farris, "Untitled"

Sophia Jansen, "Into the Woods"

Caoimhe Farris, "Drinking Poison Because You're Thirsty"

Carly Stremlau, "Morning Meadows"

Caoimhe Farris, "title?"

Kopal Kumar, "Remy"

Nour Elbeshbeshy, "Reorganizing Race"

Aliana Lindermann, "Self Portrait Collage"

Tyler Roberts, "For the First Time, a Second Time"

Hailey Miller, "Skeptical"

Kaylee Horn, "Crown of Thorns"

Edward Ter-Hovhannisyan, "We, the Gen-Z"

Dear readers,

After being handed the leadership, we wanted to revamp and transform RSD Lives into a platform for complete and unrestricted expression.

To take in the serene beauty of literacy and art. We invite you to close your eyes and bask in the surroundings you lay by. Enjoy the chatter or tranquility around you and live within life's magnificence.

We invite you to read our literary journal with that clear mind and enjoy the beauty that is within. Enjoy the handpicked pieces and see the world through a different lens.

We are so excited to present the second issue of RSD Lives! We thank all the members of our team and all the artists who made this journal possible. To Issue II and many more to come!

-EmilyChienandAnviTalyan

MEET THE TEAM

Emily Chien Editor in Chief

Anvi Talyan Editor in Chief

Kate Jesperson Marketing & Ads

Nevaeh Kerber Marketing & Ads

Carl Taraporevala Social Media Manager

Vaibhav Nair LHS Representative

Louis Chen Social Media Assistant

Eli Ferguson Marketing

EDITORS CHOICE AWARD WINNER

IdyllicImagination

EMMA COEN, 12TH EUREKA

HONORABLE MENTION

TWO GIFTS: A PERSON AND A THING Saanvi Gudreddi - 12th

Lafayette

Three two-by-six inch bookmarks, adorned with Chinese art encapsulated in a white border along the edge. The hues of rose, sage, orange and gray blend together. They all match.

One, a light pink background with a thick dark brown tree branch dotted with flowering cherry blossoms. Maybe it’s planted in a park, the delicate petals periodically floating down over two little girls slightly swaying next to each other on swings. Their legs tired from vigorously pumping the air, competing on who reaches the highest point first. On who can mimic a bird at flight the best. Do they smell the faint sweet floral scent? Years later, will they still be friends?

One, a bridge, flooded with small, tan people like smudges. The curved rock pathway, ornately pieced together, connecting the two lands above water. It’s sturdy and safe, always reliable. The people trust that it won’t crash, that it’ll always be there to assist. Maybe one smudge is eagerly crossing the river, giddy to meet their friend. Has it been a long time since they’ve seen each other? Do they get this excited even from the short distanced periods?

One, a rocky forest landscape. Towering boulders, a home to bare stemmy trees, animals, grassy vegetation. There’s white

fluffy clouds, plush between the valley of two far away mountains. Maybe it’s the rewarding view from the top of a long hike. A hike two friends took to feel alive. To momentarily be grounded with the earth beneath their feet. Did they sit on a smooth cool rock, shoulder to shoulder, quietly basking in the view? Would they finally be stripped to contentment, smile together?

Three two-by-six inch bookmarks, special and unique because on the artless white backs, the markings of a signature, along with a little heart, are etched in permanent black ink. Maybe it was a gift between two friends. Did one say, can you sign them? Did the other smile, nodding Of course, while popping the cap of a pen and scribing their name proudly to display? Did open palms receive their gift with delight, responding, Thank you, these are special now because you signed them? Yes.

"UNTITLED"

Caoimhe Farris - 12th Lafayette

INTO THE WOODS

Sophia Jansen - 11th Lafayette

Incinerating fire had reached the girl’s skin. Rays of what smelled like toxic, pure hydrogen and helium touched her cheeks quite gently, wreaking havoc against the sensitive body. Healia’s blonde hair, now white, began to frizz and lighten in blazing strands of incandescent magma. Though the ninetydegree heat would not phase the average summer inhabitant, the conditions were potentially lethal for those from the Winter Woods. Healia had traveled much too far from home.

Healia found herself in the town of the summer people. Her intrigue for those that lived in this forbidden place overcame her, and she gave into desire. Her father would never approve, and she knew that she would receive quite the lecture with her return home to the Winter Woods, but was too immersed in her surroundings to care. There were beige pots of bright, whimsical flowers everywhere around her. Vases that held plants that she had only ever read about in ancient books: Yellow French Marigolds, Lilac and baby pink Hydrangeas. The detached petals drifted through the wind as a feather wades upon water. The floral aroma, along with occasional whiffs of citrus encircling Healia put her mind at ease. Accompanied by the beauty of the town were strange looks from native summer people.

“Who are you?” an old sun-wrinkled baker said, speckles of flour shedding off of her clearly used, distressed apron. Age had taken its toll on the woman, which shone through the smile

lines around her mouth and on her forehead. Her gray hair reflected the sun ’ s light; a visual epitome of Summer. The baker’s raspy voice reminded Healia of her grandmother. The old woman ’ s eyes filled up with concern for the girl that stood in front of her. Everyone from the Summer Quarter knew that the Winter People were not only forbidden from entering their warmth, but that the weather also put the foreign’s skin grave danger.

“Oh… hello! I’m Healia. I came from…”

“The Winter Woods,” the old woman interrupted.

“Yes. The beauties of your home have always enticed me. Father told me never to leave the Woods, but I simply had to. I must see the world that lies beyond my backyard. I have always longed for the smell of fresh flowers, specifically lavender. We have essential oils back at home, but I yearn for the real thing. The sun ’ s rays feel almost angelic; though I cannot let them permeate my skin for long. If I never travel farther than this, I will feel wistful, but I could live in content. You have to understand. You must,” Healia implored.

The poor baker was touched, and pitied the girl greatly. Though, as Healia looked around at the beauties of the enchanted land, her body began to crumble. Her fair skin was now opal white, and her fingers shriveled up like raisins. The old baker ran, barely seizing the dark green fabric of Healia’s dress before the girl’s body surrendered into the blistery concrete abyss.

“We need to get you back home,” the lady said urgently. Healia felt weak and vulnerable, cradled in the arms of the baker. They walked miles and miles to reach the edge of the Summer Quarter. Healia’s petite figure was to her benefit, for her rescuer trudged along the path with ease. They walked through forests of oak, green leaves reaching down occasionally to kiss the young girl’s forehead. Healia noticed the birds singing their lullabies while the squirrels danced in awe. The earthy smell coming from the fertile soil distracted Healia from the pain in her whitening skin. After what felt like hours had passed, the crunching of soft snow signaled the approaching Winter Woods. The baker placed the burning girl right past the seasonal barrier. The pale skin darkened a bit from the frigidity of the snow. Within a few seconds, Healia’s weak, doelike eyes opened.

“Atleast I got to see it. Thank you, Miss.”

DRINKING POISON

Caoimhe Farris - 12th Lafayette

An orange; A deep hot orange with thousands of small circular, needlepoint indents. A dark hazelnut-colored stem with a lime, lively plum leaf crawling from the center and down the side. From the middle of the orange sprouts two sickeningly fleshcolored spirals, beside them teeth, fangs, rip through the peel like jagged glass through skin. The jaws open up to a blood orange-colored center with supple fruit slices inside. Alluring, a trap. Almost enough to ignore the dry rust-colored stains that line the teeth and gums.

Drinking poison because you ' re thirsty

There it is

Sitting there waiting for me

I haven’t eaten in a while, and I wonder some days what it’s like to have a really good meal

Sweet, savory,

It looks like what I want,

It looks like food, it is food

You can eat anything when you ’ re hungry

“If you were really hungry, you’d work past the aftertaste Put in more effort, just keep chewing

After all, where would you be without this food?”

I could wait a little longer

Find something good for me, something healthier

I don’t really want an orange right now, but I like fruit

When I did eat last, it was rotten from the inside

I hadn’t noticed until I got to the core, but I’m so far in now

You can’t waste a meal now, you can’t just toss it

You know this one so well, it’s familiar, down to the rotten metallic tang every time you take a bite

It doesn’t taste so bad after a while.

But I can’t be picky right now

Because I haven’t eaten a while, and I wonder some days what it’s like to have a really good meal

And sitting there waiting for me

There it is

MORNING MEADOWS

Carly Stremlau - 10th Marquette

Caoimhe Farris - 12th Lafayette

REMY

Kopal Kumar - 12th Lafayette

I hate rats. As should any other sane human. Their ability to scurry across the floor quickly with no regard for their surroundings agitates me and I try to avoid them at all costs. However, I appreciate the vital role they play in the plots of many films that build the foundation for Hollywood’s grand reputation.

One such movie is the Pixar film Ratatouille, based on Remy the Rat and his hand, or shall I say paw, in growing a kitchen worker named Alfredo Linguini’s culinary career. Remy dreams of being a chef, but as a rat, the options are limited. Thus, he develops his skills secretly alongside assisting Alfredo, and the two end up opening their own restaurant.

Remy and Colette – a sous chef in the original restaurant where Remy meets Alfredo – act as representations of individuals who are limited due to no faults of their own. Remy’s career is incredibly limited due to his existence as a rat. Remy’s disadvantages are representative of the average human and their experience entering the arts, culinary arts in this case. Remy is repeatedly told that he is “Only a rat!” ignoring any talent he has as a result of a feature he cannot change. Yet despite these struggles, he continuously seeks opportunities to pursue his dreams.

Colette, the only woman in the film, faces struggles similar to Remy's and is seen having to work much harder to garner

respect for herself, although she is infinitely more talented. While she has all the talent needed to become the chef of her desires, her gender places a limitation on her. Yet similarly to Remy, Colette does not allow arbitrary limitations to prevent her from achieving her goals, and continuously keeps up her efforts throughout the film.

The film inspires me to embrace my own personal identity. As a woman myself who desires to be in a STEM field, I am often the only woman (or rat) in the room. I’m required to work to prove myself against the many men surrounding me, and the expectations of the onlookers tend to be much greater for me than for other individuals. Even in my family, I feel limited by my gender, a part of myself I cannot change. I’ve had various family members tell me to choose a different career path due to the impact it would have on my chance to get married, and question my grandiose ambitions, since a woman could never be capable of much. But most importantly, I relate to Remy’s struggle as he realizes that he’s pretending to be multiple different people that he’s not. I spent a lot of time as a child, trying to seem less Indian at school, and trying to seem less American at home. After many years of trying to assimilate into two different environments, I decided I wanted to be someone I loved rather than the person that others wanted me to be.

While I’d like to say that my love for the exploration of flavorful dishes is what draws me towards this culinary, I mean cinematic, masterpiece, it’s actually the abilities of these characters to make a name for themselves, regardless of the restraints placed on them by the people who surround them,

that truly allows me to identify with and grow as a result of this film.

Although my appreciation for this film grows each day, my appreciation for rats does not, and will not, even if they are capable of cooking.

RECOGIZING RACE

Nour Elbeshbeshy - 11th Marquette

I shuffle into my assigned testing room, my eyes heavy beneath the weight of a deficit of sleep. I pull out my two sharpened number two pencils, plus a fresh eraser, and wait. Apprehensive, I prepare myself to spend the next several hours filling bubble after bubble after bubble after bubble. As I sit idly waiting for the other testers to trickle into their assigned seats - likely as tired as I am because what 16-year-old willingly wakes up at 8 AM on a SATURDAY? I take a deep breath and try to calm my nerves as my procter begins to monotonously dole out our first instructions. “Fill in the corresponding bubbles for sections A-F. Once you ’ re done put your pencil down and look at me.” I oblige and begin to scribble in bubbles that tell the ACT my name, birthday, and address among other things.

Eventually, I reach a question that makes me break out into a minor sweat before I’ve even had the chance to try to decipher questions like: Triangle ABC shown is a right triangle. If the tangent of angle C is 37, what is the length of segment BC? I read my options a second and a third and a fourth time, and I’m stumped. None of them seem right to me. I read a fifth time and a sixth time. I look around and see my peers have all put their pencils down and are beginning to glance in my direction, wondering what is holding them up from just getting this over with. I read a seventh time and an eighth, and by the time I’ve read my response options nine times, I’ve settled for the very last bubble which reads Other. And at that moment, that felt like quite an apt description of how I felt. Other. An outsider.

Not part of the in-group, or any group for that matter. Because when my sheet asked me: WHAT RACE ARE YOU? (Check all that apply), I was stumped. My options included American Indian or Alaska Native, Asian, Black or African American, Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander, and White. And I wasn’t Hispanic or Latino as the previous question had asked me either. I was “other”.

Even after taking the entire four-hour test, going home, taking a nap, showering, and then getting food with friends, that word echoed in my head - other, other, other, other. It reverberated within the confines of my skull relentlessly, louder with every pulsing beat. I reached a breaking point, I couldn’t take it anymore. Was I really supposed to put other? Surely they hadn’t forgotten an entire race of people right? When I was finally home and alone that night, I decided to google: ACT race middle eastern option. The first thing that popped up was a link, which led me to a website breaking down the ACT race classification and it was there that I found the answer to my question. White: A person having origins in any of the original peoples of Europe, the Middle East, or North Africa. It took almost everything in me not to laugh at this point. The entire day I had been wrestling with this question of otherness, only to find out that the good people of the ACT hadn’t forgotten my ethnicity at all - they just thought I was white!

This single event served almost as a cumulation of my entire experience as an Arab American. Some of my earliest memories included me wrestling with the fact that while I am an ethnic minority, my pale complexion and deceivingly valley-girlesque cadence often lead people to confuse me for being white.

My veneer of whiteness usually comes crashing down right about the time that a substitute teacher stumbles over my last name, or I’m overheard speaking Arabic to my mom on the phone. Until then, in the eyes of the rest of the midwestern suburbia that I call home, I'm just a white girl, or - on more rare occasions - maybe Jewish, maybe Latina, or maybe ¼ Black. It may seem pretty advantageous to possess this capability in which I have the power and control to choose when I am falsely perceived as white and when I am correctly identified as Middle Eastern. In theory, I could assess the situation and essentially operate under whichever assumption seems more convenient.

In reality, the false presumption of my ethnic identity usually leads to scenarios like a particularly memorable day in my middle school career. September 11th of seventh grade. 9/11 is notoriously not a very pleasant day for Arab Americans and this day was no exception. In the nation’s collective mourning of a horrible tragedy, many Americans' wires get crossed and their feelings of grief and sadness sometimes translate into anger. On this particular day, we had just finished watching a video about the attack. Like many of the other videos shown on 9/11 in public school classrooms across the nation, there were clips of angry terrorists waving guns and screaming fundamentalist remarks. A girl at my table had turned to my group and immediately cried out,

“Oh my god! You know, my dad did a tour in Iraq and he told me all about the people there. He said the men there have like 5 wives each, and they eat with their hands. Isn’t that so gross?” I wish this was the part where I say that I bravely stood up to her

and told her that her false preconceptions of the Middle East were wrong. That I was in fact from there, and I had no family members that engaged in polygamy. I wish that I could say that I educated her right then and there that, while there are many dishes that we eat with our hands, this was no different from the variety of finger foods enjoyed in the West like french fries or chicken tenders. Most of all, I wish I hadn’t solemnly nodded alongside the rest of the group, resigning myself to rejecting my culture in favor of validation from a group of preteen girls. I hid behind my shield of ethnic ambiguity to protect myself from the isolation from my peers. This moment brought me a lot of shame in the years that followed. Why had I not said something? If they were talking about another group that I was not a part of, would I have remained silent? What did that say about me as a person? Beyond that, had I been my brother instead, who is darker than me, and has a tighter curl pattern, I would not have been afforded the luxury of staying silent.

Being white passing means I also often have the privilege that comes along with being a part of a majority group in America. But the key word there is “passing.” Because as much as I can stay silent and ignore my ethnicity, it's still an intrinsic part of who I am. I can’t get rid of it any more than I can cut off an arm or a leg. Rather than attempting a metaphorical amputation of my identity, I choose to embrace it, even when the people around me don’t even realize it exists or that I possess it. I hang up an Egyptian flag above my bed, even when friends look at it perplexed and ask me what it is. I wear jewelry donning my name in Arabic, even when people squint at it, thinking it's extremely stylistic cursive. I pronounce the word “Muslim” as moos-lim rather than muhs-lim, even when it prompts people

to ask me to repeat myself because they didn’t understand me the first time. I don’t shy away, I don’t change the way I say it, and I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. The ACT may not be able to differentiate me from a girl named Lindsey whose great great great grandparents immigrated from Ireland, but I take pride in my identity, even when those around me do not recognize me.

SELF PORTRAIT COLLAGE

Alaina Lindemann, 9th Lafayette

FOR THE FIRST TIME, A SECOND TIME

Tyler Roberts - Lafayette

Journal Entry 1 - Crystallization

As we sit together for the last time, in the same place where we spent our best moments, I can’t help but feel as if this is just a horrible nightmare from which I can never wake. It was an outof-body experience, yet I had never felt so ugly and disgusted with the place my mind calls home. Perhaps I deserved all of this, maybe somewhere deep down I deserve this. Once the words “I just don’t want this anymore” poisoned my ears, I no longer was content in this hull of a body. Everything now felt like a lukewarm bath in rusty water. What did I do? What didn’t I do? What was so horrible about being with me that you had to cut me out of your life completely? All of these immensely weighted thoughts lay heavier and heavier on my conscience as the moment became more real.

Journal Entry 2 - Ubi Amor, ibi dolor

Now a week has passed since the big first breakup, and I now feel less clarity as the days creep by. I can’t get the words she spoke out of my head, and I can’t get my own thoughts to stop. I had spent the last 6 days bedridden, I had been using my tears as ink to write down the extreme emotions presented by this experience.

My parents walk in and say “It’s just a girl, why are you so worked up.”

I respond with “I don't know.”

Honestly, I did know. She was the sun that sang me a good morning lullaby and the moon that tucked me in at night. Without her, I felt lost. I was unfamiliar with the world, and for the first time in my life, I was truly alone. I had cut off all of my relationships to prove to her she was who I wanted, and everyone else was strictly platonic, nothing more. But I guess it still wasn’t enough for her. Every night I still slept with the stuffed animal she bought me, and every morning I woke up to check my phone for the good morning text. But all there ever is now is a picture of our past burning straight into my empty lifeless eyes. I keep trying to find the will to heal and move on from this moment, but I keep fighting myself. I felt like she was going to come back, but I am the only person on Earth who believes such blasphemy.

Journal Entry 3 - Parfum

For the following weeks, I tried my best to give my mind somewhere else to concentrate. The thing that worked the best was computing my emotions into lyrics and sonnets so I could express myself and help people understand what I felt. For hours upon hours during the day, I would obsess over making intricate pieces of art. So much so that I put it ahead of basic hygiene and socialization. My body would ache and smell like the rotting soul inside of it. But none of this mattered because the art would last far past the time I had to create it. I wish my name, Lucian, wouldn'

wouldn’t even be associated with my art so it could be its entity and live away from the humanity of the creator. It’s much like how a kid grows up and makes a whole different life away from their parents.

No one really would talk to Lucian or even check up on him, even though he was one of the most well-known people at his school. None of this seemed to matter because he was completely separated from his school self. The people that knew him started to resent Lucian because of how they felt about people being associated with him, they were scared of the social stigma surrounding him. Still, it seemed Lucian was as focused as he ever was, no one could take his talent from him, and no one could take it as their own if he stayed alone.

Lucian’s first conversation in weeks came in the form of an interaction with a cashier at the market where he gets pens and notebooks every couple of weeks.

The cashier said,“Will that be all for you today, sir?”

Lucian replies, “Yes, thank you.” in a low and lazy manner.

After the cashier rings it up she pauses briefly and has a slight grin on her face. Not a cheesy one, but one you would display after a compliment that they appreciated.

She then said, “ I have no idea who you are, but I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

Lucian felt something in him that he had not been aware would ever come back, the same feeling the person who changed him

first gave him. He let out a painful and tear-laced giggle in reply. This singular moment changed the trajectory of Lucian’s life forever, as he now has found himself in the mud he was lost in.

SKEPTICAL

Caoimhe Farris - 11th Lafayette

CROWN OF THORNS

Kaylee Horn - 10th Marquette

They call me a fraud

Attention seeker

Sensitive

I couldn't possibly know what I'm talking about

When I say my lungs cannot inflate

When I say every step puts my body in an ax-throwing range

When I say I cannot sleep, trapped with my own memories

My body

Tossed like an unwanted doll to the floor

Cut, not of marble, but from knotted wood

Spit on like a dog

Defaced, vandalized, used

My mind

Missing pathways, darkened corridors lost to the wind

Stapled back together over and over

Taken advantage of, valued with paper money, not coins

Not worth the time, not worth the patience, the love

My spirit

Kicked at like dirt at my lowest

Carved with a dull knife, slashed again and again just to get through

Looked through like stained glass

Forgettable, replaceable, one-time use

I must be an attention seeker

Yes, that must be it

For it's only in my mind

And my mind 'cannot comprehend'

Cannot comprehend

Your excuses, your falsified apologies

I must be an attention seeker

For it could not be that every day I endure a life where I am unincluded

Uninvited

Unaccepted

By people who could never know what it's like

To hear the words of passerby who think you ' re insane

To be unable to escape from the criticism, a constant drone within

To relive

Every Single Moment

That I was screwed over by people I raised on a pedestal

To be physically burdened with sickliness from the stress and the hate and the laughter

How dare you call me a fraud

When you have never seen me at any moment of my life

When you were not there

When you were supposed to care for me

How dare you put the blame on me

For inheriting your worst traits

For being the weight you never wanted to carry

For being the person I am today

When it was you

You

Your Corruption

Your Greed

Your Hate

Your Arrogance

Your Manipulation

That brought this upon me

Don't you dare claim I am a liar

For I have fought for my place in the world

I have kicked, clawed, screamed to be heard

By people like you who believe I wish nothing more than for your approval

I may be diseased but I will NEVER stoop that low

The damage you ' ve done is irreparable

So you will not receive silence

For this pain is because of you

And you will bear my crown of thorns

WE THE GEN-Z

Edward Ter-Hovhannisyan - 10th Marquette

We are the Future, We are the Hope, the Hope for Generation Zed to make the Future Equal, the Hope for Generation Zed to make the Future Just, the Hope for Generation Zed to make the Future Clean. Gen-Z is the Future of the World, and Everyone has to take that to Heart from Listening to Our Critiques, to Helping Us with Our Needs. We can accomplish eminently much if We just put Our powerful minds Together, if We just Work Smart, if We just think about Our Future and what is to come. from alleviating Climate Change, ushering Equity to Our Earth, providing Clean food And water around the Globe, spreading Renewable Energy throughout the World, We, can do anything, We, are the Future… We are the Hope…

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