Mosaic 2022

mosaic The Publication of the Arts SPRING 2022

1500 Mark Thomas Drive | Monterey, CA 93940 | 831.655.9300 | santacatalina.org

Student Editors

Isabelle Nagy ’22

Olivia Gorum ’22 Faculty Advisor

Dr. Nancy Hunt

Staff Sophie Knipp ’25

Piper Anderson ’23

Ava Kruger ’24

Leah Brewer ’24

Holly Liu ’22

Reena Dail ’23

Maggie Madden ’24

Jasmine Flanders ’23

Anna McMillan ’24

Sophie Gong ’25

Audrey Morrison ’23

Anna Gorman ’23

Norah Elena Ruiz ’24

Rain Hu ’22

Selma Ruiz ’23

Emily Huang ’25

Caitlin Sullivan ’22

Emma Kim ’24

Cecelia Yu ’24

Communications Office

Gabriella, Isabelle Nagy ’22, film

Design & Production

Amparo Alcaraz ’23

Front Cover: The Afternoon View, Margaret Spencer ’22, film Back Cover: Car Drive, Francesca Postigo ’22, acrylic, 14” x 14” All content © 2022 Santa Catalina School students as indicated.

5/2022 - 200

Wispies, Anna Yeh ’23, graphite, 14” x 16”

September 14, Nicole Oliver ’21, acrylic painting, 8” x 8”

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Alphabet, Belen Salido ’22, digital, 13” x 19”

Table of Contents Photograph, The Afternoon View ......................Margaret Spencer ’22....................Front Cover Art, Wispies.......................................................Anna Yeh ’23.................................................1 Art, Alphabet.....................................................Belen Salido ’22............................................2 Art, Phoebe Bridgers.........................................Francesca Postigo ’22...................................4 Poem, Golden Hammer ....................................Kiska Corrigan-Hoaglin ’22............................5 Photograph, Lingering Lines..............................Audrey Morrison ’23......................................6 Prose, Arcadia...................................................Helen Yenson ’22..........................................7 Art, Sass in the City...........................................Anaezi Nwokeji ’22........................................9 Art, You Are What You Eat.................................Georgia Meyer ’22.......................................11 Poem, Fall-s Assumptions.................................Emily Harris ’22...........................................12 Art, Soaked in Red............................................Anna Yeh ’23...............................................13 Prose, She Was Never Truly Running Away........Andriana Low ’25........................................14

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Art, Hualalai.......................................................Gianna Borges ’22......................................16 Poem, Such as a Bird........................................Charlotte Ehmann ’23.................................17 Art, Pears..........................................................Nadia Carreno ’22 ......................................18 Poem, Built by You............................................Anonymous ’22...........................................19 Art, Burning.......................................................Reyna Sanchez ’22.....................................20 Prose, My Lovely Wendy Darling........................Savannah Hardy ’25....................................21 Art, Vibrant Daylight...........................................Eleanor Song ’24.........................................22 Poem, Living Wraith...........................................Kiska Corrigan-Hoaglin ’22 .........................23 Prose, Autumn Rainfall ......................................Rain Hu ’22.................................................24 Art, Bloody Tears...............................................Francesca Postigo ’22 ................................25 Photograph, Shadows.......................................Renee Larrauri ’23.......................................26 Prose, The Weight of the Lead...........................Evie Andrews ’23....................................... 27 Art, Temporary...................................................Anna Yeh ’23...............................................30 Prose, Dear Local Inquirers................................Allie Fieber ’25.............................................31 Photograph, Under the Sky...............................Miriam Riley ’23...........................................32 Prose, Wishing Bottles.......................................Anna Yeh ’23...............................................33 Art, She Promised.............................................Tylor Mehringer ’22......................................34 Art, Plugged In ..................................................Francesca Postigo ’22 ................................36 Photograph, Bixby Bridge .................................Melody Shen ’24.........................................39 Photograph, Incandescent........................................Emma Kim ’24....................................................40 Poem, Golden Girls...........................................Elena Oh ’23...............................................41 Art, Leaves and Background.............................Anna McMillan ’24.......................................42 Photograph, Illumination....................................Milan Coleman ’22......................................43 Prose, Spectre...................................................Helen Yenson ’22........................................44 Art, Reaching.....................................................Reyna Sanchez ’22.....................................45 Art, Photo London ............................................Andriana Low ’25........................................47 Art, Organized Chaos........................................Georgia Meyer ’22.......................................48 Poem, Young Flower..........................................Leah Brewer ’24..........................................49 Photograph, The Azure Night.............................Milan Coleman ’22......................................50 Prose, Grandpa’s Cha Siu Bao..........................Anya Siu ’25................................................51 Photograph, Gabriella........................................Isabelle Nagy ’22.................Inside Back Cover Art, Car Drive .................................................... Francesca Postigo ’22...................Back Cover

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Phoebe Bridgers, Francesca Postigo ’22, acrylic, 8” x 10”

Acknowledgments Ms. Meg Bradley Mrs. Julie Lenherr Edson ’88 Sister Claire Sister Christine Mrs. Jaime Ball Ms. Crystal Boyd ’89 Mrs. Katherine Busch Ms. Kathryn Goodnow Ms. Beth Jones Ms. Claire Lerner Dr. John Murphy Ms. Sarah Paff Mr. Peter Meyers …and all the students of Santa Catalina who submitted their work.

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Golden Hammer Kiska Corrigan-Hoaglin ’22

If I were a window sill You’d slam the glass, crack, and leave it still Waiting with the broken pane Wishing you were still the same The inside window sill is cold I’m afraid the wood is old And you come in, with a golden hammer And tear me away, before I can stammer

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mosaic Lingering Lines, Audrey Morrison ’23, film, 5” x 8”

Arcadia Helen Yenson ’22

“Is this a good idea?”

“Now what?”

She looks back at me with a smile, soft at the edges. “Of course not,” she calls, ducking inside the barn. Everything materializes from a wooden cupboard: an ivory planchet, two candles, and an old, faded matchbox. She’s meticulous as she arranges it all, putting the candles in a circle and lighting them one by one.

“Now—” She guides my fingers, curling them around the planchet.

Her hand feels warm. “We wait.”

“Are you coming?” she says, snapping me out of a dream.

I nod, hesitant. My foot lingers halfway through the door. “What if I mess it up?”

“Relax,” she says, and my shoulders fall, succumbing to gravity. “Here— Put the board flat on the floor.”

I follow her instructions, looking back up. “Like this?”

She shuffles. “Yeah.”

A cough; a dead, hanging silence.

Everything in the barn seems to settle. The wind rustles against my side, blowing chills through the cracks in the wood. The candles flicker. My thoughts seem to wander, to the glow on her cheeks; the sad look in our eyes at the unmoving board; the ridges in the walls, faded red paint that splinters in the skin; the piles of damp hay, one push away from tumbling down; the way her ancestors have lived on this land for centuries, each breathing the same air I am, each dying the same way I will.

She gasps beside me.

I turn, watching the triangle hover over the letter H. Hello, it spells.

Hello, hello, hello.

“Stop moving it,” I hiss. continued next page

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“Shh.” Her eyes stay glued to the board. The planchet trembles, shaking, before falling silent once again.

We wait for what feels like eternity.

Silence fills the barn, so quiet I can hear my wristwatch, ticking. Time seems to move on without us.

She groans. “Look what you’ve done.”

After a minute, or maybe two, I say, “Told you.”

“I didn’t do anything!” The ivory falls out of my hands, hitting the board with a muted crack. It sounds like the board will split in two. “You’re the one who kept moving it.”

“No.” Her hands clench around the planchet, white stress lines forming at the knuckles. “It worked before— I’m sure it’ll work again.”

“Did not,” she retorts, shifting everything back into place. “Here— Let’s try again.”

I shuffle back. This is more than I bargained for. “No way.”

She puts the planchet back in my hands. The touch feels cool this time, crawling on my skin. “Come on.”

Some of her hair catches in the light, falling off her shoulder in waves. Her eyes have a nagging sense of hope, gravitating me back to the board. Tentative, I put my fingertips on the planchet.

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I sigh. Cool, dusk air seeps into the barn, raising bumps on my skin.

The stars will be out soon. Cicadas sing across the meadows, the moon a pale white cloud. We wait, and wait, and wait, and the cicadas buzz, and the candles flicker, and the planchet doesn’t even twitch.

“I think we should go.”

Her face crumbles—mouth sunk in on itself and eyes empty. She doesn’t reply.

“They’re waiting for us.”

Despondent: “I know.”

“It’s getting dark.”

“I know.” I love you, I think, but do

“That it didn’t work.” I blow out a candle, and she protests, so I stop.

“Or, at least, that it didn’t work the second time.”

same sour disappointment.

I pat the space beside me, letting her curl up in my lap. We stay like that for a while, chests rising and falling in unison. I rub circles on her back, and she takes her hand into mine.

She curls in on herself, arms wrapped around her stomach like a hug. Her expression stings with the

Our eyes follow the sunset, as the last rays of light fall behind the mountains. The clouds pulse continued next page

Sass in the City, Anaezi Nwokeji ’22, digital

not say. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

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like heartbeats, watercolor streaks across the sky. She’s warm beside me, and it’s enough.

A drop of rain hits the roof. The sound ricochets off the metal plating, water rushing through the gutter and splashing onto the ground.

She sits back up, and I mourn the loss of warmth. “We should head back.”

“You think?” I say, smiling, and stuff the ouija board back in the cupboard.

Taking her hand, she guides us back to the house. I can’t smell anything but rain. When we reach her doormat, the cuffs of my jeans are thoroughly soaked in mud.

I stumble inside, my jacket snagging on the doorway.

“Need a hand?” She bends down, her smile soft and real.

The light collects in her palm. And, steadfast, I take it.

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You Are What You Eat, Georgia Meyer ’22, mixed media/acrylic, 36” x 24”

Fall-s Assumptions Emily Harris ’22

MonochromaTick tock, the time goesBye, bye fHalloween approaching faStop in your tracks!

Eerily we tiptoe past Hold our breath, but then aghast Watch frozen at the sight ahead What’s that you say We were misled Witches and Werewolves and Warlocks, oh my Illusional, Impossible, Inconceivable, I cry Terrifying Tales of Terrible creatures Contrary: Companionable, Congenial, Considerate Company Heartening and Heartwarming Everything I Erroneously Envisioned Surreptitious Serene Scene I See So if you stumble upon a Hallows Eve haunt Don’t fall to the tricks of their guise Push away your surprise and open your mind And join in their jubilant jaunt!

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Soaked in Red, Anna Yeh ’23, acrylic, 14” x 19”

She Was Never Truly Running Away Andriana Low ’25

Some believe the world is split into good and bad, light and dark, villains and heroes. Death knew better than that. Once he came across three young women. Three very special women.

The three women had joined together on their journey to escape.

What it was they needed to escape Death had never figured out, but he knew of their past and ambitions for the future. The first had been held back her whole life and was willing to do whatever was necessary to get free. The second was spoiled and was neither ready to give her spoils up nor work to keep her privilege. The last was a girl that had already accepted her past, the echoes of her burden in her mind, the scars that will forever remind her of what she has endured.

When Death came across the three he was ready to take them for his own, claim them as he did with all souls. They had other plans, minds set on getting their fresh start.

Being the first to ever stand up to

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Death he decided to grant them each a wish of their choosing.

The first spoke up immediately after hearing the offer. Asking for power, her wish was to be feared. No one would go against her power. Death granted this by giving her the throne and crown of her new nation.

The second girl seeing the fortune she could so easily gain stepped forward next. She asked for a bag from which she could grab whatever riches she desired. Death granted her wish, creating her an endless bag from which whatever wealth she wanted would be within her grasp.

It took much longer for the last lady to step forward. Her only wish was to be able to escape, to travel to the lands she could only read about. Death also took longer when considering this wish. Eventually, he gave the last woman a book made of the oldest tree. The book would grant her the power to get to the lands she imagined, to be with the

characters she had only seen within her mind.

Once given their gifts he sent the ladies on their way, watching as they split paths one by one. It was within the next that the first women met Death once more. Having overestimated her power, as while she had the fear of her people she had not gained their respect. This led to uprisings against her within her queendom and soon after Death was able to claim her to hell.

The second woman had thrived with her newfound wealth, not realizing that it had to be coming from somewhere. Slowly the people began to realize there was money missing until it was narrowed down to be her fault. Soon after she met Death too.

Death searched for the last women for many years. He followed her through more realities than he expected of her. This was the first time Death had ever needed to

chase someone. Used to people and souls alike quivering at the sight of him. When he finally caught up to the last woman he realized that she wasn’t truly running away from him. In fact, she never had been, all she wanted was to find a world where she could be at peace. Unfortunately, she never did, wherever she went she found drama, hate, war, Death. When Death finally found the woman he realized it was because she had stopped. She had finally come to terms with the fact that Death would catch up to her eventually.

When she saw Death that last time she greeted him like an old friend, and for one of the first times Death realized that he could be both a burden but also a savior. Death and the last women walked away together. Where they were going we never heard, but for the women, it was there she found solidarity.

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mosaic Hualalai, Gianna Borges ’22, acrylic, 20” x 16”

Such as a Bird Charlotte Ehmann ’23

Such as a bird, to take flight Such as a mother, to love Such as a hyena, to laugh Such as a flower, to smile I want to be such as a human, to think to feel to nurture Such as a thinker feeler nurturer.

Such as these, to finally be myself, again.

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mosaic Pears, Nadia Carreno ’22, acrylic, 10” x 10”

Built by You Anonymous ’22

Everything about me feels so small Compressed like a folded piece of paper Apologizing for its trespass on the world Why aren’t you the same?

Dirty hands ruffling my sheets, my hair Boots that leave a trail of muddy footprints You exit a room having touched every person Made them laugh, made them think A bright neon sign screaming I was here Those same fingerprints make my heart ache And I wonder—would my sheltered hands Trembling as I scar this paper with ink Leave fingerprints like yours?

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mosaic Burning, Reyna Sanchez ’22, digital

My Lovely Wendy Darling Savannah Hardy ’25

Once upon a time, there lived a girl who loved the little things in life. She enjoyed reading the books others overlooked and the smell of freshly cut grass on a summer’s morning.

She was an unconventional girl, but was loved by all. Looking back, I understand why she was named that; it fits her perfectly: Wendy Darling. Wendy Darling was a young girl with beautiful golden brown hair.

Nevermind that, I will just tell you the story from the beginning.

Wendy Darling lived in the povertystricken part of London, the part where even the rats don’t live; where the air is so bad only the buzzards fly; where the streets are filled with residue and rubbish. Oddly, she was content with her life. She knew that her family could not afford to move to the wealthy part where the kids were not afraid to walk the streets at night. Those children had it all: the money, the toys, the cars, and even a safe place to call home. She lived with her two younger brothers and her mother while her father went off with another woman in search of a

better life for himself. I think that’s why when we came, she followed us without a second thought.

It was a cold October night; the wind howled like the sun would not rise tomorrow. We came for her, to take her to a warm and magical place: Neverland. A place where mermaids swim in the shallow blue waters, where the lost boys climb in the trees, and where the fairies live in the oddly shaped trees. It started as just an escape for a night from the poverty at Wendy’s house, but it turned into something more than that. I had originally only gone because I could fly, but as time went on I started seeing past the dirt and grime that covered Wendy Darling.

Eventually I flew the great distance for her. My hostility started to fade into genuine friendship, which slowly turned into an authentic connection.

That is when I realized I had started to fall in love with sweet, delightful Wendy Darling. If only she had chosen me instead of Peter, but I should have expected it because who would ever love a fairy anyway.

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mosaic Vibrant Daylight, Eleanor Song ’24, graphite and watercolor ,11” x 8”

Living Wraith Kiska Corrigan-Hoaglin ’22

You haunt me as I lie awake in bed; You stir me far before the morning light; Crepuscular, you are stuck inside my head; I’d go so far to say: an eerie sight.

Your bright blue eyes are morbid, as it seems; Your blood does stain my face and fingertips; I hold your corpse tight to me in my dreams, I wipe away the paleness of your lips.

I fear that you will melt away again; And dust to dust to which you will return; Will not remain to hold your artist’s pen; The thought of this just makes my stomach churn.

-But in the day, I see nothing’s amissYour eyes and lips alive enough to kiss.

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Autumn Rainfall Rain Hu ’22

It first starts with the dark cloud that floats over and covered the sky; then the first drip fell, splashing on the dry Earth. After that, a few more dropped down. One of them, as it performs its elegant free-fall motion, chooses to land in front of Jasmine’s clear glass window. At first, it was a gentle splashing sound. Pitterpatter as each droplet slid across the now wet outside surface. So gentle that it blends into the noise of the heating fan inside her room.

But then, more comes. This time more forcefully. Like the gauge of the sky can no longer hold the desperate wish to free of the weight of these droplets. As if in response to this, they were all let out together at one time. Cascading down from the skies finding a target to hit. At first, she thought that she may have heard wrong; until one of them snuck its way into her room through the leaks of the window. All of a sudden, Jasmine realized that they came. Just as she was hoping for all day, the rain finally came down. She dropped her pen on her desk table

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and looked up to the sky. Noticing that there had already come a group of them landing on her window, forming a natural filter to this world.

Jasmine stood up and opened up the window even wider as she was welcoming the visit of these little spirits from the sky.

Jasmine loved the autumn rainfall.

It’s different from the summer rainfall that comes with the grand ceremony of thunder and lightning, the autumn rainfall comes without notice but often brings a sense of peacefulness to her heart. Jasmine fell back in her chair and closed her drooping eyes.

Hearing the dripping sound of the rain, she imagined herself as one of them falling from the sky. Released from the sky with thousand of her siblings where they all dispersed to the different corners of this world.

Witnessing this world from a new perspective, seeing the flashing lights in the traffic, the people rushing home on the sideway, every part of this world around her won’t be missed by the rainfall. Then, they

Jasmine likes rain, as it always gives birth to new ideas and inspirations in her mind. Her brain was drained

these days by this old piece of work she left out years ago. The autumn rain is what she need for a new aspiration. She picked up her pen again, word spells out on the paper in the rhythm of the rain.

Bloody Tears, Francesca Postigo ’22, digital

landed at their destination, gathered again, and started a new cycle of life.

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mosaic Shadows, Renee Larrauri ’23, digital

The Weight of Lead Evie Andrews ’23

I peered cautiously at the strange utensil before poking it and picking it up with two fingers. I knew what it was … sort of. We’ve all read about them and seen old films and movies where people use them, but it never occurred to me that I would see one in person.

I knew you were supposed to hold it like a fork, with your fingers closer to the pointy end. I turned around, and he gave me an encouraging nod. I knew what I was supposed to do, but I wasn’t fully sure how to start. Slowly, with big, nearly illegible letters, I wrote three words. I love grandpa. I realized I had forgotten a period, but I was stunned to see that nothing told me to add one. No red underline popped up. No vibration alerted me to my mistake. Grandpa laughed and said, “It’s paper, not a computer. You can write or draw whatever you want on it.”

Draw? I wondered for a moment at the page. Finally, having made a decision, I etched out a small heart.

The right side was much larger than the left. Next to that one, I tried again. This time my lines were a little straighter, but that damn right side was still too big. “Here, try using light strokes,” Grandpa offered. “I’ll try it,” I sighed. This was turning out more cumbersome than I thought it would be. In my frustration, I pushed the pencil forcefully against the paper, and there was a loud crunch as the tip snapped and fell to the ground. I started to panic. “Grandpa, I broke it! I’m so sorry!” To my surprise, he let out a hearty chuckle. He took the splintered pencil, and saying, “Watch this,” he walked over to an odd, oval-shaped mechanism. He turned a dial on the side until he found the hole big enough to suit his purpose.

I surveyed him closely as he slipped the pencil into the hole and began turning the handle on the opposite side. “Did you know,” he said as he turned it, “when I was your age, we used pens and pencils for just about everything?” I felt my eyes opening wider, giving away my surprise. “In fact, I didn’t use a computer at all in

continued next page

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some of my classes.” I gave him a sly smile. “Is that why you’re such a slow typer?”

“Seventy-two words a minute is not slow!”

“Grandpa, the slowest in my class types two hundred words per minute!” He rolled his eyes and smiled, handing me a nice sharp pencil. I decided to try drawing a star this time, taking his advice and using a light grip. “What’s all this stuff you’re saying about drawing?

Were there people who were really good at it?” The star looked better, but the lines were so squiggly it gave the appearance that the whole star was shaking. “Yes, for some people, being an artist was their job. Slow down, take your time there.” He pointed at my star. “Are you good at art?” I questioned. He gave a weak smile and said, “No, not me.” He lied.

One night after dinner, he took me in his car and we drove for a while away from his house. We parked in front of a large, square building with big glass windows on one side and acres of sunflower fields stretching in every direction. I wondered when

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the sunflowers ended and the roads began again. When we walked through the doors, I recognized the building as a museum right away.

The long, white walls were cracked in places, and the ceiling tiles had fallen out from underfunding. The piercing lights brought out every small detail in the space. We paid a small fee at the entrance, and then I followed grandpa as he made his way towards the nearest painting.

From a small, blue backpack, Grandpa removed two sheets of paper, two pencils, and two thin boards of wood with large metal clips on one side. He handed me one of each, and I watched him closely as he secured the paper under the clip. I copied him, trying to make the paper match up perfectly even with the sides. When I looked back up, Grandpa was sitting cross legged on the floor. He had begun a rough sketch of the painting in front of us. I surveyed the painting with its long, autumn-colored mountains and wispy clouds in the background.

The plaque next to the painting informed me that it was an oil on canvas. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant. I drew what I thought was a pretty good horizon between the

mountains and the sky, but after I peeked over Grandpa’s shoulder, my “skyline” looked like a shapeless blob. He had only finished half of the first valley, but the details of the trees and the strokes of his pencil were already beautiful. I sat down and heaved a heavy sigh. Without looking up, Grandpa smiled and said, “Art takes time. If you don’t put care and energy into it, you’ll never know how meaningful it could have been. If you want to make it meaningful, it takes time.” I lifted my pencil and began again, starting a tree, and building it up from the branches at the bottom to the finishing leaves at the top.

Suddenly, a voice came over the speakers informing us that the museum was closing in five minutes.

We had been sitting on the ground in front of the fall mountains for nearly three hours, and I had just begun my second tree. Grandpa leaned over to see what I had drawn, and when he looked at my tree he remarked, “That’s very good.” I knew it was nowhere as advanced as his sketch, but I had to agree. For me, it was the most amazing thing I had ever created.

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Temporary, Anna Yeh ’23, acrylic, 17” x 13”

Dear Local Inquirers...

Allie Fieber ’25

Dear local inquirers and investigators, I am writing on behalf of my interest in this community’s safety and wellbeing. At precisely 1:06 p.m. Sunday afternoon, a little fellow was caught trespassing on my property. I have reason to believe that he belongs to that old brown leather shoe—along with the woman who has too many children to keep track of. Maybe she hadn’t even noticed he was gone. That family barely makes a living—the mother has to be gone all day at work just to afford what they have now. This large family lives in one brown leather shoe—and it’s not even their shoe! One day my shoe fell right off my foot when I was trying to throw it on in a hurry.

All of that brown leather fell down to earth in a split second. Why would I leave my cloud sanctuary to retrieve it? I couldn’t have anyway, the family had already moved into it! How desperate they must have been. Now, back to this issue. I was minding my own business while also spying on all of the humans from the clouds. I saw the Browns’ little boy

(I think his name is Jack or James) trading his family cow for some odd looking beans. The Browns were barely scraping by, but now they don’t even have livestock! His mother seemed terribly upset. She scolded him out of their shoe. Next thing you know, there’s little James planting his sketchy beans. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that they probably wouldn’t grow. I watched anyways, from my secluded haven up in the clouds. And the next second, he’s in my front yard, along with a humongous green beanstalk!

He trespassed onto my property— my precious castle—by climbing a beanstalk! This made me want to roar “Fee-fi-fo-fum!” This child needs to be contained, he is out of control! I fear that our community is being overrun by criminals, and I am starting to question my safety in this town. This situation is unacceptable, and I hope that this will be dealt with in an orderly fashion.

Sincerely, The Giant Who Now Lives at the Top of the Beanstalk

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mosaic Under the Sky, Miriam Riley ’23, digital

Wishing Bottles Anna Yeh ’23

July 2, 1979 I often feel as if I am drowning, the connection between my mind and body stretched taut, bound only by a dwindling hope which seems to dim with each passing day. I don’t want the drink; my stomach clenches at the mere thought of it, yet my numb arm reaches across the beach towel and grips the neck of the liquor bottle with a fierce determination. I don’t try to stop it, but rather watch my rogue limb move the bottle closer and closer to my lips. Sip, swish, swallow—the rhythm of hopelessness. I force myself to dump the remaining drops onto the golden-brown sand of Crescent Beach, and start to perform the ritual. A scrap of paper, a pen. A wish, the same five words as the past 100 times. “tell him I forgive him” I roll the paper up with twine, shoving it through the neck of the bottle with my index finger. It plops to the bottom, ink forming

spider web patterns as it bleeds into the grainy dregs of the liquor. I carry it to the water’s edge, pause for a moment, and hurl it into the oncoming surf. It is instantly spat back up on the shore, but I can’t bring myself to push it back in; it hurts too much. Instead I turn my back to the water and wander woozily to my striped towel, my mind finally surrendering to the swallowing emptiness of unresolved grief. I slip out of consciousness to the rhythm of the waves, my brain slowing and quietly drifting into the open ocean of memory.

— September 7, 1972 “You see that mermaid?” His voice projects over the booming crash of the late September swell.

“No, where is she?” I am seven, wind-whipped hair swinging about my chin, feet planted firmly in the shallows of the rumbling Pacific. I squirm in discomfort as baby crabs shove their pincers into the soles continued next page

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She Promised, Tylor Mehringer ’22, acrylic and pen, 14” x 11”

of my feet, afraid to move for fear they might tighten their grip. My father stands further out, bleary eyes peering into the surf.

“Right there!”

He motions for me to join him, anticipation overflowing from his gap-toothed grin. I scream in excitement, disregarding the crabs to accompany him on his sandbar lookout. This is the first time he has paid attention to me since I

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can remember. He hoists me onto his shoulders with a grunt, hands covered in the sweet smell of sweat and alcohol. I watch him point to a blip on the distant horizon.

“If you look close enough you can see her tail.”

I squint, trying to trace the line of his finger to any detectable sign of life.

Nothing.

“It just looks like a dot to me, Dad.”

“Well it’s only a dot if you believe it’s a dot!” he chides, sounding incredulous.

“I know you’re tryna trick me!

Mermaids probably aren’t even real!”

“Sometimes you’ve got to believe, kid; trust in things you can’t see.”

He pauses, pulls an empty bottle of gin from his pocket, a note wrapped in twine safely tucked inside. Holding it up to the sun, he examines its contents, then throws it into the water, watching it disappear under the foamy seaspray. I stare quizzically down at him from my perch atop his shoulders.

“What was that?”

“A wish for the mermaid.”

“Why do you need to make a wish?”

He stares out at the sea, face filled with emotion.

“Sometimes a wish is all we’ve got.”

— I wondered for hours after why he had been so paternal towards me.

Why he had chosen that day, out of the seven years of my life, to start being a father. Three days later he broke the news.

— November 12, 1972 He dubbed them wishing bottles, guising his alcoholism under the premise of bettering our relationship through a contrived game. Together we manifested his recovery through letters sent out to the mysterious mermaid, always tied with twine and encased in a bottle I knew he had downed in one sitting. It was all for me, he promised, my way of helping to assure his survival, but there was desperate pain in his voice whenever the subject came up, as if he, too, was hedging his bets on a hope he knew to be false.

Two months passed, and I tried all too hard to fortify the bond that had remained vacant for so long—too long. The once innocent wishing bottles tripled in number, piling up faster than I could send them into the ocean. He rarely joined me at the shoreline anymore, too busy preparing more bottles to be continued next page

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unceremoniously sent off by the daughter he barely recognized in his state of intoxication. Resigned, I retreated to my room, spending hours perfecting the contents of each letter, the monotony of ritual taking my mind off the glass criminals who had stolen my father out from under me.

—

Plugged In, Francesca Postigo ’22, digital

The night before his surgery songs wafted through the open blinds of my room, prompting me to rouse myself from writing and tentatively

peer outside. He danced: drunk, delirious, free, his torso swaying to the drawn out notes. Arms waving about, a liquor bottle in his left hand lazily spritzed liquid across the porch. As he spun about in tempo he caught me peeping, and motioned for me to join him with a droopy smile. The cold concrete stung the soles of my feet as I stepped onto the patio to face him.

He said nothing, but gently grabbed my hand and led me in a dance. I closed my eyes, the salt-filled air of the coast gently washing through

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my nostrils, clearing my mind and instilling in me a hope I had not felt since the first wishing bottle. Maybe it will all be ok. Eyes flicking open, I pulled him into a hug, the familiar acidity of his gin-splotched shirt wrapping me in peace. He looked at me, the unspoken spoken through his gaze: I love you. The rest of the world went quiet, our ragged breathing and the radio blues the only disturbance to an otherwise stagnant summer night. I finally felt home.

“C’mon darlin’. You don’t wanna ruin my last hurrah.” He jerked my arms from side to side, a tinge of violence in his forceful movements.

A few minutes later the next song came on, and I felt a subtle shift, a tinge of manic urgency setting in, as if he had only just realized the impermanence of his already limited time on Earth. His movements became more panicked, feet stomping instead of gliding, arms swinging in wild abandon. His left hand loosened its grip, the neck of the bottle sliding back and forth to the rhythm of “Remember Me”.

I took a step back, but he gripped my wrist, pulling me back in like a cowboy to his lasso.

He raised the bottle to his lips and downed the rest of its contents, spitting into the air when he had finished. Grabbing me by the waist, he twirled me around at a dizzying speed. I wanted to stay, unravel with him, but I knew I couldn’t. I wrestled out of his grip, trying to escape once and for all, but he yelled and lunged at me viciously, arms swinging down in an attempt to grab hold of my wrists. Time slowed, and I could only watch as the bottle finally broke free from his grasp, colliding in slow motion with my feet on the concrete patio.

“Dad, stop.”

“I’m serious! Stop!” My voice was shaking.

“What happened, you don’t like dancin’ with your daddy no more?”

He laughed, gripping my arm so hard the pinky flesh turned white.

“This is your last chance before my brains get all scrambled up!”

— continued next page

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I howled, a guttural tone I had never before produced. Staccato cracks of glass meeting flesh pierced through the eerie placidness of the midnight swell, diamond fragments shimmering in the gauzy lamplight.

Streams of my tears were quickly swept up and lost in the thousand bloody rivers flowing from my feet.

He took one last glance at me, our shared gaze like kryptonite, slowly fizzling out with a mutual acceptance of the inevitable outcome. I could tell he had a lifetime of words to say, but only five managed to escape his lips: “Send a bottle out for me.”

As I watched his figure fade into the night the jolting pain from my wounds swelled. Sharp as pinpricks, each new wave nibbled away at my nerves, recalling the distant memory of baby crabs whose claws had dug into me that fateful autumn day. I had found a striking coldness in their indifference towards my pain, their lack of empathy toward someone so defenseless and fragile.

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“Everyone who hurts has been hurt before,” a phrase my mother once said.

I wondered who had made the crabs hurt.

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Bixby Bridge, Melody Shen ’24, digital

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mosaic Incandescent, Emma Kim ’24, digital

Golden Girls Elena Oh ’23

Don’t you wish you were made of honey and gold?

Dancing in the rain ignoring the cold.

No bone-sucking fire ravaging your soul, The judgment of blinkers not taking a toll. the honey and gold taste like sugar and spice, like a warm pine fire breaking the ice.

I would know, I used to be honey and gold! but now, I am just tasteless and cold.

I wish I was the girl who can dance through the night, Rain drenching her clothes, nobody bothered by her sight.

She laughs and cries and cheers with us all and somehow, she’s the one who causes my fall.

Both thinkers and blinkers give her a standing ovation, “So pretty, so sweet, so bold!”

But I am left backstage, trapped in comparison wondering, “where can I get that sedation?”

Life always seems easy as the main character, But why is it so unfair as the side character?

Everyday I breathe and choke on my flaws, While everyday they breathe and exhale applause.

My mirrored reflection once caught both my eyes, And somehow the fire inside of me died.

And as flecks of shimmer rained again on my soul, I knew that I was still honey and gold.

But when the reflection caught my eyes twice, The subdued fire just reignites.

As ash tears through my body and slashes my soul I cry out again, drowning in honey and gold.

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mosaic Leaves and Background, Anna McMillan ’24, watercolor, 9” x 10”

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Illumination, Milan Coleman ’22, digital

Spectre Helen Yenson ’22

Lisa’s flashlight flickers. She can barely make out the rusted metal, and each footprint seems to crunch in the mud.

A part of her wants to leave—open and shut the car door and never look back. She didn’t earn her license to spend it ghost hunting.

Her mother’s words echo as she steps through the gate. You have to learn to trespass—to disturb what should be left untouched, rouse what has been laid to rest.

She can see her reflection in the foggy window; light shines back in her eyes. The doorknob beckons.

Exploration requires perseverance, requires patience. Lisa’s hand shakes as she twists. The wood creaks. Dust rises, shifting, settling somewhere it didn’t before.

“Hello?” she calls into the open.

“Anyone home?”

No one replies.

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Even as we gain diminishing returns.

Something scutters, though, upstairs. Lisa shrieks, nearly dropping the flashlight, before the mouse stares up at her. It twitches its head, thumps its tail, and scurries back to its hole.

In this way, we’re one step closer to understanding the dead. “Thanks a lot, Mom,” Lisa mutters to herself, stepping into the living room. All the paintings and couches are covered in sheets.

It’s the third week of August. Lisa should be spending her time studying, or buying school supplies, or chasing the last week of summer.

She shouldn’t be here, wandering around an abandoned home, waiting for a ghost to strike.

Her flashlight flickers, again. She swears under her breath, shaking its sides before the battery inevitably dies.

On the other side of the room, something comes to life. The spirit

Unfazed, the ghost doesn’t reply. It moves the curtains and floats to the window. Lisa can almost hear it sigh, can see the outline of a paw cradled against the glass.

She tightens her grip on the knife. continued next page

Reaching, Reyna Sanchez ’22, digital

starts to glow, turning its head and rising a foot off the ground.

Lisa takes the Swiss Army Knife from her bag—shoved between her car keys and old movie tickets—and makes a vaguely threatening gesture at the ghost.

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“Why are you still here?”

The air gets heavy, dense. The room grows dimmer, darker, and Lisa’s confidence shakes.

What would her Mom think, seeing her now? Trembling in the face of a peaceful spirit, threatening it with a knife.

“I’m sorry,” Lisa says. “That was rude.”

The ghost glows brighter. It makes a purring noise, jumping off the windowsill. The room sparkles in the light.

Lisa’s lips quirk at the corners; she tucks the knife back into her bag.

“Hi,” she says again. The ghost— The cat comes forward, and she scratches it behind the ears. “You’re not meant to be here, buddy.”

Petulant, the cat meows. It paws at her bag, climbing up her leg.

“What are you looking for?” Lisa says, taking the bag off her shoulder.

It tumbles to the floor, falling open.

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The cat claws at a granola bar, ripping open the packaging and munching through it.

Lisa is left to watch. She collects her things—besides the food—and starts counting, making sure it’s all in order. Her wallet, her phone, her keys. The polaroid pictures from the movies last week, the twenty-dollar bill she was given for popcorn.

She looks back at the cat, content with its crackers and dried fruit. The ghost starts to glow, then it fades, then it disappears as though it was never there, leaving a legacy of crumbs on the carpet.

A small hole digs itself in Lisa’s chest. Her flashlight, at this moment, chooses to flicker back on. She grabs her keys, her bag, and starts to leave. She can’t stay here.

The door slams behind her, and her hands tremble on the wheel. She grabs the photo strip—her friends all making silly faces at the camera.

Something pangs in her gut.

They can’t stay, her mother had explained. The ghosts. They have to move on. They can’t make new memories here, not like us.

Distantly, church bells ring. Lisa puts the car into gear and pulls out of the driveway, headed for the land of the living.

Photo London, Andriana Low ’25, collage and graphite, 18” x 12”

A half-eaten granola bar sits on the dashboard, going stale.

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mosaic Organized Chaos, Georgia Meyer ’22, mixed media, 30” x 30”

Young Flower Leah Brewer ’24

She always looked like a flower to me, A beautiful, white rose.

She always wore the prettiest clothes, And always talked about the coolest things.

They were all flowers, in fact.

Each of them always looking so perfect.

They always knew exactly how to dress, How to look, how to act.

But I was never a rose, I was never even a flower.

I was always just a blade of grass, Always different from the rest.

But they could fix me, couldn’t they?

They could make me a flower, just like them.

They caked makeup onto my face, And they dressed me in small, tight clothes.

But I wasn’t like them.

My skin wasn’t clear and sunkissed.

My body wasn’t perfectly small and curved.

I didn’t dress in feminine attire like they did.

And they judged me for it, Always looking me up and down when I entered the room.

I was still so young, still happy and carefree.

But they wanted me to grow up.

And so I did.

I made myself into a lotus.

I made myself fit into their standards Of what someone like me should be like.

I wanted to speak up against them.

I wished to stop relying on their validation.

But every time I got up to speak, The words got caught in my throat.

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I would lay awake and cry, Wishing I could be a different kind of flower.

And by the time the sun rose, My eyes would be dried out.

And then I got even older.

And the things that meant so much suddenly meant so little.

The sun still rose and fell.

But now, it rises on me.

The Azure Night, Milan Coleman ’22, digital

But then I got older.

And I became a new flower.

This time, I wasn’t anything like what they wanted me to be.

But I knew I was still beautiful.

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Grandpa’s Cha Siu Bao Anya Siu ’25

I would always choose my Grandpa’s cha siu bao any day over Chick-Fil-A, but of course I didn’t want to be the odd one out.

In my upbringing, fish, century eggs, tofu, and other local dishes were the foods I would tend to gravitate towards. My meals would often be leftovers packed into containers and into insulated boxes to be eaten later.

When lunch period started, I would sit with my friends and open my lunch box. The comforting smell of scallions, soy sauce, and garlic would permeate the air as I opened my container to see what my mom had packed me. But I would soon notice my friends’ grins slowly disappear, and what once were smiles were now replaced by frowns of animosity. The subtle tilting of the heads and shift in body language hinted to me that the pungent smell of my food had suppressed their appetite. With no words, I would close my container, hiding myself in the corner. Such scents didn’t faze me. To me, I smelled home. Even so, I never blamed them for rejecting my Asian culture. It is natural to reject

what is foreign, and this tendency cannot be avoided. I had come to terms with the situation for what it was.

However, I soon learned that the suffering I felt on a daily basis was far more than embarrassment. It sparked the constant internal battle about whether I was to show the external Anya, a girl who accepted whatever was provided and conformed to the social norms of my community, or whether I was to continue sitting in the corner, which displayed my true genuine self. If I chose to close the container, that need of accustoming to society’s norms would be fulfilled. However, at the same time, I would be incorrectly labeling and identifying myself. Most of the time, My desire and want to fit in would overpower my hunger for my family’s food. My embarrassment for my culture and food to be accepted by others would force me to compromise myself. But every now and then, I would maintain my ground having known that I’d chosen self-satisfaction above friendship and continued next page

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belongingness. And while I never fully overcame my fears, I also never completely avoided it too.

Accepting who I am is hard still to this day. It might take a month, a year, or even a decade to fully accept myself. And the odd thing is that I actually loved Chinese food.

Like any other kid, I just wanted to fit in. Failures like these have allowed me to discover that what stopped me from preventing my true self was really just my own fear I had put on myself. I know that I still have a long way to go, but I am proud of my achievement and the little steps I have taken to fully accept myself just how I am. Maybe one day when I am introduced to an alien cuisine, I will be able to understand them much more easily than I was able to accept myself.

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Student Editors

Isabelle Nagy ’22

Olivia Gorum ’22 Faculty Advisor

Dr. Nancy Hunt

Staff Sophie Knipp ’25

Piper Anderson ’23

Ava Kruger ’24

Leah Brewer ’24

Holly Liu ’22

Reena Dail ’23

Maggie Madden ’24

Jasmine Flanders ’23

Anna McMillan ’24

Sophie Gong ’25

Audrey Morrison ’23

Anna Gorman ’23

Norah Elena Ruiz ’24

Rain Hu ’22

Selma Ruiz ’23

Emily Huang ’25

Caitlin Sullivan ’22

Emma Kim ’24

Cecelia Yu ’24

Communications Office

Gabriella, Isabelle Nagy ’22, film

Design & Production

Amparo Alcaraz ’23

Front Cover: The Afternoon View, Margaret Spencer ’22, film Back Cover: Car Drive, Francesca Postigo ’22, acrylic, 14” x 14” All content © 2022 Santa Catalina School students as indicated.

5/2022 - 200

mosaic The Publication of the Arts SPRING 2022

1500 Mark Thomas Drive | Monterey, CA 93940 | 831.655.9300 | santacatalina.org