Excelsior – Spring 2024

Excelsior Excelsior

Spring 2024

Riding a ferris wheel with your friends, visiting your grandmother’s home, snuggling your favorite stuffed animal, playing in the backyard of your childhood home: in retrospect, these mundane occurrences are often the sweetest. Along with spring flowers comes change. Transitions – to an upper grade, warmer weather, graduation - cause us to look back fondly at our past experiences.

Whether it’s daydreaming of a life that no longer exists, missing an airplane company's golden days, or longing for simpler times, nostalgia can present itself in many forms. In this issue, students explore the complexities of what we remember, why we remember, and how we want to be remembered.

Best wishes,

Abigail Callaghan i

Table of Contents Cover image by Sherry Wang Prologue....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... i Image by Carly Tomfohrde Table of Contents............................................................................................................................................................................................................ ii Image by Grace Williams............................................................................................................................................................................................... iii Can You Grieve a Home? by Eliana Holerca............................................................................................................................... 1 Image by Abigail Callaghan Cold (Brew + Foam) by Abigail Callaghan..................................................................................................................................... 3 Image by Sanjna Thoguru This is What I Remember by Chloe Escanillas.......................................................................................................................... 5 Image by Sasha Portnoy Where Are You Boeing? by Sasha Portnoy.................................................................................................................................. 7 Image by Sarah Yan It’s Never Too Late for You by Layla Zaatreh........................................................................................................................... 9 Image by Grace Williams A Perfect Storm by Abigail Callaghan............................................................................................................................................... 11 Image by Grace Williams A Coupon for a Car Wash by Chloe Escanillas.................................................................................................................... 13 Image by Audrey Qian You Might Miss It by Audrey Qian...................................................................................................................................................... 15 Image by Sherry Wang I Hate Talking About My Feelings by Matthew Sauls.................................................................................................. 17 Image by Sherry Wang Do You Remember? by Ojurereoluwa Kassim..................................................................................................................... 19 The Edge of Seventeen by Archisha Sonig................................................................................................................................ 20 Image by Sherry Wang Terrorist Assemblages by Nina Nehra............................................................................................................................................. 23 Image by Sarah Yan Candle Smoke by Audrey Qian.............................................................................................................................................................. 25 Image by Sarah Yan Thank you, Grandma by Eliana Holerca................................................................................................................................... 27 Image by Sherry Wang When I Wake Up by Sherry Wang................................................................................................................................................. 29 To Be Remembered by Abigail Callaghan...............................................................................................................................30 ii Acknowledgements Back cover image by Abigail Callaghan

can you grieve a Home?

By Eliana Holerca we’ve all grieved death, it doesn’t matter why or for what. some say grief is love in a heavy coat, and for the death of people and pets it makes sense. but can you grieve a Home? not just the walls, but also the memories, the people we would’ve been if we were still There? the homework we would’ve done the tears we would’ve cried the friends we would’ve brought over the dinners we would’ve made, the Future we would’ve had if we were still There? the Future that was just within grasp! the Future that was never meant to be ours. so… yes, you can grieve a Home, but you can’t grieve the quilts or cups or clothes because the real question is… can you grieve a Future? and the answer is Yes. Yes you can.

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Cold(Brew + Foam)

By Abigail Callaghan Amidst the wreckage of apple seeds and hodgepodge attempts at modesty, Eve cowered.

Fear, they claim, was taught by red apple peels on a tongue which only knew sweetness. They lied. Fear was taught as she cowered, by Eden’s gates, in the shadow of G-d, as He queried: If given the choice, would she eat the apple again? And she had to concede her subsequent years in squalor were worth her impetuousness, for while in one moment she wiped Abel’s blood off Cain’s fists, in another, she brought the apple to her lips.

Time’s as linear as your predicted vs actual plots – a jumbled mess of data resembling a rollercoaster rather than a perfect line. All moments exist simultaneously to all other moments your mother claims in the shadow of your childhood house before you tumble down the hill.

So while you’re humming “Naive” underneath your breath as your plots trend toward linearization, she’s tucking the covers under your chin, and before you shut your eyes don’t forget to glance at embroidered roses on your curtains for they’re quivering from the wind.

Would you still run if you could spot the finish line, as two laces lie in your hands, and you’re drawing back your arms? The bullet’s piecing the air, in seconds you’ll be swept into a cacophony of shoes. All that ends, ends; fatalism is born in reminiscence, not zeitgeist, but swear you were cognizant of your fragility with one foot on the starting line. Draw back your arms, for though you will finish bruised, you can still run now.

So take your bruised hand and type your little stories. Be sure to brush the graphite from your knuckles before you go chasing after two zeros for they’ll turn to bond orders eventually.

Haut les cœres* (chin up): before you smile, wipe your clammy palms on satin and whisper “Tu vois, moi aussi j'ai peur*” (you know, I’m afraid too). Predict your impetuousness in a novel and personify your dream in the character “Rose” for as you shut your eyes to sleep, you imagine those embroidered roses.

Every dog has their day; lie and say yours was underneath the warmth of a newborn autumn sun as he utters your name, pointedly ignoring the glances back for the leaves are quivering above his head from the wind. But it’s 2 a.m. on a Saturday and Noah Kahan’s the soundtrack to your secluded pitch black room and you’ve discarded diatoms and a burning phone for a burning laptop to type your little stories. Sleepwalk to SAC in the morning humming “Homesick” though you’ve never felt more at home, (and is serendipity only sweet because of the absence of strife or the contents of the moment?). This is your day; order…

“Order for cold brew with cold foam?”

Taste the cold foam as Eve tasted the apple. For though you will be banished from Eden, when you’re at its gates and G-d asks if the apple was worth the aftertaste, you can say: “Yes.” *Lyrics from “Haut Les Cœres” by Fauve

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This is What I Remember

By Chloe Escanillas

the mini m&m tumbled down the concrete driveway in front of the blurry house i can’t quite remember now whether it was painted yellow or blue or pink if the hinges on the door creaked or if its steps embraced Dad’s footsteps pressed against them in the darkness when he came home from work what i do remember is you hollering from the porch a long string of noooooooooo in slow motion don’t eat that m&m time absorbed into one still moment the trees stopped and stared and looked my way but my smooth little palm possessed a magnetic attraction to this piece of candy and the breeze guided its way to my mouth i chewed slowly with my baby canines that just grew in and took one big gulp its sweetness filled every corner of my cave satisfying the pink dragon inside the sun applauded me with its rays and the blurry house shook with laughter 5

Where are you Boeing?

By Sasha Portnoy In the nineteen sixties, When jets roamed the sky If it was a Boeing You wanted to fly!

When Boeing was great, No one could wait For the next plane they’d create…

All seats in the air Were first class, no ploy.

It was just and fair And all flew with joy.

Oh, those were the good days, The elegant planes.

They were so much better than trains…

Oh Boeing what happened?

Why’re screws falling off?

You pushed away talent And fell off the top.

It was all ‘bout money, Executives’ greed.

You’re no longer running The old esteemed creed.

Your quality’s lacking And bureaucrats lie, Technicians are slacking, And people could die.

Oh, glorious Boeing, Please be you once more!

Lets see the planes growing Like never before.

With screws where they should be, Attached with right force.

I wish that you would see, You’re on the wrong course!

You find the best people And treat them like kings! rid yourself of evil And spread wide your wings.

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It’s It’s Never Never Too Too Late Late For For You You

By Layla Zaatreh

It is never too late for you.

If one day I was to wake to you at my door, I would let you in without question.

I would sit you down, Make you a warm coffee, And simply let you speak.

In my worst days, your words consoled me, Your voice a gentle hum, Your phrases akin to hymns.

Let me do the same for you, sing you that same quiet lullaby, Til your eyes flutter shut and your mind is at rest.

It is never too late.

I will always accept you.

If one day you were to tell me you’ve committed some unconscionable deed, I would let you in, Sit you down with some warm coffee, And allow myself to be shunned alongside you.

You are like a song.

Every breath you take is an elegant note, Every word you speak is a creative lyric.

You are a delicate tune, One that I will repeat until your gentle verses leave me deafened.

Even then, I will reread the lyrics.

It is never too late for you.

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A Perfect Storm

By Abigail Callaghan

Does the sailor aboard Andrea Gail, as the water rushes from the creaking metal, fight to keep his head above water?

Or rather, does he sink, Weighed down by carnival lights and a sticky hand in his?

Kept by the green light and the aftertaste of salt whenever wind brushes his neck.

Kept by the sky that appears as sea, an the sea that was sky on quiet days.

Kept by the warmth of the boiler and echoes of laughter still in his ears as he slipped into his bunk.

“And would you run away?” He was asked atop the ferris wheel where no boats, no fishing ports, no swordfish nets could be spotted.

“And would you be content with mundanity?” Was the rephrased question.

For the water loved him once, and his allegiance never wavered, so grave-fellows is the only fitting outcome.

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A Coupon for a Car Wash

By Chloe Escanillas

mom, when you put your car in neutral and took your hands off the wheel it was like we had just arrived at the aquarium even though i could barely see over the dash and the passenger airbag couldn’t detect my excitement in the dark at first i was scared to embrace it i had so many questions for you what are these wavy noodles slapping against our car? would all of these bubbles lift our car to the sky? will these gigantic blow dryers make my eardrums burst? you smiled and said everything would be okay you would protect me and you did with the radio blasting our favorite song and the windows rolled up tight but now that i have my own car i’m not sure if i can do it on my own i think my car looks dirty and the only aquarium i’ve ever known is the one closest to wherever you are if it’s not too much to ask could you drive me to the car wash?

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artwork

You Might Miss It

By Audrey Qian the dream wasn’t always this sweet but it is right now and the diner’s lights are warm as you hum a song from the show. you’ll have to wake up soon oh please but one more minute see the plates are empty now they’re playing among us now your humming’s changed its tune. your day will have to start soon oh for one last time though twenty checks are on the table some laughter melts into chatter Show me how to remember.

—oh wait! just one more thing before the sun makes us forget— you aren’t actually asleep you will be soon soon but not right now under the warm lights as you join in laughing.

(Can you hear the melody ring?)

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I hate talking about my feelings

By Matthew Sauls

I hate talking about my feelings It’s as if when I speak them out loud they lose half their meaning My mom has taught me not to say the word hate yet I still use it I’ve done things for the plot I dug the grime underneath my fingernails Ripped out my lashes Stared at myself for 40 mins Just to be 40% satisfied with the person staring back I hate talking about my feelings Do you hear it The banter The chatter The laughing The gossip The smell of wet dogs and stuffed faces Or do you watch Lies running down throats and kneading there intestines like dough We normalize complaining about privilege And normalize wallowing in pain I hate talking about my feelings So I stare And listen To sounds of the cone of a world Opinions of other matter more than the people saying them Hear the glide of words on the walls I hear the passing of cars I hear them getting close And hear the air being sucked behind them They leave nothing I see stories behind each vehicle And sobs of rain clinging there backsides But before I never saw I never heard Because the world then wasn’t my oyster but a playground A place where I could find my friends on the swings Or my sister on the slide A place where my biggest problem was finding wood chips in my shoe I loved talking about my feelings

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Do You Remember?

By Ojurereoluwa Kassim Do you remember watching cartoons at the crack of Dawn Running downstairs for breakfast without a yawn Excitement peaking for the day ahead No myriad of homework waiting to be read Do you remember dashing through the halls filled only with laughter The bouncing rubber balls everyone chased after The feelings of excitement bursting with the bell chime An hour of recess meant almost unlimited time Do you remember the splashing of water The burning summer sun shining on our skin The feeling of floating and the serenity within Do you remember when our Happiness was unending Not dependent on how many likes your newest post was getting The feeling that at night you could rest assured That your future was secure, your dreams ensured Because when dusk arrives all that remains is feelings and thoughts.

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The The Edge Edge of of Seventeen Seventeen

By Archisha Sonig 2012 The chirp of birds and the relaxing hum of the crickets surrounds her as she sits on the dock on the edge of the lake. The ducks float around, some diving for food with their feathery butts in the air, some preening their feathers, and some sleeping. The dragonflies dance on the water, their thin legs leaving the smallest ripples.

Her princess shoes with neon-orange laces and her blue polka-dot socks stuffed in them sit to the left of her, and her teddy bear, named Daisy, sits on the right.

The beeps of the UHaul truck slowly backing up into her driveway echo behind her.

She wonders if she’ll see this lake again.

She won’t.

6 2014 She looks outside her bedroom window and sees white fluffs of snow billowing down to the parking lot in front.

She rumbles down the stairs and opens the front door with such ferocity that the glass door bangs against the brick wall.

In her frog pajamas, outside on her porch at nine in the night, she is alone again once more.

She sits on the steps leading to the door, and watches as the flakes slowly tumble to the ground.

She places her hand on the thin layer of snow, her hand slightly stinging from the cold.

But she doesn’t care.

She lays down, feeling the snow melt through the back of her shirt, the cold water running down her back.

Snowflakes fall on her face and eyelashes, as a small smile appears on her face.

She wonders if she’ll be like this again.

She won’t.

8 2016 She lies down on her bed, reading a book as she hears the faint banging of a door and voices calling her name to come out and play.

She looks up from her book, and rushes down the stairs.

The door flings open, and she smiles as she sees her friends, their scooters and skateboards in hand, running out to the sidewalk as she follows suit.

After hours of play, they collapse on the grass underneath the flagpole, scratches on their elbows and arms.

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The summer sun is high up in the sky, shining onto her face as the cold breeze blows through her hair.

She feels the prickles of freshly cut grass on her back and legs, and runs her hands through them until she feels a yellow dandelion.

She plucks it and holds it up to the sun.

The sky is the bluest she’s ever seen.

The sunbeams shine through the delicate petals, crowning the flower.

She twirls the dandelion and watches it dance in the light, as her eyes droop with content tiredness.

Just as she’s about to close her eyes, her friends scream for her name, and she stands up to go on one last adventure.

She wonders if she’ll see them again.

She won’t.

10 2021 She watches the moving truck drive down to the end of her street, taking a right and disappearing.

She hears the sprinklers of lawns go off, their songs splashing onto the grass, forming dew drops that shine in the evening sun.

She holds her pillow in one hand, and her blanket in another.

She hears her dad calling her name, as her sister and mother make their way into the car.

She stays still.

She closes her eyes, and hears the music of her neighborhood.

The swaying of the trees.

The giggle of children.

The dogs barking through their windows.

The birds chirping.

She opens her eyes, and finds tears slowly welling up.

She wipes them away, opens the door of the car, and sits inside.

She opens the window, sticks her head out, and watches her beloved home turn into a soulless house.

She wonders if she’ll be back again.

She won’t.

14 2024 She flips through a yearbook and stares at the faces she once knew.

The schools she once learned in.

The people she once met.

The moments she once lived.

A pile of others sits next to her, waiting to be opened.

But she’s scared to open them.

Maybe it's because she doesn’t want to remember.

Or maybe it’s because she doesn’t want to forget.

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Terrorist Assemblages

By Nina Nehra I wonder if your mother let you dream.

The ones where home smells like jasmine, where pickled vegetables are at every dinner, where women drum with resilience, regardless of the bangs and bullets outside.

Did I say that you’re like me?

We both have mothers who persevere, almost stubbornly, ones who make sure the culture that these foreigners tried so hard to erase, will only come out of us if we bleed out.

The echoes of our names are bombs in interrogation rooms, threats to every single airport security procedure, indicators of a life in politics we never chose.

We stand as obelisks and gates of the old world.

We come from women who reap crops, who will initiate a ritual of switching the news channel to music videos of belly dancers and Kathak so that you don’t see yourself in that Iraqi child’s body. And you watch them dance with hurt feet, your throat a shrine to their rhythm.

Your father is bullets away, wrapped in a cotton shroud.

But you are not an orphan, for you hold on to his stubbornness, a blessing only given through blood. And the idea of living in your home seems like a bridal fantasy as your mothers sing songs of homecoming.

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Candle Smoke

By Audrey Qian Tendrils of sweet smoke are craved, pupils dilated, eyes bear into pretty piping, desiring invisibility, you waited.

Another passing year blown out in denial of time— because the running wax, ruins everything in its prime.

Discordant notes halt, You breathe in and obtain ephemeral particles that enthrall the brain.

What is it you smell?

Maybe crust to air— cycles revived, burning rings in rings to celebrate each year the tree survived.

Or rancid industrial byproducts, perhaps aging has a price the sense evolved to detect poisons There is no beauty in melting ice.

The lights come back on and you wince Did you remember to make a wish?

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Thank you, Grandma

By Eliana Holerca sunshine and coffee cups, green beans and butterflies. the kitchen where I learned how to cook, where I learned my Bible stories, where I learned what it means to be a woman. blankets and recliners, bookshelves and pianos. the den where I learned my scales, where I learned how to tie my shoes, where I learned who Rachel Ray is. tulips lined the walkways, purple hydrangeas lined the driveway, lilac grew around the windows. turtles turned up every year in August and cardinals loved the big trees. the bay where I learned to fish and crab pot, the pool where I learned to swim. the clubhouse where I learned the Flag Code and the playground where I got too many splinters to count. the house, where Grandma lived.

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When I Wake Up

By Sherry Wang

when i was five, i had a tiny, twin-sized bed full of stuffed animals, to the point where my mom wondered how i made room for myself. they all had their own names, personalities, stories— ms. cow from the fair, bee bee the bumble bee, jeffrey the giraffe… every night, i hugged a different stuffed animal as i fell asleep because i didn’t want the others to be sad. a few years later, i switched to a queen-sized bed, which would have made younger me ecstatic to fill with stuffed animals. but i wasn’t. big kids don’t have stuffed animals. so i hid them in the closet, basement, boxes hoping they all got their turn.

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To Be Remembered

By Abigail Callaghan

When the storm came, it came on suddenly with sharp gales, a sky like a tapestry of some Greek hero’s fall, and fistfuls of rain, descending as an afterthought.

You grabbed your dog and scampered from the ground that was already turning to mud.

As the last of the lilacs were washed away, Star Trek Voyager, Course: Oblivion replayed, where the crew of voyager duplicated and the fake crew tried to send records of themselves to the galaxy before they disintegrated, in order to be remembered.

Time is linear in the sense that it’s experienced sequentially as the pages are in a book, and sure, all moments exist simultaneously, but you can’t escape to better days; you have to live through the storm.

In the heat of July 1977 six year old Nick Sagan abandoned his soccer ball for his couch.

Linda and Carl Sagan brought over a microphone, and asked what he’d like extraterrestrials to know.

He pressed his lips to the microphone, ignoring how his parent’s friend, Ann Duryan, looked at his father.

“Hello from the children of planet Earth.”

His father engraved his words onto gold plated copper, his mother etched the instructions to play the disks, and Ann Duryan handed the records to the Voyager Probes, launched that September.

Today, Nick’s greeting, the then Secretary of the UN’s introduction, and Chuck Berry’s Johnny B Goode are the only recordings of English outside of the solar system.

When Nick, years after his parent’s divorce, and his father’s death, sat down to write Course: Oblivion, he said he wanted to express humanity’s ”need to be remembered, need to be recorded.”

Perhaps he was inspired by the knowledge that billions of miles above him were: the hymn of an old man living in the wreckage of his house Beethoven’s final complete piece of music, a young girl’s, from Huancavalica, marriage song for her sister, Saturn V’s liftoff, the brain waves of Ann Duryan, thinking of how she loved Nick’s father, and a young Nick, before the storm immortalized in the infinity of space.

For when the earth is swallowed by the sun and the bones of those who remember us are incinerated, shuttled across the galaxy will be a bookmark, to our page in time.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Editor-in-Chief 2023-2024: Abigail Callaghan ‘24 Editors of Spring 2024 edition: Archisha Sonig ‘25 & Sanjna Thoguru ‘25 Co-Vice Editors-in-Chief: Eliana Holerca ‘24 Nina Nehra ‘24 Sherry Wang ‘24 Secretary: Chloe Escanillas ‘24 Editors: Shifa Eraj ‘24 Sophia Opong ‘24 Audrey Qian ‘24 Sarah Yan ‘24 Ojurereoluwa Kassim ‘26 Special thanks to...

Ms. Angelos, Club Advisor Dr. Loy Dr. Chodl Ms. Bautista-Burk Mr. Domanski

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