Excelsior – Spring 2025

E

x c e l s i o r

spring 2025

Not everything is what it appears to be.

The air stirs. A reflection flickers, then disappears.

And suddenly, the story shifts.

Perspective is less about what’s seen and more about where you’re standing when you see it.

It changes with time, with distance, with a second thought.

What feels certain in one breath, unravels in the next.

The pieces gathered here offer angles.

A collection of distortions and revelations.

Some may feel oddly familiar, like memories you never claimed.

Others may leave something unresolved.

Let them pass and stir the settled dust of your understanding.

And as you turn each page, we hope something in you turns too.

a n j n a S & a h s i h c r A

Table of Contents Cover Image by Avni Yedlarajaiah Image by Avni Yedlarajaiah Prologue Image by Karina Ni Table of Contents Image by Ella Lin Song of Sails by Evan Bekos Image by Avni Yedlarajaiah Madame X by Mikaela Villajoaquin Image by Zaynab Baig December’s Wishes by Aanya Chadha Image by Maelee Liu Why I Move Forward by Davi Soares Image by Zaynab Baig The Iris by Niara Beckwith Image by Maelee Liu The Tool of Destruction by Amalia Tsampalis Image by Karina Ni The Sea and Me by Aanya Chadha Image by Ella Lin Silent Rebellion by Julia Opong-Marfo Image by Aanya Chadha Autumn by Nicole Cheteyan-Kane Image by Maelee Liu Barely Breathing by Olukayomide Odusote Image by Ella Lin The Gallery by Aanya Baid Image by Zaynab Baig Deeper by Olukayomide Odusote Image by Karina Ni My Small Glass House by Aanya Chadha Image by Ella Lin Partition by Aanya Baid Image by Karina Ni Image by Hongzhan Yao Acknowledgments Image by Alexandra Vu Back Cover Image by Ella Lin

i iii 1 3 5 7 9 11 13 15 17 19 21 23 25 27

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Song of Sails

By Evan Bekos Blue Skies the beautiful blue skies the Father-Son duo learning to sail enjoying the sun's radiation New England vibe what a nice day to... sail build a deeper relationship with a man you call a father but more importantly your idol The water is restless we feel at peace two things on the mind Sailing and Father A moment you want to keep for the rest of your life but it is slipping so fast A song of sails Beautiful blue skies up above

1

Madame X

By Mikaela Villajoaquin written in response to the painting Madame X by John Singer Sargent

I stand, not as a woman but as a myth poised with the precedence of scandal and graced with a figure of whispers Her very presence- a spark, which ignites tongues And her porcelain skin- a beacon, exclaiming for notice Her ravenous dress, teasing the boundary between prosperity and temptation, is burned by their venomous remarks Men whose gazes are fixed with a lustful spirit and their covetous counterparts stare with yearning adoration She is inviting but never insisting, thoughtful but never nurturing Madame X, You are the pinnacle of elegance, an example of timeless beauty, and forever etched into the canvas by the master's brush 3

December’s Wishes

By Aanya Chadha

Oh December in your chill You manage to transform the world into a serene wonderland Covering what was once green into blankets of white Twinkling lights ornament our homes While your spirit of Christmas fills the world Uniting families to share moments of laughter and love As I celebrate another year, Your warmth graces my birthday, sweet and bright, Each candle’s glow over a big chocolate cake A new wish for me!

Outside you dance around with snowflakes falling from the sky While we embrace each other's presence inside our warm homes Snow angels, ice skating, sledding, Finding wonder in the simplest things you bring us With each year, I find more and more to love Your beauty, the warmth of celebration, And the magic that you December, bring to me

5

Why I Move Forward

By Davi Soares

I speak Like there’s no tomorrow I act Like I never lived through sorrow I spend Like I’ll never need to borrow But deep down I have fears, too.

I’m a mess No Lancey Foux, but I really am a mess Some thoughts can’t get out of my head Do people really like me?

I’d never know But I’ll try to decimate these thoughts With a flaming bow and arrow Bow and arrow, what Ishida used To fight for the people he loved And no matter how much I struggle with myself I’ll never stop fighting for the people I love To learn is to fail To succeed is to learn No matter how many times I have failed You keep me going Yes, You, You are the engine to my car You are the love that wants me To live my life.

7

The Iris

By Niara Beckwith written in response to the painting Irises by Vincent Van Gogh

Even though this garden is full of many different flowers There is only one type of flower that is noticed, the Iris By first glance, you might not realize there are other flowers in this garden But if you actually take a chance to look around you’ll see that there are marigolds poppies moonflowers That’s what our friendship was like I was a marigold and She was an Iris Always the center of attention Taking up space, but not allowing enough air for anyone else to breathe Always the prettiest, loudest, and tallest in ego I felt bad for her Her role as the Iris was to always appear perfect In this garden, everyone placed the Iris on a pedestal No one ever saw when the flower was wilting But if you inspected closely you’d see the Iris’s petals slowly dying Crippling under the pressure of always being seen 9

The Tool of Destruction

By Amalia Tsampalis

My tool of destruction is in my right hand, so I face myself in the mirror.

Hot, violent surges carefully analyze imperfections: curls and chaos where there should be lines, strays that do not conform.

Fueled by a current that is sharp and electric, my fury intensifies.

Fiercely grabbing at any part that seems to fray outward.

And the singeing sizzles become sickly sweet.

Yet my head feels so fuzzy, so immense and intense.

That even the vigor from this scorching jaw cannot clamp hard enough to straighten this out.

My tool of destruction is in my wrong hand, and now I must face myself in the mirror.

11

The Sea and Me

By Aanya Chadha

There is a place where the ocean whispers to the sky, The sand sinks softly between my toes.

Each grain holds a memory, a time, a place One grain recalls flying on playground swings with my sister, Another brings back the warm scent of grandma’s cookies.

As I gaze at the field below, I drift in a sea of memories, I was standing above the ebb and flow of past, present, and future.

The breeze above lets out a soft sigh, carrying echoes of laughter.

Waves dance around me, shimmering with the secrets of mermaids below.

Seashells bask in the golden light above; each is whispering its tale, woven from the sea's timeless depths.

Dusk reveals the heavens of yearning; afterglow takes over the azure as shadows stretch.

She apprised secrets of dreams yet to be fulfilled of the world.

The stars finally arrive like old friends through a window of memory.

The ocean sings me a lullaby as I drift away.

As my eyes sink to the bottom of the sea I feel like a child Young and free I see myself swimming to the bottom of the ocean, picking up all the treasures I can find So I gather my pirate treasures from the hidden coves; I pack up my trinkets to sail the endless blue.

In the embrace of the tides, I find who I am— awash, I choose to breathe.

I still chase the horizon, where twilight meets the sea, reminding me of the days when time felt infinite.

13

Silent Rebellion

By Julia Opong-Marfo

written in response to the photograph Ghanaian Man In London, Piccadilly Circus, artist unknown

truly a circus from my eyes this city breathes in, then sighs. each step of a hurried heel, then humming of a fluorescent sky

she attempts to understand my outerwear inside, years of Ghanaian royalty have adorned this cloth

faces blur like long exposure my gaze looks to see if this will ever pause however, this rhythm never breaks a never-ending cause

the other compares her sandals to my ahenema yet handmade by my mother, passed down from my father

black and grey suits reinforce the muted tones while floral frocks argue with their melancholy lost in a white of sea there stands a figure in woven history the loose thread in this patterned tapestry I watch as I face a new chapter I watch as I turn the page from dirt roads, street vendors, the hot sun calling my name— to unfamiliar skies, holding them hostage replacing what I knew with bright adverts and bright red busses from sipping hot Milo with agege bread every morning to freezing my hands with these iced drinks these concerned gazes watch me constantly, dusk til dawn do they not see my golden soul, rather than my skin?

the gentleman questions why I bear a purse But must it mask my masculine features? why must it all change? from best student to outcast why must I change? more professional means I must walk into this barbershop To cut down my “bush” to suffer the aftermath of a sharp feeling and scent of aftershave or rather my heart tearing, like how I am from my home must I mute my vivid colors and blend into the muted tones?

I hold a newspaper rather than my purse and I don’t stop, I go? like you, ALL of you, for you here I am, in the middle of this circus the crowd’s presence lingers and blurs I’ll remain the symbol that won’t conform the message to these generations never to change and forget their home We shall stay the calm in the endless storm

15

Autumn

By Nicole Cheteyan-Kane The trees and branches sway in a gentle breeze I wander around my mind at ease The leaves are changing colors I think they would look good painted in watercolors The sun is shining kindly I continue to wander blindly The rocks in the path glimmer wet with rain I have nothing here to gain The clouds drift slowly in the sky I know they won’t begin to cry The creek rambles by chatting quietly I feel far away from society The birds respond in kind I find I don’t mind Until I feel myself go blind I hear a bell chime When I regain my sight I look up at the night The sun is no more The trees reach out, as it to drag me away The leaves whispers sound cruel as if to torture me The clouds sink into fog as if to suffocate me The creek starts flooding as if to drown me The birds whistle, as if to draw me out of hiding I try to run But I cannot move I use a flashlight But all it does it reflect glowing eyes I feel the shadows draw nearer But I don’t know what they are I see their silhouettes But all I see are shadows I hear the bell again All at once the forest lurches The shadows swarm my vision The branches barricade my movements The leaves burn my ears The clouds fill my lungs The creek floods my body The birds come to scavenge And suddenly, there is nothing

17

Barely Breathing

By Olukayomide Odusote I think I'm afraid Or maybe just in pain Because I left my thoughts untamed My anxieties unnamed And myself to grow insane.

"Everything I wanted has left me" Is what I said to keep my self-pity Even when I became the key That unlocked my safest everything.

So I filled the hole with a newer form By saying "It was my fault all was torn" All because I always needed something to mourn.

As exhausting the obvious can be I'm still reaching for what I can't see.

My energy is somehow existing Even though my excuses are only tiring All while my everything is somewhere following Scaring my sanity into leaving And myself barely breathing.

But I horde it all to myself For the fear of dropping it when I ask for help And so I leave it on the farthest place on my shelf Only to just eat it later when I find someone to tell.

It grows and poisons inside of me Filling with too much to even see So an end I wish for, and to myself I plead But I'm forced to stay and never flee Now I hold my secrets safe inside While resenting my choices, but believing my lies Until it all starts to pour out my eyes.

It floods over now Then evaporates into a cloud That becomes a storm to my thoughts, not as loud It lingers in and over my head Fogging my sight, face heavy as lead Suffocating air pacifies all feelings Holding me in place and barely breathing

19

The Gallery

By Aanya Baid

Fleeting moments Is all we have Fleeting moments and then it’s all in the past Days bleed into one another Like a watercolor painting Starry Night Mona Lisa The Kiss Girl With a Pearl Earring

the sower la scapigliata lady with fan the little street The spaces in between the shared laughter the coffee brewing the long car rides the poem being written

An artist is remembered by their great works Fleeting moments is all we have The ones that stand out Fleeting moments then it’s all in the past The ones that are different The paintings that make it to the gallery, are the ones that are deemed worthy The tassel turned The ring on your finger The candles blown out The vacations taken But there are a thousand other paintings That are unseen A thousand other paintings That are tossed aside

3 hours till the bell rings 2 days till Friday 1 year left of school The countdown never stops And the cycle repeats to no end But yet in our haste We forget to treasure the substance of our lives Fleeting moments are all we have, fleeting moments till it’s all in the past 21

Deeper

By Olukayomide Odusote My ball of blue gives off a purple hue When mixed with the red that leaked from my forehead A red that bleeds an answer darker than me An answer that has me against my deepest beliefs A color whose shade left me newly made Giving me sense whenever I talked in past tense Looking at it gave my eyes a new tint While holding it tight burned my hands with its light But while my palms were torn it kept my mind fairly warm As I continued to listen deeply into my ocean Closer I held my ball, the deeper I continued to fall Into a sea of thoughts that fed my mind a lot The more and more I continued to pour This ocean of tears clogs my ears Nothing is better to me, when what I have let’s me be But as bright as it seems, only darkness it brings I knew I’d have to pretend when asked if I'm okay with this end falling deeper in thought forgetting all I had taught But what's the point of swimming up when the water floods all too much Filling in and over me, forcing to let go and fall freely into the deep 23

My Small Glass House

By Aanya Chadha

What a small, round world surrounds me.

I’m safe here.

I’m warm here.

There's a harsh, scary real world out there.

My days drift by as I circle the rocks below, the algae across the walls around me.

The same sights every day: sofa, television, and the painting on the wall.

Until it’s time.

I awaken.

The sky rains food— perfect flakes or tiny pebbles.

My favorite time of day.

It is the one time I’m noticed.

25

Partition August 14th, 1947

By Aanya Baid

The dinner I carefully made 2 hours earlier sits half eaten on the table as we stand with our faces pressed against the rusting window. Every minute that we stand there, the shouts become more violent, the riots get more aggressive, and the sound of glass breaking happens so often that it doesn’t phase me anymore. 10 minutes pass, and instead of subsiding, the shouts only get louder. I know what I should do — but I can’t.

I won’t. 10 more minutes, I tell myself.

After not 10, but 15 minutes go by— I can’t ignore it anymore. I start packing, trying not to start panicking to not make him any more worried. I haphazardly throw my diary, food, and water into a bag as I go around our house for the last time, trying to think of anything else we might need, knowing I only have minutes left. I look over the cracking walls, the bed that me and him have shared since we decided we were inseparable at 2 years old. I turn and look at the window that was shattered a month ago, when he decided it was a good idea to practice his cricket throwing skills inside the house. As I make my way back to the kitchen, I take one last look at our small but well kept home. I look at him, and without saying a word, he opens the door for me as we both step out of the house.

The streets I once knew have become unrecognizable — flames lick at familar buildings, transforming what was once a vibrant neighborhood into one thick with smoke and ash. Riots rage everywhere, with gunshots adding fuel to the chaos every minute.

My brother grabs my hand tightly as we weave through the alleyways, trying to find a way out. All around me, I hear desperate voices.

“Take the children and leave, I will be fine. It’s too dangerous for us all to go.” a man urges his wife, his voice strained with forced calm. ”I cannot leave without you,” she pleads. ”Go to your sister's place, I will join you when I can.”

I pull my brother along, trying to navigate through the panicked crowds. We pass a young boy and girl huddled in a doorway, confusion and terror on their faces.

“Where do we go?” The little girl whispers. ”Be quiet, we must wait here. I’m sure they will return soon.”

Trudging through the people around us, I try to tune out what’s happening around me and just focus on one thing— getting to the train station. But I can’t. The town I grew up in, the familiar shops and roads I knew like the back of my hand were all crumbling behind me.

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The people who had become my family, the friends who had helped me through the tough times, even the small daily conversations I had with the shopkeepers — were gone. I can’t help but think of the life I was running away from, the life that was so familiar, so mundane, so consistent — that will soon become just a memory.

I can see the train station now, it is only a couple minutes away. So close. I hold his hand tighter as we keep running, along with hundreds of others, knowing that catching the train is our only way out.

Thousands push forward, their most valuable possessions wrapped in cloth and clutched to their chests. The train is packed already, it doesn’t look like there’s room to breathe. A quick glance above, and I see people climbing and sitting on top of the train just to make sure they have a spot. I hope we’ll make it, I think to myself. I make my way through the people around me, telling him to stay close. Finally, I’m able to take one step on the train and make my way on. But just when we had finally gotten to the threshold of safety, the crowd suddenly pushes against me, as I feel his fingers slipping from mine.

I scream his name, but my voice disappears into the shouts of thousands of others.

Another push, and our hands break apart. I’m swept forward, further into the train, while he’s carried backwards in the tide of bodies. I look back, screaming and crying, as I catch one last glimpse of his terrified face turning back toward me before the crowd swallows him whole. Pushing against the crowd, I try to get off the train and run towards him, but it’s pointless. Shoved onto the train, I look back to hear him call my name one final time, and then — nothing. While I’m still struggling to get off, I feel the train starting to move. No. No. This can’t be happening. I slam my fists against the metal, scream for someone to stop it — but the doors are locked, the guards are unmoved, and the platform is already slipping away behind us. This can’t be — how did I allow this to happen? I shouldn't have gotten on. Not without him. Not like this. I stick my head out of the train window as the smoke from the fires starts stinging my watery eyes. Starting to sob, I feel as if it's impossible to catch my breath. I scream his name, frantically searching through the now distant faces in the crowd. But it’s too late.

I made it to what I hope is safety — but what kind of safety is this? What's the point if he’s not here, standing beside me?

I fall to my knees, head in my hands, clutching the bag that still holds his things. Around me, some weep, others yell, and some just sit in silence, mourning the life they once had. Through my tear filled eyes, I see a blurry picture of the place and people I used to call home. I made it to the train — but what use is it, if the person who holds half of my soul is left behind?

28

70 years later, India I adjust my sari with trembling hands. Seventy years. Seventy years since hindustan was divided, Seventy years since I lost my brother. Every night, my head rests on my pillow but my mind stays awake, asking the same questions over and over. Did he survive? Is he still searching for me, like I search for him?

I look back, my daughter giving me an encouraging smile. She knows what scenes play through in my head— “What if it's not him? What if I hear the news I have dreaded for seventy years — that he didn’t survive.

I look down at the bag I'm holding. It carried my most precious possession. Worth more to me than any piece of jewelry, fancy car, or expensive clothing — the diary that I clutched that night. Its pages are slightly wrinkled, stained with both blood and tears.

Inside are childhood photographs, memories from our life in Pakistan, and of course, what I wrote on the train that night — determined to find my brother again. Its pages had yellowed, but the memories of that night remained as sharp as the broken glass that was littered on the street.

I think back to how much it took to get us here. Years of paperwork, getting a special visa, three days of travel from Lahore to Delhi — all following a thin thread of hope based on records we had found a year ago. I can’t turn back now, I think.

I move my eyes to the weathered door, taking a deep breath. Slowly, I raise my wrinkled, tried hand to knock 3 times. The thirty seconds that followed felt like an eternity. Each moment stretches until I'm certain we have made a terrible mistake, until I'm convinced we are at the wrong house.

When the door finally opens, a younger man appears, a look of confusion on his face.

Slowly, I try to explain. “We have come here from Pakistan.” I say, my voice trembling. “I am looking for someone…” the words catch in my throat. How do I explain seventy years of loss in a doorway conversation? I try again, trying to not let my emotions get the best of me. “My brother… we got separated during the partition. I was just wondering if… if he lives here?” I don’t think I'm making any sense, I think to myself. I begin explaining a bit further, “They told us at the records office that a boy matching my brother's description came to Delhi in September of 1947. I know it sounds impossible after all this time but —” The young man's eyes widened slightly. Something in my rambling explanation must have made sense, I hope.

29

When the door finally opens, a younger man appears, a look of confusion on his face.

Slowly, I try to explain. “We have come here from Pakistan.” I say, my voice trembling.

“I am looking for someone…” the words catch in my throat. How do I explain seventy years of loss in a doorway conversation? I try again, trying to not let my emotions get the best of me. “My brother… we got separated during the partition. I was just wondering if… if he lives here?” I don’t think I'm making any sense, I think to myself. I begin explaining a bit further, “They told us at the records office that a boy matching my brother's description came to Delhi in September of 1947. I know it sounds impossible after all this time but —” The young man's eyes widened slightly. Something in my rambling explanation must have made sense, I hope.

He smiles, beckoning us both to come in, then saying “Nana, there is someone here to see you.” My heart nearly stops. Could it truly be possible?

He leads us to a small sitting room where an elderly man sits by the window. He looks up at us, leaning forward.

“Nana, they have come from Pakistan” the young man says.

“Pakistan?”

I reach into my bag, pulling out my diary, filled with photographs of when we were young. I show him, starting to explain. I notice his expression begins to change. He’s staring at me now, not the photograph in his hand. His eyes widen in disbelief. He rises shakily to his feet, his grandson rushing to support him.

He opens his arms and suddenly the years we have been apart fall away. I am no longer an 85 year old woman, but a young girl who has finally found her way home.

“All these years, I searched every refugee camp, and wrote to every office — I thought you were gone,” he says, trying to hold back his tears.

Around us, more people gather. His sons and their wives, grandchildren, drawn by the commotion. They look at us with wonder, relatives from across the border, these missing pieces of their family history standing in front of them.

In the evening light, surrounded by family we never knew we shared, the borders begin to dissolve, revealing what was always true - some bonds can never be broken. Not by time, not by distance, and not even by hastily drawn lines that tore a once united nation in two.

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Acknowledgments

Editor-in-chiefs 2024-2025:

Archisha Sonig ‘25 & Sanjna Thoguru ‘25

Assistant Editor: ojurereoluwa Kassim ‘26

Features:

Aanya Baid’25 Niara Beckwith ‘25 Evan Bekos ‘25 Aanya Chadha ‘25 Nicole Cheteyan-Kane ‘25 olukayomide odusote ‘27 Julia opong-Marfo’25 Amalia Tsampalis’25 Mikaela villajoaquin ‘25

Special Thanks to...

Ms. Angelos, Club Advisor Dr. Loy Dr. Chodl Mrs. Bautista-Burk Mr. Domanski 33