Hemline - Fall 2023

Table of Contents Cover design Xixi Song, Vivian Zhou, and Dr. Huggins-Belliveau Editor Remarks Rhea Sekhon and Celeste Carter Thriving Together crossword puzzle Mr. Fraser Head for a Day and what “thriving together” means to me: speech Adriana Ramos How reading and writing help us to thrive: opinion pieces Olivia Bowen and Rhea Sekhon “Etta”: short story Rania Kanu How Do Trees Grow: essay Rhea Sekhon “Protea”- poem translation to Mandarin Rachel Yu Thriving Together in Nature: photo collage Xixi Song ¡Prosperamos juntas!

Isolde B. Divya L. Mia L. Preyanka N. Danah V. Reese W. Playlist: Thriving Together Sofia De Filipi Harmony in The Seasons: creative writing piece Alexa Luciani More Than Just A Doll: opinion piece Taylor Diamond Grandma’s Shortbread Cookies: recipe Celeste Carter

Dolphin photo collection Vivian Zhou Horizons of Unity: Senior Sunrise Spotlight Tara Alhaffar Go Home, O’ Fallen Soldier : short story Stephanie Tang Echoes of Courage: Poem Zara Ahmed SS10 trip to Italy photos and reflections SS10 teachers and faculty chaperones Thriving Together: acrostic poem Dr. Huggins Belliveau Pain Gives Birth to Art: A Comparison of Three TedTalks about the act of writing Sophia Tice

Editors’ remarks:

Hello, readers! We are excited to share this year’s first edition of Hemline., our Senior School literary anthology. This multilingual collection of writing consists of a variety of pieces, including opinion pieces, essays, speeches, photo collages and more. In this issue, we wanted to highlight and explore the meaning of this year’s theme: “Thriving Together.” After coming out from a period of isolation and into an ever-changing world, we have seen that the main constants in our lives are the communities in which we belong. In light of this, we thought it would be best fitting for our first issue to reflect the importance of our friends, our families, strangers, and what it means to thrive and flourish. Additionally, we would like to acknowledge the hard work of the writers, editors, and cover designers in the Hemline club who worked together to make this issue possible. We hope that members of the SMLS community will enjoy reading the pieces and feel connected to our chosen theme.

Rhea Sekhon and Celeste Carter, Senior Student Editors, 2023-2024

Hemline club: 2023-2024

Back row: Rhea S., Tara A., Celeste C., Sofia D., Xixi S. Front row: Zara A. Vivian Z. Absent: Alexa L.

Crossword II: The Return Mr. Fraser

Across: 1. Codec, for audio nerds 5. To support a romance 9. Politicians, sometimes 14. Not quite Republican (acronym) 15. Taylor Swift single, “_____ Story” 16. Not mainstream 17. Frozen 2 hit, “____ The Unknown” 18. Death notice (abbr.)

19. City in western Germany 20. Female deer (pl.)

21. Things that get you down 22. A “mean” adverb 23. Not near 27. Trojan hero and son of Aphrodite 28. How Jack Sparrow gets around 29. Receive 30. Eponine of Les Mis. sings “____ My Own” 32. Human ancestor

35. Animal friend of Sharon, Lois, and Bram 37. Unwanted aquarium buildup 39. Well known NYC congress member (initials.)

41. Bart Simpson might tell you not to have one (2 wds.)

44. Cries 47. Ask your boyfriend about this empire on TikTok 51. A simple board game, from the Latin “play” 52. 2002-2003 Ontario Premier, or early nights 53. Traditional “haunt” of character from 58 across 54. More than a duo 55. Fabled British king in Shakespeare 56. Non-Christian 57. Slang for playoff or tournament slot 58. Phantom of the Opera song “____ ____ Ask of You” (2 wds.)

59. Praise

DOWN: 1. Household chiller (short form pl.)

2. Rolled plastic flooring (slang) 3. Before, Latin 4. Dove sounds 5. Poky, not fast 6. Train transient 7. Prestigious American colleges (pl.)

8. 2016 film, “The Secret Life Of _____ “ 9. Responsible, in civil court 10. Pre-Columbian Peru 11. Common behavioural disorder (acronym) 12. Red River Rebel, Louis ______ 13. Sensible, Catalan slang 23. Popular dried tree fruit 24. Brewed with barley 25. Music notation for “gradually slower” (abbr.)

26. Toronto museum (acronym)

Good luck!

31. New, from the Greek 32. Essay referencing style 33. Soup, in Vietnam 34. Dory and Marlin ride this with turtles (acronym) 36. “Dr. Who” actor, David ________ 38. Canadian author, Margaret ________ 40. Peasant hut 41. Second choices 42. Heal, or 1980s “Just Like Heaven” group 43. Garfield’s foil 44. “Once and Again” star, _____ Ward 45. NBA Wizards and Suns star, Bradley ________ 46. Treatment for depression (abbr.)

47. Murderous method in board game “Clue” 48. B.C. mountain near Kamloops 49. Man, Byte, Ton (prefix) 50. Shrinking sea of central Asia

Head for a Day and what “thriving together” means to me Adriana Ramos

My name is Adriana Ramos and I am the Senior School Head for the day today! My first order of business was for students to have a dress down day. So, I hope you enjoy being in your choice of clothing for the day! A few weeks ago, students had the chance during advisor time to complete a form to let the school know what our school theme, “Thrive Together,” meant to them. The themes that emerged from this were collaboration, teamwork, community, growth, positivity, and support.

We have seen each other being the best versions of ourselves during this school year through: ● ● ● ● ● ●

Supporting each other in our new semester system Robust participation in Athletics, Clubs, Councils and Co-curricular activities Learning together and asking questions at International and Canadian university fairs Enjoying down time together around the campus and in the Dining Hall (new food!)

Global Citizenship experiences such as Arowhon and Timberlane. I know we will see more of this with the upcoming Italy and Discovery Block trips!

All of the little acts of kindness, understanding and support that we witness each day which make our school a great place in which to be and thrive!

I hope that this trend continues for the rest of the year!

How reading and writing help us to thrive Olivia Bowen and Rhea Sekhon

In ENG 4U class, we have recently begun reading Matt Haig’s tragicomedy, titled The Humans. This fascinating novel is part sci-fi, part fable, part journey of the hero. Our narrator alludes to everything from philosophy to jazz music to mathematics hypotheses.

After reading Haig’s “Acknowledgements”, Ms. Vickman asked us to reflect upon the idea of “art as map”, and here are our thoughts on this:

Olivia Bowen:

In Haig’s Acknowledgements, he dives into the idea of storytelling and how it can become a “map” to finding ourselves. I fully agree with the concept Haig describes, as I think literature, in general, is something that society uses as an escape from the harsh reality of our world.

Yet, as we submerge ourselves into these fictitious stories, we begin to realize that we are drawn to the characters we are most alike. As we escape ourselves, we are actually drawing ourselves a pathway back to who we truly are. As society grows and develops further, we steer clear from a lot of the harsh realities of being human, whether it be how we are feeling, how we are changing, or what we are losing. This is, ultimately, sending us into a never-ending cycle while we use both reading and writing to escape. We express ourselves through stories we could never tell out loud and then strive to escape these troubles by reading about others' lives. In reality, we are drawn back to what we are struggling with deep down. As Haig explains, we end up trailing back to what we were escaping in the first place, and this is something that humans do not only do with literature, but with our emotions as well. We are all victims of burying our emotions deep down until they emerge in ways we never expected, drawing us back to the feelings we were trying so hard to escape.

In other words, Haig describes how we try so hard to escape our own lives, but end up creating a pathway right back to what we were running from. Literature, and art in general, help us to map out our challenges and thrive as we move forward.

Rhea Sekhon:

Stories can serve as a map that helps a person find a way to begin a journey of healing.

Many writers often use the journey of their protagonists or narrators to signify their own journey of finding their way back to themselves. In The Humans, Matt Haig uses the idea of an alien, disguised as a human navigating Earth and learning about what it means to be human, to signify how often humans can sometimes feel alienated from society. While this can occur in a multitude of ways, Haig specifically uses the narrator’s situation to represent

the alienation people face from society due to mental health conditions, such as depression.

Haig mentions in his “Acknowledgements” how, “[b]ack then, human life felt as strange for me as it does for the unnamed narrator” (Haig 293), referring to the period of time when he was in the “grips of panic disorder”. Similar to Matt Haig's The Humans, other stories are often influenced by their authors’ journeys in life, which is reflected in the journey of the protagonist. These stories provide a map for people who are experiencing similar journeys in order for them to find their way back to themselves and start to thrive in their lives. One of the reasons that these stories can help people begin their journeys of healing is that they provide a way for the reader to “look at the weird and often frightening beauty of being human” (293). For example, the book, P.S. I Miss You can help the reader to process their grief and begin a journey of healing by showing how the main character navigates her own grief and all of its five stages. This lets the reader experience their own issues through another perspective, allowing them to take a step back from their own situation and explore the process of healing and growth in the story. Therefore, I agree with Haig’s idea that stories provide “maps” for people to thrive and follow in order to find their way back to themselves and begin their own true journeys in life.

Etta Rania Kanu

A gentle kiss on the forehead and the subtle opening of the blinds was a classic Sunday morning before church. I woke up to the sweet smell of baked goods wafting through our compact, drab apartment up on 96th Street, and knew it meant the day was going to be just as sweet as Mama's scones.

“Good morning, baby,” Mama uttered to me each and every Sunday with a darling tone that told me she was ready to praise the Lord. About six months ago, Mama had been saving up every penny she had to pay the bills and get us through the winter. Being a single black mother in Harlem was hard for her in the 1950s, but the job she got at the dodgy restaurant seemed to do the trick. After her last relapse, she had blown all her savings, influenced by men who were nothing but trouble, on what can only be imagined as drugs strong enough to make you feel both the highest of highs and lowest of lows. Little did I know that with each and every paycheck she received, about ten dollars was going into savings for our record player.

By summertime, on that sunny, hot, July day, when I walked down the stairs in my church dress that Mama had hemmed just right, I heard a faint tune in the key of A major.

“I would rather, I would rather go blind, boy,” I heard with acoustics strong enough to lift a choir. My favorite song, playing on that new, red, shiny record player with a Pioneer label in bold white letters: “I’d Rather Go Blind,” by Etta James. Mama and I love to sing, especially Ms. Etta’s masterpieces. We sing on our walks around the neighborhood, while we cook gumbo for the church, and turn the record player on as we talk about our dreams to get out of Harlem and start a new life, free from the shackles of racism and poverty. Mama used to work at the Grand Jazz Club, but it paid her like dirt. She gave up on her dreams for me, but she always tells me they are far from over. Mama had named me after Ms.Etta, always saying that she knew I was going to be a star just like her.

That day is the fondest memory I have of Mama. I will always remember when our eyes met, and with a smile, she said, “Baby, I am sorry for everything that I have put you through. I hope we can start over.” And we did. As Mama poured hot drizzling syrup onto my waffles, I couldn’t help but think that this was the best life could ever get. Just mama and me and the sound of that new record player electrically bringing light to our once dingy apartment.

Everything was good until it wasn’t. I had heard that male friend of hers walking in and out of her room late at night in the weeks before., eating my waffles in the morning or

showing up with his buddies in the middle of the day. Every time he was around Mama, it was bad news. Anytime I brought it up, she would say, “Don’t worry about it, baby.” But I’d see her break down throughout the day, praying to the Lord for a sign that she should leave him. He never gave her a sign until it was too late.

Mama relapsed that same summer. Enthusiastically walking into the kitchen one day after school, I was excited to show Mama today’s work from art class. I opened the door to Mama, passed out on the floor with a needle in her arm. Vomit trickled down her neck, pupils small and lips as grey as the city after it rains. The police told me a whole lot of nonsense that I ignored. The only thing that haunted me was that Mama would never be back.

As I packed my things to leave my childhood home and be placed in the foster system, I was suddenly hit by the fact that the world was not as my nine-year-old self imagined it. Knowing the record player itself was much too hefty for me to carry, I gazed across the room at my “I’d Rather Go Blind” record, knowing it was all I could manage to bear with my limp arms. As I picked it up, on the sleeve, I was startled by a note Mama left.

On the cover, it read: “Open when I’m gone.” On the battered inside, a faint quill had scratched: “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter. Do better than me Etta, xo Mama.” It's almost like she knew it was coming.

I knew this day would never leave me, but I also knew what Mama wanted for me, what she wanted for us. Here with me physically or spiritually, I knew that I had one shot in this life to make her proud. Leaving behind my record player to eventually disintegrate into ashes, all I had left was that Etta James record tucked into the sleeve that Mama had left her simple yet striking words. When exiting the apartment, gleaming yellow caution tape struck the door, officially boarding up my childhood home. Everything had suddenly become real.

15 Years Later…

I work at the Apollo Club by the glistening Hudson River. A fancy jazz scene for the whites that represents everything that is wrong with the world. The men styled in their tailored suits, blowing out shallow rings of cigar smoke whilst the women stunt with their Monroe bobs, white boas, and long silk dresses with daring backs that cost more than my monthly salary. They are all here for one thing. To hear the room sparkle as the sound of the orchestra twinkles in the moonlight. For the last four years, to make ends meet, I buss tables from 4 pm-11 pm on Mondays- Wednesdays, and 1 pm-9 pm on Thursdays-Sundays, which is a lot of unnecessary numbers to say that I do everything. The ash-stained tablecloths have been imprinted with my palm shape.

While on the move, with a variety of steak frites and empty wine glasses with the faintest red lipstick stains gripping to my fingertips, my manager would often catch me singing under my breath while doing my tasks and shoot me a sly smile. From that first look, I had dreamed of gracing the stage. When Mama had to quit her job at the club for me all those years ago, I saw a tiny piece of her heart slowly start to wither away. I knew if I was the first black woman to grace that dazzling stage at the Apollo Club, my dream would have been enough to fulfill both of us.

Every day when I open my dull gray locker, I look at my picture of Ms.Etta, barely holding on to the creased cello tape around its edge. It has remained my motivation to keep going through the years, knowing one day I would step foot on that stage. With God on my

side, I finally built up the courage to ask my manager the question that has been consuming my thoughts for the last four years. Every broken dish, stained dress, and callus-ridden finger was leading to this moment. When I finally managed to stutter out the unimaginable words, an instant regret struck me as her wrinkled face dropped into what could only be described as a comical expression. It was almost as if I told her some sort of controversial joke. She didn’t even have the courtesy to respond, simply had a hearty laugh to herself before strutting away. Without saying anything, she had spoken a million words almost as if she were implying “Singing? The only thing those black folk are good for is cleaning up after us.”

My tense throat dropped into my chest, but as the tears began to form, I remembered something more important than any money, job, or career. I was Mama’s star. I think about Mama, and what that record player represented to me. Freedom and resilience to start her life over, and build the pieces together from the ground up. I think about that day, the day my entire life and everything that I knew got swept away from me. I think about the note, the words that will now move mountains. I think about what could have been if Mama had followed her own advice, taken that leap, and gotten us away from what was comfortable, but unsafe. Still in horror, I place myself on the frigid stairs below the club doors. My thighs were numbed by the icy cold frost of New York in January. After a few minutes of tortuous reflection, as I turn to head back to what feels like my equivalent of hell, I vaguely hear a distant and familiar tune in A Major. The bass in Etta’s voice strikes the ground I am sitting on, as I hear the baritone's sharp cry. Mama was giving me the sign that she had looked for her entire life. I take the “I’d Rather Go Blind” record, and the last $57 in my savings and head to Grand Central station. As Harlem races off into the distance, the skyscrapers quickly become specks in the sky. As I looked up to God, I felt Mama’s presence touch me like an angel.

Quotation integration: “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

For my quotation, I knew I wanted the sentence to be something that highlighted discrimination and/or, in this case, abuse in all forms. When I stumbled across Martin Luther King's famous words, I instantly felt as though they were perfect for what my story represents: resilience and triumph in standing up for yourself and your society, even when it gets hard, and using bravery to start over in view of a bigger change that is possible. Just as Martin Luther King intended when he famously said these words in 1965,I felt like this quotation represented the foreshadowing I included in my story. The quotation needed to be active in both Mama’s life as well as Etta’s and affect both their lives drastically, yet differently. With Mama, although she knew what was right, she never quite took that leap of faith and chose to stay silent in an uncomfortable situation which ultimately, ended in her death. In contrast, when her daughter, fifteen years later, faces a challenge where she can either stay silent and move on with her steady-paced life, or take that risk to reset, it becomes a full circle moment in which she does the right thing. This quotation in the story was Mama’s advice, displayed on the sleeve of the Etta James record, and it had a colossal part of the motivation for Etta to create this movement of change in her own life.

How Do Trees Grow?

Rhea Sekhon

One thing I have learned in high school is the importance of overestimating questions. While a question may appear unassuming and simple, answering it can prove that the question was simply hiding its true form. If a person were to answer the question, “how do trees grow?”, they could provide a multitude of answers, ranging from simple, one word answers to answers that span thousands of pages. However, when I attempt to do the same, there is only one answer I can find. To understand this answer, a person would need to follow every train of thought that passed through my mind. As this is a rather daunting task, I have classified my thoughts into three categories: what a tree needs, how to plant a tree, and how a tree grows.

The first thing to know about growing trees is to understand what they need. I cannot call myself an expert on this matter, as I am possibly the farthest thing from this. The only experiences I have in this subject, small as they are, would be my Earth Day activities in school. Every year around April 22nd, my school would send out a bus load of children to plant trees. Like many people before me, I was once a child and, as a result, I had the chance to plant trees. These experiences and my general knowledge has led me to ascertain a few key concepts for growing trees, one of which being what they need in order to grow.

What I mean by this is that, regardless of the type of tree, all trees have a few basic requirements: water, sun, air, soi, and other trees. From my time spent in grade 9 and 10 science, I can safely assume that all living things require water to further their existence. Of course, the classification of what qualifies as living and the idea of aliens are matters that continue to elude my understanding, leading me to ignore these and simply continue on.

Luckily, I am quite sure that trees require the sun and air in order to perform photosynthesis.

I also believe that trees need soil in order for the roots to spread. This belief is rooted more in stubbornness than fact, as I refuse to consider that my past self had to sacrifice my clothes and shoes to dirt for no good reason. My last requirement is both more debatable and complex than the previous ones that I have shared. For this reason, I must move on to the planting of a tree in order to guarantee a relative amount of clarity.

To understand how trees grow, a person would need to understand how to plant a tree.

Fortunately, planting a tree, an act of which I do have experience in, requires a few basic

steps that most people understand. The first step is to dig a hole in the ground, preferably with a shovel, although other tools could potentially work as well. Then, a person would need to place a seed or a small tree into the hole and then fill the hole with soil. This step is a bit tricky as it can change based on what type of tree is being planted and a series of other factors. The last step that I can remember is to water the tree or perhaps it is to tie the tree to a tall, straight object, neither of which truly matter as the act of planting has already been finished. However, the most important step is not one that I have mentioned nor is it a step that is commonly listed. In my opinion, the most important step, which is the one that will reveal the answer to this question, is the location of the tree.

In life, most people know terms like “a flock of birds” or “a pack of wolves” and can understand the meaning as most animals travel in groups. If we regard both animals and plants as living beings, is it not natural to assume that trees require their own “pack”. From this idea comes the most important step in planting a tree: planting it near other trees. While this may seem to be an underwhelming step, it is, in fact, one of the greatest importance.

Without this step, trees would grow without proper nutrients, without developing connections through roots with other trees and a multitude of other benefits that come from a community of trees. This is the first part of the only solution that I can find to our convoluted question. However, this answer alone does not satisfy the question and so I must explain the question itself.

As I previously mentioned, “how do trees grow” is a rather unassuming question. A few years ago, I could have answered this in multiple ways. However, upon reflection, none of these answers could both satisfy and foster a person’s curiosity. As a result, I must answer that a tree grows with other trees as all living things must grow with others. I cannot imagine an orca being content in a life away from a pod, nor can I think that a child would wish to grow up alone. While I am not so bold as to believe that all people must think like me, I do believe that most would agree with this opinion. This is where I can prove the first part of my answer as in order for a living organism to grow, it must be near others of its kind. But is this just growing or is it something more, like living? After all, trees are living, therefore growing for trees must be akin to living for humans. If we were to follow this train of thought to its station, we would arrive at my final idea.

In order for trees to grow, they must have their basic needs fulfilled, they must be planted and they must be able to live. From here, our question can be translated into, “how do trees live” and the answer to this is quite simple. If we were to take a human into a foreign area and give them their basic needs, the human would grow. However, this does not mean that this human will properly live their life as they would if they had a nurturing and supportive community with them. If we apply the same logic to trees, then the answer is quickly revealed. In order for trees to grow, they need their basic requirements to be fulfilled. In order for the requirements to be fulfilled, trees must live. In order for trees to live, they must be able to thrive by being surrounded by their community of trees, or in other words, a forest. Therefore, my final answer to this complex question, “how do trees grow”, is that they do so by thriving together.

“Protea” - poem translation to Mandarin Rachel Yu

To follow is a poem I found online that reflects the topic of "thriving together" through the flower Protea. I only used one part of the entire poem because I found this part to be the central idea this poem is looking to convey. The name "protea" of this flower came from the Greek god Proteus, because proteas are known for having unusual forms of flowers just like Proteus, who had the ability to transform himself into different shapes. The underlying message of this poem is that although proteas don't have especially beautiful flowers, they are able to survive and thrive under the starkest conditions of winter.

Protea Hemingway’s Beard a sprawling shrub of varying height dependent upon influences of its growth but a hardy plant nonetheless able to survive and to thrive under the starkest of conditions and habitats its flower is not delicate like many others but a symbol of survival of resilience and growth

帝王花 Hemingway's Beard Translated by: Rachel Yu 长短不一的 蔓延的灌木 参差不齐的高度 取决于 生长的影响 她是如此耐寒 能够生存 能够繁荣 尽管在最严酷的 生存环境 帝王花并不像大多一样 她的花瓣并不精美 但她象征着生存 象征着坚强 也象征着茁壮生长

Thriving Together in Nature: a Photo Collage Xixi Song Soft wind blows past the autumn trees, as if comforting the plants, soil, animals, and people.

These all live harmoniously on our globe. The breeze is a gentle reminder that, although there may seem to be hostility between humans and nature, the best version of our planet is one where leaves dance under the sunlight and the forest opens a gate into the natural world. We can remember that, not only is it possible for people to coexist with the environment, but that both can bloom together in unison.

¡Prosperamos juntas!

Isolde B. Divya L. Mia L. Preyanka N. Danah V. Reese W.

En la clase de español prosperamos juntas de muchas maneras diferentes. Cuando realizamos nuestras actividades, nos ayudamos mutuamente y trabajamos en conjunto para encontrar las respuestas. Trabajamos como un equipo para completar proyectos emocionantes. Durante las actividades de conversación, nos apoyamos mutuamente para mejorar nuestras habilidades de comunicación, corrigiendo errores de manera constructiva y brindando ánimo. Cuando nos preparamos para un quiz o un examen, nos aseguramos de que todos entiendan lo que están haciendo y les ofrecemos mucho apoyo. ¡Nos encanta prosperar juntas! La clase de español es muy divertida cuando trabajo con mis compañeras. Trabajar en grupos es mejor que trabajar sola porque nos ayudamos.

Nosotras vemos videos musicales por diversión. Nosotras nos divertimos mucho celebrando el Día de Los Muertos. Celebramos haciendo un altar y lo decoramos con flores, cajas de colores, velas, las calaveras, y una foto ala persona a la que honramos, como a una celebridad.

Playlist: Thriving Together Sofia De Filipi

What better way to kick off the year's theme, "Thriving Together", than with a playlist that includes a piece to appeal to everyone in the Senior School. There is a huge variety of genres and artists, allowing students to connect to each other and form new friendships through their favourite artists and love of music. So, the next time you're studying or you get bored of your music, listen to this playlist and build new connections in the SMLS community!

Thrive Together Playlist: Maroon - Taylor Swift Dark Necessities - The Red Hot Chili Peppers CRIMINAL LOVE - ENHYPEN Next to You - John Vincent III Life Goes On - BTS Heaven -Aailee Babydoll - Dominic Fike Readymade - ado Super Shy - New Jeans Into the night - Yoasobi GRL GVNG - XG Cruel Summer - Taylor Swift Always - Daniel Casear Stay - The Kid Laroi Where do all the good kids go? - Maddie Zahm For Dear Life - Nilfruits Viva La Vida - Coldplay Kids - Current Joys

Logical - Olivia rodrigo The Lakes - Taylor Swift About You - The 1975 One Of Your Girls - Troye Sivan Ribs - The Crane Wives Yellow - Coldplay Brianstorm - Arctic Monkeys Me and Sarah Jane - Genesis End of Beginning - Djo Style - Taylor Swift Right Where You Left Me - Taylor Swift August - Taylor Swift Long Live - Taylor Swift Enchanted - Taylor Swift So It Goes... - Taylor Swift Backdraft - Milgram

Harmony in The Seasons Alexa Luciani

Mother Nature watched over all the creatures of the Earth and she heard them. She heard their thanks and their complaints, their wishes and their grievances. But one small whisper changed everything. They were simple words, but they lingered.

“If only there was colour in the world, more changes, more things to look forward to.” An idea sparked in Mother Nature, and she set to work to create the seasons of Summer and Winter. Unfortunately, they despised each other, for they both wanted to be the main season. Mother Nature sighed, for she wanted more happiness and delightful things to look forward to. But not this. She had an excellent idea; to create more seasons. To create more happiness. So, she created Spring and Autumn. Unfortunately, they, too, despised each other, for they both wanted to be the main season. In order to establish peace, Mother Nature had each season pick one corner of the earth to live in. So they went their separate ways. But, Mother Nature knew something they didn’t realize, not quite yet. The Earth was round and every few months the seasons would see each other again. Spring would pass Winter and see Summer. Summer would see Spring, as well as Autumn. Autumn would pass Summer and see Winter. And Winter would pass Autumn and see Spring. And somehow through the magic of Mother Nature’s doings, Winter never saw Summer, Summer never saw Winter, Autumn never saw Spring, and Spring never saw Autumn. It worked perfectly.

There was no more fighting! Every year the earth repeats the cycle of the seasons, forever and ever, because the earth is a sphere, and a sphere has no end. The last little whisper Mother Nature heard was simply, “Thank you, the world is now delightful; full of new colours and new happiness.”

More Than Just A Doll Taylor Diamond American Girl dolls were a very popular toy amongst young girls when I was a child. While I was not conscious of the significant role the dolls play at a societal and individual level at the time I was playing with them, I can now see how they are an example of the way in which toys can be used to perpetuate possibly harmful messages, especially when marketed in a specific way to young girls. The “American Girl” dolls and the movies and books that go along with them (and even the stores in which they are sold) reinforce the stereotypical beauty standards that have plagued Western culture for far too long: the notion that females are only capable of pursuing or being skilled at a minimal selection of activities and occupations, and the outdated assumptions of girls’ interests.

While American Girl dolls come with a variety of different hair colours, eye colours, and skin colours (although the darkest skin tone available is not reflective of real multiculturalism, another issue in itself), they still share the same facial features and body shape. While appearing diverse, they all represent stereotypically “beautiful” young girls with symmetrical faces, perfectly manicured hair, and thin figures.

Secondly, the backstories, movies, and books that accompany some of the “American Girl” dolls incorporate certain problematic ideas. The only activities in which the American Girl characters seem to participate are those that can be described as “girly”. For example we have Kit, the writer, Grace, the baker, and McKenna, the gymnast. Furthermore, the movies that tell the stories of some of the most beloved American Girl dolls seem to follow a consistent pattern, one that involves every American Girl character encountering some form of conflict or competition with another young female character. Molly has to compete against a talented classmate to win the title of “Miss Victory” at her school, Isabelle is demotivated and sabotaged by her dancing rival, and Saige lets her relationship with her best friend crumble as a result of jealousy. Despite the highly impressionable intended audience, none of these storylines push the feminist message of encouraging girls to cheer for other girls, but instead plants the idea that girls cannot succeed without the failure of other girls.

Lastly, the young girls who purchase these dolls are also limited in their ability to have interests that lie outside of the gender norm. The American Girl stores are famous for offering an array of services to customers. But what are these services? Children can bring their dolls to the salon, go shopping for matching outfits, or even participate in dinner parties or other social events with other young girls and their dolls. Though these activities seem harmless, when viewed through a more mature, semiotic lens, they are other examples of ways in which our culture uses dolls and other toys to perpetuate societal norms, stereotypes, and, therefore, put boundaries on the young girls who play with them.

Grandma’s Shortbread Cookies Celeste Carter

Ingredients: ● 1 cup all-purpose flour ● ½ cup icing sugar ● ½ cup corn starch ● ¾ softened butter ● 1 cup chocolate chips (optional) Instructions: 1. Preheat oven to 300°F (150°C) 2. Whisk corn starch, icing sugar and flour together in a bowl. Then, mix in butter using a wooden spoon.

3. If the dough is too soft to handle, cover and chill it for 30-60 mins.

4. Shape the dough into 1 inch balls and place them about 1 ½ inches apart on a baking sheet. Lightly flatten the balls with a fork.

5. If you want to add cookies as a topping, place them on top of the dough balls.

6. Bake the cookies in the oven for 15-20 minutes, or until cookies are lightly browned.

7. Cool cookies on a wire rack.

As a child, I always looked forward to winter break, as it was the time of year my grandma would visit. I would await the day when I would come home from the last

day of school and see her sitting in our brown armchair, reading a book or watching the television. One of the activities that we always did together when she visited was baking. My favourite recipe to this day is her infamous shortbread cookies. The smell of buttery shortbread that would fill our kitchen is forever imprinted in my memory. Sneaking one of the cookies from the rack was a reinforced habit, as I would always be rewarded with the warm texture of the shortbread. The cookies would never make it to the end of the week, mostly due to the acrobatics my brother and I conducted to sneak them out of their containers. It was clear that these cookies were not just popular among my family members. My grandma would always get asked by her neighbours and church congregation to give them containers of the infamous shortbread. In recent years, my grandma has been unable to visit us due to health conditions, but that hasn’t stopped these cookies from being a staple recipe in our kitchen during the holidays. I find that making her recipes gives me a way to stay connected to her and keep the comfort of a tradition going in our family. I often like to experiment with adding toppings to the desserts I bake, which led to me star to add chocolate chips to the cookies when I make them.

The shortbread cookies are a great recipe because they are quick and easy to make, yet they still make my friends and family members happy when eating them.

Dolphin photo collection Vivian Zhou What comes to mind when you think of “Thriving Together”? Friendship? Success?

Prosperity? It’s more than only this, because “thriving together” can create infinite possibilities. These possibilities will be implemented by you. We hope you can be like these beluga whales and support your companions, move forward with confidence, and create great prosperity with risk-taking and bravery.

Horizons of Unity: Senior Sunrise Tara Alhaffar

Senior Sunrise stands as one of the most memorable experiences for St. Mildred'sLightbourn School graduating students. The event brings the graduating class together, nestled in cozy blankets and comfortable attire, savoring delightful breakfast treats while watching the sky slowly turn to molten brass. The sun casts a warm glow that spills like liquid gold, painting the sky with vibrant colors. This event encapsulates the spirit of unity and growth as the graduates embark on a new academic year together. The sunrise, serving as a metaphor, symbolizes the limitless possibilities awaiting each Millie. It's a special moment engraved deep within the recesses of our hearts. The graceful beauty of the sunrise and the collective warmth shared through conversations and photo-taking during this occasion creates a lasting imprint, and symbolizes the bonds and exciting journeys that lie ahead for each member of the class. Conversely, Senior Sunset is when the grads gathers one last time to watch the sunset to close off the year and reflect. Like sunrise, it will be a time to think back and spend one last time together before we all part ways and venture into the future. In essence, both Senior Sunrise and the sunset foster a sense of togetherness and shared optimism. However bittersweet it may be, I know that it is a moment that will stay with me forever, destined never to fade. I feel incredibly fortunate to have such an amazing group of peers with whom to start and end my final year at St. Mildred’s. It is the strength and kindness of this community that has truly made St. Mildred’s feel like a home away from home.

Go Home, O’ Fallen Soldier Stephanie Tang

This story was inspired by Louise Erdrich’s “The Red Convertible”, a piece that spotlights how a young Indigenous man, Henry, returns from fighting in the Vietnam War to little support from the government or society at large. This story spotlights Henry’s time in Vietnam, which is not included in Erdrich’s story. I hope it will make readers think about the need for Indigenous veterans to be provided with the same resources as non-Indigenous veterans upon their return home. Everyone has the right to survive, thrive, and have a chance for a better future.

Go home.

The gravel decorating his cell has long become sand. One thought of the passage of time and he’ll lose it. He is now nothing more than engraved numbers on the wall that hold little meaning to anyone but him. He chewed on his fingertips and adorned his bedsheets with doodles so much it would look like an Ad Reinhardt, had the guards not washed it every so often.

He’s forgotten what it felt like to have clean feet, to bathe and bask in water at the reserve. He’s forgotten how his arms used to never chafe against his ribcage whenever he moved. He’s forgotten himself.

Go home.

Aside from everything, Henry was grateful. He supposed he should be feeling grateful. Out of all of the warriors, only his feathers in flight had not been plucked. And yet he was alive. His fellow soldiers admired him. Admired his nose. His stature. He had become a marker of solitude. A fortress of hope within complete desperation, they called him. But he was alive. He had gotten this far. He had watched countless brothers and sisters plunge out of track, but he was still there, soaring, sore.

Go home.

He whistled sometimes. He tweets a dark depriving tune. He sings of camaraderie and campfires in songs taught to him a long time ago. Henry remembered where he was trapped; Camp Hope, they call it. He’s given up on hope a long time ago.. Given up on digging and spoon feeding the walls to the rats.

There were no prisoners around him that wore his skin. There was no sign of companionship beyond these thick walls which marred his dreams and fenced his prancing stallion. His only interaction was with the rats, crawling in and out of the ventilation gate that was too high for him to reach. They are free to come and go.

He was hungry but dared not interrupt nature. Henry had reached out and grasped a mouse by its belly, thinking of how easy it would be to snap its neck, and he’d flinch. The rodent’s dark gray pelt was much like the dirtied skin of his countrymen, wrangled and screaming as their tapestries were torn apart. His own skin would prickle, wrinkled and worn from agony rather than age. He’d blink again and he’s already holding nothing, his hand quivering afloat in the air as Henry tried to settle his beating heart.

Go home.

There was a rumble outside, and he would spring to action, rushing towards the sound and leaping up to see beyond the bars, but there was nothing to be seen. Cold soot flailed in the air from his motion and the barren cell across his would stare back at him, naked and bare.

He would close his eyes and the rumble was the engine of his sweet convertible, revving up in the summer breeze. If he squinted, he could picture young Lyman riding on top of it, flailing his arms and whooping. Henry’s trembles worsened as the thought of what had been and as what could have been passed through, the dust settling and the cacophony of noise fading away, he didn’t know what was more suffocating: the musty air frozen with little ventilation offering filter, or his alienation from the rest of the prisoners for his ‘good behavior’.

Go home.

Warm sweat condensed into beads and he wished he could weave them into his hair.

Henry made peace with the short prickles adorning his head, a shell of what once was. It was no secret to the reserve that he wanted it long, lustrous and woven. Mature, as a reflection of himself. He’d reach and pull, and stare coldly into the cell walls as a drizzle of hot liquid trickled down his forehead. It dripped from the tip of his nose smoothly as it would on a bayonet.

“I’ve always wondered what it was like to have long pretty hair.”

And his brother would laugh, sometimes roll his head back in a guffaw. His friends’ faces blossom, flowers in bloom in his sunny presence. Wherever he looked he looked with radiance, and they would shine back right at him.

In the short snap that it took for his vision to fade from bright pastures to the monotonous concrete, Henry deflated. His head hit the ashy ground, and as his eyes squeezed he carried its dust. His black untrimmed nails dug through the wall of numb skin, and his palm blared an alarm until he released his grip. A few brown locks, soiled and smeared with flakes of blood, fell solemn towards the ground. He swore he heard it land, abrading against the dirt.

The earth beneath his feet would quake and he’d finally lower his hand and smooth it over his knees, grazing his wounds made from long terms of kneeling, praying. There must have been another rumble, distant and far away, and with that the last of the reminders of his past disappeared, desiccating along with his fallen hair.

Echoes of Courage Zara Ahmed In shadows deep, where silence reigns, A timid voice, with hesitant strains.

But in the echo of a friend's embrace, A symphony emerges, finding grace.

United, we stand, a chorus strong, Empowered hearts, where we belong.

In unity's embrace, courage we find, To use our voices, a power refined.

Whispers of encouragement, a gentle breeze, Lift the spirit from its timid seas.

With every word, a ripple starts, Igniting flames in countless hearts.

A network woven, threads of support, Gives strength to dreams, a grand rapport.

United voices, a force untamed, For in solidarity, change is named.

Each syllable a drop in a river wide, Where compassion flows, no soul can hide.

In the tapestry of change, our threads entwine, A shared endeavor, a purpose divine.

Hand in hand, we paint the skies, With hues of hope that never dies.

Through shared conviction, we redefine, The narrative of a world yet to shine.

So let our voices rise, like waves on shore, A symphony of change, forevermore.

For in unity and love, we find, The power to transform, heart and mind.

SS10 trip to Italy photos Ms. Courtney Pickering

Thriving Together Dr. Huggins Belliveau

TWIN STARS SHINE IN DARKNESS HOLED UP IN THE NIGHT REFLECTING ONE ANOTHER IN COMFORT AND PLIGHT VAST IS THE BURDEN IF CARRIED ALL ALONE IN STRIFE NOT FOR THE UNITED THAT MARCH TOWARD THE LIGHT GO TOGETHER, MAKE WAVES, DO WHAT’S RIGHT THE DAUGHTERS OF TOMORROW WILL ON KEEP THE FIGHT GOALS OF INSPIRATION AND EMPOWERMENT TIGHT HELD IN SIGHT EDUCATE, LIBERATE, BRING PEACE AND EQUATE RISE TO THE CHALLENGE, YOU WRITE YOUR OWN FATE.

Pain Gives Birth to Art: A Comparison of Three TedTalks about the act of writing Sophia Tice

Everyone has heard of the “tortured artist” stereotype. From Vincent van Gogh to Robin Williams, creative people are notorious for transforming their pain into art. Although many artists choose to keep their personal struggles private, it can be argued that the greatest creative works are generated when the creator has faced some sort of adversity.

According to TED Talks “Where does creativity hide?”, by Amy Tan, “How creative writing can help you through life's hardest moments”, by Sakinah Hofler, and “The politics of fiction”, by Elif Safak, a writer’s hardships are what fuel their creativity.

In her TED Talk, “Where does creativity hide?”, novelist Amy Tan dissects the evolution of her creative process, claiming that “one of the principles of creativity is to have a little childhood trauma” (Tan 03.29). When Tan was fourteen, both her father and brother were diagnosed with brain tumours, which led to their deaths that occurred only six months apart. These devastating circumstances changed her worldview, causing her to “become very creative, in a survival sense” (05.15). Through the emotional turmoil she endured as a child, the only coping mechanism that made sense to her was to write about it. As opposed to writing stories about unicorns and fairies, like other children, Tan was writing about the loss of the people she loved most. This tragic experience gave her writing a depth that no typical child should demonstrate at such a tender age. At merely fourteen years old, she began asking life’s greatest questions: “Why am I here, and what is the meaning of my life, and what is my place in the universe?” (13.31). The death of two of her closest family members hastened her emotional maturity and, therefore, her maturity as a writer to develop at a much faster rate than had she not experienced such a life-altering event.

Although devastating, her trauma was crucial in her success as a writer.

When we think of the “tortured artist” trope, we often think of someone who has experienced loss, like Amy Tan described in her talk. However, Elif Shafak’s battle against cultural stereotypes proves to be equally motivational in “The politics of fiction”. Shafak is a Turkish-British novelist and essayist who was raised by a single mother in Turkey. When her mother became a diplomat, they moved to a posh area in Madrid where, in school, she was the only Turk in her new and diverse classroom. She recalls that “each child was seen—not as an individual on his own, but as the representative of something larger” (Shafak 05:49).

Shafak was expected to conform to the cultural stereotypes placed on her by her classmates simply because she was Turkish. This stereotyping persisted in her career as a creative writer when critics placed her in the same cultural shackles. If her stories did not

follow the life of a Turkish woman, literary critics claimed that she was not writing “correctly”.

As she reflects on these critiques in her TED Talk, she states that “[o]ur imagination might shrink; our hearts might dwindle, and our humanness might wither if we stay for too long inside our cultural cocoons” (02:52). She purposefully left that cocoon. She felt so confined by others’ expectations of her as a Turkish writer that she chose to rebel and, instead, began to write the fictional narratives she loves so much. Yet, “that frustration was very stimulating” (09:31) for Shafak, because without the cultural barriers she was forced to combat, she would not have had the creative breakthrough that inspired many of her best works.

These two authors have touched on the ways in which our hardships fuel our creative minds, but the danger of keeping those stories of adversity to ourselves is what Sakinah Hofler discusses in “How creative writing can help you through life's hardest moments”. She shares a three-step process that we, as writers, can follow in order to take control in the face of adversity: bear witness, narrow in and focus, and tell your story. By bearing witness, “you're saying, ‘This thing happened. This weird thing did happen. It's not in my head. It actually happened.’ And by doing that, maybe you'll take a little bit of power back that has been taken away” (Hofler 11:51). At a luncheon for her co-worker a few years ago, Hofler was seated next to her boss. Her boss was a white man with the idea that because she was black and wore a headscarf, Hofler would have the answers to all of his questions regarding terrorism, disputes in the Middle East, and slavery. She looked at her co-workers in search of validation that these questions were, in fact, outrageous. As she looked around the table, everyone’s head remained lowered. In response to her search for support, she explains how “they do the most American things they can do. They praise their Lord, they stuff their faces and pretend they don’t hear him and pretend they don’t see [her]” (14:35). Her colleagues’ ignorance and disrespect baffled Hofler, so she wrote about it.

She chose to turn her anger into something beautiful: a piece of writing. Hofler is suggesting that we overcome life’s hurdles by acknowledging their existence and then, most importantly, telling our stories. Because “the most important part of bearing witness is writing it down, it's recording. Writing it down captures the memory” (00:52). Thus, writers are known for turning their suffrage into art for a reason: because pain generates passion in a way that happiness cannot.

Perhaps this is where we, as a society, reframe the tortured artist stereotype. As opposed to creative minds being seen as “suffering” and “misunderstood”, let them be known as weavers that turn sorrow into gold. After all, “Where does creativity hide?”, by Amy Tan, “How creative writing can help you through life's hardest moments”, by Sakinah Hofler, and “The politics of fiction”, by Elif Safak have proven that a writer’s hardships are what fuel their creativity.

Works Cited Tan, Amy. “Where does creativity hide?” TED, Feb. 2008, https://www.ted.com/talks/amy_tan_where_does_creativity_hide?language=en Shafak, Elif. “The politics of fiction.” TED, Jul. 2010, https://www.ted.com/talks/elif_shafak_the_politics_of_fiction Hofler, Sakinah. “How creative writing can help you through life's hardest moments.” YouTube, uploaded by TED, 13 Jan. 2021, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAXG0tb1Zxw

Hemline, 2023-2024 Senior Editors Rhea Sekhon Celeste Carter Junior Editors Sofia De Filipi Xixi Song Cover designers Xixi Song Vivian Zhong Club members: Tara Alhaffar Zara Ahmed Alexa Luciani Faculty facilitator: Ms. Vickman